A/N: Playing around on Rinmaru’s Ascension Doll Maker (as per usual) while watching High Rollers and somehow a DnD Fantasy Team Medic shook out. @kuipernebula, you might be interested?
Pics under the cut.
I’m still pretty new at DnD, but only a few classes can use healing/divine abilities but even then I wasn’t sure which one each member of Team Medic should be so…
Masumi – Healer/Paladin
Sakura – Monk/Spirit Shaman
Youbirin – Druid/Cleric
Jiro – Bard/Favored Soul
In a sea of monochrome, all it takes is a single splash of color to draw his eye.
—
It’s been a few months since Damian has taken over for his father completely. By day and by night.
It should be everything he’s ever wanted. The whole purpose of his birth finally fulfilled, if coopted for himself instead of his grandfather and mother. He has wealth, he has power; he has family, he has friends.
He is not lacking in any way.
So why does he feel like he is?
—
Somewhere, flitting in the corner of Damian’s eye, is the only flash of color at this gala. He doesn’t even know what this gala is for, anymore, they all blur together.
The men around him in their nearly uniform tuxedos, the women who have turned to silver as this season’s color or who think black is slimming, elegant, classic (boring).
Even Damian’s kandura–chosen defiantly but altered slightly toward Western fashion sense–is all in white and pale gray.
But there is color here and now; small and fleeting but present. And he doesn’t care if it’s rude to abruptly leave the current conversation happening around him, it doesn’t matter.
Damian sees a spot of color–the first in what feels like ages–and all he can think is that he wants.
—
Time moves in circles; hands around the clock face–cycles and rhythms and patterns.
The prince becomes king, the young bat learns how to fly. Creatures of the night appear to make him fall.
Or watch him rise.
—
The color is a dress shirt–an almost familiar blue-green that Damian can’t quite place–worn underneath a black waistcoat and tie. No jacket, though. If this weren’t the kind of even that would regulate that–no matter how rich or influential the guests–Damian would almost think it were on purpose.
He’s already being impulsive, heedless, untethered, and Damian just wants. Reaches out to curl a hand around the man’s wrist, feels soft fabric beneath his palm, and the smooth surface of his chrysoberyl cabochon cufflinks.
The man turns around to face Damian, surprise but no fear or anger on his face. His lips curve into a demure smirk, if a smirk could even be such, a small sideways smile that says I know a secret.
He glances down, pointedly, at their joined arms, Damian’s hand still wrapped around a pulse he can barely feel beneath the cuff but which still hammers away despite the man’s apparent calm. Belatedly, he lets go, scowls at his own lack of decorum.
“Is there something you needed, Mr. Wayne?” The man asks, even as Damian reels internally, burning with same question.
“Please,” he says, which is a more common occurrence than it used to be but still fairly rare, “Call me Damian.” Because everyone, even strangers, call him Damian–one of the many downfalls of being the youngest of such a public family, never mind that he is no longer a child.
The man nods in acknowledgement, “Damian, then,” he says, and that’s it. No additional chatter, no leading statements, no desperate attempts at flirting. In fact, it looks as if he’s about to turn back around and leave.
“And you?” Damian asks, can’t stop the way the words escape him to fill the silence, “You know my name. You have me at a disadvantage.”
The man blinks, smiles wider, “You can call me Quinton.”
—
They don’t have much more time than that, the sycophants ever clamoring for the Wayne coattails interrupting the moment.
Damian cannot disregard propriety a second time, can only watch as the man–Quinton–is pushed away behind the crowd of débutantes, eager to make their own impression on Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.
By the time Damian comes up for air, Quinton is nowhere in sight, the world gone back to monochrome.
At least he knows the man’s name.
—
Damian begins to suspect something is wrong when, upon seeking the event planner for the guest list, finds the woman in a frenzy hissing orders to her army of underlings.
“And make sure none of this gets out to the guests,” she punctuates fiercely, only to squeak in horror at spotting Damian. “Sir!”
“What is going on?” he asks, more demand than question, more Bat than Wayne.
The hotel hosting the gala was also home to a vault whose contents the head of security will not disclose, not even to Damian Wayne.
It doesn’t take much sleuthing to figure out what happened.
It also doesn’t take very long to create a suspect list–though as far as Damian knows, the only person who can pull this off single-handedly is halfway across the globe with his father on an international crime spree to reclaim stolen relics for their nation of origin.
Just in case, Damian calls him.
“Father,” he greets, just barely, before a rushed, “You and Kyle are far from Gotham, yes?”
Father pauses, processing, but when he speaks it is warm and amused, “Damian,” he returns, “Yes, Selina and I are not in Gotham. Is something the matter?”
“There’s been an incident at the gala,” Damian admits grudgingly, “Or rather, using the gala as a distraction. Burglary, though I don’t know yet what’s been taken. I’m still Damian Wayne right now.”
“Oh?” A voice asks, too feminine to be his father.
“Am I on speaker?” Damian asks, irritated.
“Yes,” Father says, redundant, as Kyle continues with, “A burglary and your first though was little old me? I’m retired, darling,” she lies, blatantly. Her crimes now are more noble, but certainly no less illegal.
Her travel companion hardly minds, though: vigilantism is also technically illegal.
“Do you know if anything has been left behind?” Kyle asks, and Damian bids a swift goodbye as he follows up on that train of thought.
—
As Damian Wayne, he is politely but firmly told that the hotel cannot violate their guests’ privacy and to stay out of the matter.
As Batman he finds out what, exactly, was taken from the vault, what was left in the vault, and the likely suspect now that Kyle is out of the running:
In the empty case which once contained an external hard drive, is a fake flower with silk petals of a familiar blue-green color. According to the gala guest list, there is only one Quinton, last name Harlowe, who no one else can remember.
—
After a night of fruitless searching and more successful crime fighting, Damian returns to the Cave and flips the cowl off. It seems more suffocating tonight, his head overheating with thoughts of frustration and baseless betrayal.
In the Cave’s bathroom, he splashes cool water to his face, and looks at his own reflection. His eyes, even bloodshot and shadowed, are a familiar blue-green color
—
(Tim is born to a Fury, cold and full of wrath.
He’s raised to be a Siren, singing of a different kind of danger.)
~
A/N: Been reading DCU fic, in particular @justwritins’ Think Of Me (hence the shoutout title even this ficlet has nothing in common with their fantastic fic except for the pairing) and woke up with the most wonderful DamiTim idea which took way too long to actually transcribe and faded as the day passed 
So this is what I was able to salvage before it disappeared completely. ~Enjoy~
Elm lips angrily at her hair, now unbound when one of the hellhounds singed off her tie. Also, significantly shorter.
‘I could have handled that one,’ Elm snorts, the burst of air warm against the sweat cooling on her skin.
“It was in your blindspot,” Lark argues, rubbing pointedly but fondly at his forelock.
‘Still could have handled it,’ Elm refutes, giving one last ticklish lipping, before coming around in front of her and urging her on his back.
They look in the direction of where the three other hellhounds had been–before they were scooped up and taken away in some giant flying creature’s talons.
“Should… should we follow?” Lark asks, still so uncertain at being in control. For all that Elm has more experience in this lifestyle, he himself is not a knight.
‘Do we have to?’ Elm asks back, because they were going to set up camp before the hellhounds appeared, and now that the adrenaline is fading, he’s more tired not less.
“Well… it’s not tyranny,” Lark reasons absurdly, because she, too, is exhausted, “I mean… we’re not really at our best to take on whatever that was. Maybe tomorrow. In the morning. After some rest,” she says, uncertain.
Just as well: the decision is taken out of her hands when a massive shape–a somewhat familiar massive shape, for all that they had only seen it for a moment–descends in front of them.
Elm rears up on his hind legs, whinnies in warning, as Lark desperately tries to stay on.
‘What the hell is this?’ Elm shrieks in her mind, forelegs kicking at the air in protection of his rider.
“Language!” Lark shrieks back because the only other thing that comes to mind is: I have no idea.
~
A/N: Tiny thing and fifteen minutes late to boot–had a spontaneous outing with my cousins, only got back at 11:30. Have some more Lark and Elm stuff?
The series (if it becomes a series) will probably not actually be called Lark and Elm, but for now that will be my placeholder tag until I come up with a cooler title.
Thanks, anon! ( ˘ ³˘)♥
The hardest character for me to write besides Kakashi? Hm… of the characters I’ve actually written, I presume you mean…
Surprisingly? Naruto is pretty difficult for me to write. It’s why Quest for the Queen gave me so much trouble (and why I was so surprised to actually finish it). If he were easier for me to write, I’d probably have him way more involved in Down Every Road or, I mean, if I could form a proper headcanon for a Team Seven OT3 I’d probably have a series for that.
It’s hard to get into his headspace. I admire him as a character, but as a person I just can’t relate at all. Shikako and Sasuke I can easily understand–part of what I love about DoS (and the reason why I went on to do the podfic) is that I empathize with Shikako so much. Sasuke is… well… his motivations and reactions adhere to an internal logic that, while not my own, is still realistic.
I have no idea what’s up with Naruto. He’s basically the direct opposite of myself–he forgives easily (instead of holding grudges forever and a day like myself), he’s excited about life (somehow without also being curious about the world), he’s generous and loving and he empathizes with everyone but it’s not tactful or sensitive: he doesn’t understand the consequences of his or other people’s actions. He doesn’t understand that there are some lines that should never be crossed.
And I know some of that is because most Shounen Protagonists are walking talking cliches of HEART and OPTIMISM, but it’s just so… I just can’t do it for some reason.
Like… this is also a part of the reason why I’m reluctant to write Boruto yet. Because my brain already can’t really wrap my head around Naruto, and then a Naruto who ends up with Hinata (I’m not ship bashing, I just honestly don’t understand they had so few interactions? It’s not even like Harry and Ginny where people were discontent with the epilogue definitively making them end up together, I’m like honestly baffled. It’d be like if Harry ended up with… er… which Creevey brother survived? Like… the fraction of “screen time” Hinata got in which she actually interacts with Naruto is probably the same as the Creevey brothers with Harry.)
And then there’s the fact that I’m like 90% sure that the Naruto in next gen canon has depression despite having achieved world peace and his childhood dream. And I’m not saying people can’t be depressed even though they are successful in life. But it just… it’s a very tricky thing to maneuver even though I myself also suffer from depression. There is this huge gap between teenage Naruto and adult Naruto that I can’t quite understand, and given that I already can’t grasp teenaged Naruto’s thought process it’s basically impossible for me to jump to adult Naruto and Boruto as his son from there.
Erm… sorry about that–hope it didn’t sound too much like complaining. Uh, but I can still occasionally catch on some points when it comes to Naruto (it’s more miss than hit, unfortunately) whereas Kakashi is meant to be opaque and it’s like… I can’t crack open his mystery. That’s who he is. He’s a carefully crafted construct of heartbreak and coping mechanisms and I just cannot do that to him.
I can get his external voice (like what he’d say to other characters), which is why it’s super fun to have Team Seven react to the occasional cameo, but his internal voice is just ??????
I also sometimes have trouble with Gaara… and also Temari. But that’s mostly because in comparison, Kankurou is waaaaaaay easier and my brain is just like–if you’re going to write about one of the sand siblings, why not Kankurou? He’s great.
And I’m usually like: sure, brain, you’re the boss. Let’s totally give Kankurou more lines than Gaara in the ShikakoxGaara series, that makes total sense.
Lark takes a deep breath, eyes falling closed and shoulders straightening back. The weight of her armor has never felt heavier–a part of her wishes she could just take it off, dig into her own skin and muscles and nerves and be free of it–but this is something that will always be a part of her.
She shakily exhales, can feel the burn of tears behind her eyelids but wills them not to fall. Elm trots over to her–his own armor clanking with every step.
‘Time to leave now,’ Elm says to her through the new bond that has flared to life only hours ago.
“I can’t, Elm, I can’t,” Lark says, every word keeping her feet rooted to the ground. She doesn’t know why this is so much more difficult than pulling her master’s body off of Elm’s back and burying him in the ground, but actually leaving him behind?
It feels like a betrayal.
‘Yes,’ Elm says, stepping in front of her to bodily block her view of the newly dug grave. ‘Yes, you can.’
He nudges her. And maybe for anyone else, a nudge from a two ton mass of magical horse and armor would knock them on their ass, but for all that her training is incomplete, she’s a magical knight with armor of her own, too. This is as gentle as Elm gets.
“What do I do now, Elm?” she asks, hauling herself onto his back when his nudging becomes pointed and accompanied by the thought-feeling of impatience.
He turns them around, away, but doesn’t begrudge her one last look back.
‘We do what we’ve always done,“ Elm says to her, flashes of images from missions she’s been on and those she hasn’t, the ones Elm had with her master before she became his squire. ‘We rid the world of evil and tyranny…’
”… and bring peace to those in need and honor to the Order.“ she finishes by rote.
She pauses, runs her hand down his neck. "I think I’m going to need help with this, Elm.”
—
Night falls, they set up camp. Well, they try to set up camp, but they can’t agree on a good spot–Elm’s criteria mainly consists of the quantity of grass he can graze on, while Lark tries to fall back on her training and find a defensible spot.
They’re interrupted.
Howls, multiple, coming in fast.
“Oh shit,” Lark spits out, leaping onto Elm’s back once more.
‘Language,’ Elm chides, for all that he’s already begun galloping away.
Elm is fast–all mounts chosen the Order have to meet basic requirements and are trained to be even more impressive–but he’s mostly built for battle, not racing, and the wolves do not have panicking riders slowing them down.
Lark risks a glance backwards, sees the wolves gaining. Correction, they’re not wolves–they’re hellhounds.
Three flanking Elm’s left, two on his right.
“I don’t think we can outrun them!”
‘Well, you’re a knight, aren’t you?’ Elm snipes back, and he doesn’t need to sound so pissy about it.
Lark summons her swords–she’s not very good with her shield yet, but swords are easy enough. They appear: glowing and lavender and the last things these hellhounds will ever see.
Which is true enough; but she only kills two of them.
The other three fall at someone else’s hand.
~
A/N: Don’t want to burnout on DoS stuff so here’s some original fic so I don’t end up with a missed post!
Big brother Kareru messed up Sakako’s braids. He’ll regret that when she’s out of the academy. @jacksgreysays
(Those expressions! (✿ ♥‿♥) This is totally what they would be like.
Your art is as lovely as always)
( ˘ ³˘)♥
Oh gosh, I’m so glad you think so, anon. I was worried I went a little too far or not far enough or all of my feels made it seem good to me while I was writing but didn’t translate to readers. This one, more than some of my others, was definitely a labor of love.
Gaara isn’t often called in to deal with matters from the Engineering Department. Except for approving or vetoing certain village-sized projects, he doesn’t have much to do with them outside of paperwork.
Certainly not in person. Not anymore.
After the first incident–in which he was called in at three in the morning and all he did was stand around looking imposing as two engineers yelled, fought, cried on each other, then came to an agreement in the span of two hours. True, that first incident led to the village’s first successful hydroponics program, and later aquaponics program, but not as a result of anything Gaara himself did–he’s learned to use proxies since then.
But the young engineer standing in front of him looks like he won’t accept a proxy or no for an answer. Even if he’s nervously curling into himself.
Gaara doesn’t take offense. If he’s remembering correctly, this is one of the recent genin graduates. The one who had been slated for the Puppet Corps until Kankurou found out that he’d rather make puppets than fight with them, and so had shunted him into Engineering where he’d be happier surrounded by machines than people.
“Fukiya, correct?” Gaara asks, smiling to himself when the genin straightens at his name.
“Yes, Kazekage-sama!” Fukiya says, bows low, straightens back up, all in one enthusiastic movement.
“And you’re sure this isn’t just Yokume and Gosan arguing again?” He asks, just to confirm. He’s already standing away from his desk, gesturing for Fukiya to lead the way. Jinzo only raises his eyebrows instead of squinting angrily, so Gaara knows he’s not scheduled for anything else at the moment.
“Not this time, Kazekage-sama,” Fukiya says, sounding far less nervous the deeper into the building they go. The Engineering Department is underground. Deep underground.
“Was Baki unavailable?” It’s not that Gaara is trying to get out of it–he likes being involved in his village–but this is an unusual situation.
“We already called Baki-sama, Kazekage-sama, and he’s actually there now. But he said to go get you, Kazekage-sama.”
An unusual situation indeed.
They come to a stop outside a set of massive double doors. Fukiya glances around, looks sheepish when he catches Gaara’s eye, then enters a series of numbers into the keypad. A much smaller door opens up for them to enter through.
The first thing Gaara sees is Baki’s face, smirking. Then is Yokume and Gosan, eagerly shouting upwards. When he follows their line of sight, he sees a massive orb made of metal and glass…
… and what looks to be a small child inside it, happily fiddling with the wires of what he knows to be the Engineering Department’s ultimate pet project.
—
(Yodo doesn’t remember her biological parents and she doesn’t really care. As far as she’s concerned, they didn’t want her, so she doesn’t want them.
She doesn’t need them, either. She didn’t need them before, when she was just one of many Suna orphans running around the village, and she definitely doesn’t need them now that she has a family that loves her and actually wants her.
And plus, Father is the Kazekage and Mother is one of the most badass people in the world–Yodo’s not even exaggerating. Why would she care about some random strangers she’s never even met?)
—
The child is five years old, unbelievably smart, and–according to the engineers on the night shift–a stealth prodigy. Gaara will believe the first two, but given the way the little girl knows some of the engineers by name, he’s highly skeptical of the last one.
Both Yokume and Gosan are on the verge of tears, which isn’t an atypical state of being for them. But usually it’s over non-human matters.
“You can’t have a five year old working for the Engineering Department,” Gaara says, choosing to be the voice of reason here.
“Can she even read?” Baki asks, looking far too amused by the situation.
“I can hear just fine,” the little girl says, dangling from the catwalk, knees hooked around the railing.
She seems confident in her stability, but Gaara would rather not risk it. He sends a platform of sand up towards her and, after a couple of curious nudges, she switches perches.
“And I can read…” she continues, voice high and piping and offended.
“… most things,” she admits in a mutter after a moment’s silence, sand platform bringing her closer. “Math is easier, okay?”
Baki snorts.
Yokume and Gosan check on the orb, simultaneously gushing and arguing about the changes the child has made while Fukiya trails after them like an eager student.
“What’s your name?” Gaara asks, because for all that she knows the night shift engineer’s names, they don’t seem to know hers.
She seems to be content on the platform, even though it’s hovering close enough to the ground that she could disembark if she wanted to. She doesn’t answer for a moment, busy testing the pliability of the sand–it’s as pliable as he wills it to be. He lets her shape it as she wants and holds it still when she decides she’s satisfied with it. She appears to be building a model of Suna.
“The matron at the orphanage use to call me Yodo,” she says finally, possibly unused to someone patiently waiting for her to answer.
“Used to?”
Yodo wrinkles her nose in disgust, “I don’t go there anymore. Too many voices, it’s annoying. I come here instead.”
Gaara can feel his brow furrowing in confusion, hopes it doesn’t come off as irritated. His people are no longer scared of him, but he knows he’s still an intimidating figure. “For how long?”
Yodo huffs, as if she’s the one who should be annoyed by all these questions, “Almost four days,” she says.
Which isn’t as long as Gaara had feared, but definitely long enough that this should have been brought to someone’s attention earlier. Either as a missing child’s case or as an intruder in the Engineering Department–four days is too long.
“You’re not going to make me go back, are you?” Yodo asks him, blue eyes wide and staring into his.
Gaara doesn’t know what his face looks like now, but whatever it is, it makes Baki actually, audibly laugh.
—
(The Council talks about her as Father’s successor as if it’s a position she should be honored to have, instead of something they’re trying to force onto her.
She doesn’t know why they even think she’d want it–but then again, the only council member she’s ever spoken to is Councilor Odo who still thinks Mother is some kind of interloper or the most conspicuous spy ever.
She understands their reasoning, at least: Yodo may not be one by blood, but she’s still a scion of the desert. They don’t want her to end up like Temari-oba, married away in a different land and essentially lost to Suna.
No, Yodo doesn’t want to be Kazekage. But in this matter, she keeps quiet. As soon as she rejects it, they’ll turn to Shinki; and for all that he thinks he should be the next Kazekage, Yodo doesn’t think he actually wants to be, either.
Yodo can be a good sister.)
—
Yodo concedes to leave the Engineering workshop only when Gaara promises not to bring her back to the orphanage. She also demands dango, but after two years of raising a child, he knows better than to give her sweets without any substantial food to temper it.
They agree on takoyaki, which Yodo deems similar enough in shape to dango as to be acceptable, and which Gaara knows won’t lead to a sugar high and crash.
Between the Engineering Department and his office, Yodo sneaks her hand into his. He looks at her in surprise–it took Araya nearly a year to feel comfortable enough with him to do the same–and she begins to withdraw it, but he curls his fingers around hers and she smiles brightly up at him.
They pass by others at work. The administrative building is quite large, houses other departments besides Engineering, and someone must have sent word ahead because Jinzo is waiting for the two of them in Gaara’s office with a familiar looking set of forms.
“Another one?” he asks, almost as amused as Baki had been.
Gaara shrugs because he has no argument. Has nothing he’d want to argue against.
“Shall I have a runner go fetch Nara-san and Araya?” Jinzo asks, already flaring his chakra to summon one of the genin whose sole purpose is to do whatever he tells them apparently.
“And dango!” Yodo says, swinging their conjoined hands.
“Takoyaki,” Gaara corrects, considers for a moment, “And maybe some dango, too.”
Yodo cheers while Jinzo sends a second runner for the food and a third to prepare some drinks.
Gaara goes to sit at his desk. Rather than sit at the more comfortable couch, Yodo clambers onto the desk–taking care to avoid touching any of the paperwork, while she turns her head this way and that.
“Will this let me work in the Engineering Department?” Yodo asks, watching him write her name but not understanding the rest.
“One day, if you still want to, then you can,” Gaara answers, filling in the rest of the forms–his name, Shikako’s name, Yodo’s again. “This means that, if you want, you never have to go back to the orphanage.”
She looks up at him and in her eyes he sees maybe something like hope.
—
(Yodo thinks in terms of music. In tone and rhythm, tempo and frequency. She thinks of melodies and harmonies, instruments and voices fitting together into one cohesive song.
Machines are like that, too. Different components coming together to make something better and stronger than they are alone.
Sometimes there are problems–sometimes gears shift out of place and software doesn’t match up. Sometimes the drums go too fast and the strings screech instead of hum–but they can be troubleshot, they can be fixed. Music and creation and life are always open to additions and adjustments.
This is what family means to her.)
~
A/N: I really thought I’d be able to get this in before midnight Ah, well, I guess this is just a very early post then.
I’ll post these three up on ao3 later
(Also, I don’t know if anyone noticed but Yodo is meant to be neuroatypical.)
Kankurou will never say this out loud–and definitely not where Temari might hear him–but this is all her fault. (No, really.)
See, if she hadn’t faffed off to Leaf in order to marry into some other clan instead of telling that sleepy-eyed weirdo to marry into their clan then he and Gaara wouldn’t have been left trying to figure out what the hell to do when someone randomly tells them that hey, one of your ancestors somewhere along the line apparently had an illegitimate child, because we’ve found a kid who can use Magnet Release. Also, he’s an orphan–have fun dealing with this!
Technically, it should be Kankurou’s responsibility given that he’s older and clan leadership is passed down in birth order. But they’re called the Kazekage clan after all, and, well, Gaara is the Kazekage. It only makes sense for Kankurou to let the more qualified brother handle it.
And it’s not like Kankurou’s the one adopting an army of small children. (To be fair, there’s only two of them and Araya is a fairly mellow kid. Yodo’s the one who could put the entire Puppet Corps through the wringer, especially when she’s high on sugar from whatever sweets given to her by a certain someone who shall remain nameless. It would’ve been hilarious… if he hadn’t been tapped for babysitting duties that same day and realized he stabbed himself in the foot.)
So passing the buck it is.
He at least goes to pick up the kid–because Gaara does have an entire hidden village to run and, admittedly, Kankurou will be this kid’s clan head even if he won’t be this kid’s Father (the very idea of it makes him shudder; ugh, fatherhood, he can barely stand being an uncle)–and takes a nice, quiet solo journey to some tiny town in the middle of nowhere.
Gaara did offer to send some chuunin with him, but like hell was Kankurou going to put up with a bunch of brats just to pick up another brat. Never mind that most chuunin are about his age or even older. (And plus, it gives him some time to work on his playwriting without wind of it getting back to Sparky.)
He kinda has an idea of what he’s expecting of the kid–even though, beyond him having Magnet Release and being an orphan, the report didn’t include much. Not even a name which, what the hell, he’s going to bust someone’s balls for this. He doesn’t approve of shoddy work when it means he’s going into a situation blind. (Been there, done that, got the irritating friendships with Leaf nin to prove it.)
As it is, he ends up being completely wrong and, somehow, spot on. He maybe should have made Gaara come–or Sparky, even, given that despite having no blood relation and not even having met each other yet, this kid would fit in perfectly with her horde of hell-raisers. How someone could get into so much trouble in the boondocks is beyond him–but hell if Kankurou isn’t a little bit impressed.
—
(Shinki doesn’t mean for bad things to happen to the people around him, they just do. His first Mother had said that the things he could do weren’t bad, just powerful; all he had to do was learn how to control them.
But even with her own talents with metal–hidden in plain sight as the town’s blacksmith–she still looked at his ability with wariness and no small amount of fear.
He can’t remember what happened to his biological father, only that he disappeared one day and never came back.
That’s what Shinki used to think, anyway.)
—
The kid is nine years old and if Kankurou hadn’t grown up with the poster child for stoicism, he’d admit that the kid’s got a pretty good poker face. As it is, he can tell the kid’s about as nervous as Sparky in front of an audience older than Academy age–and, also, hiding something.
But despite being admittedly nosy, Kankurou stays silent on that matter; because he knows what subtlety is, unlike some people.
The shinobi dispatched from the nearest outpost meets Kankurou in the village and gives a rundown of the situation which for some reason wasn’t included in the original report.
“Bandits, most likely,” the chuunin says with a shrug, not bothering to temper his volume. Normally, surrounded by civilians, it wouldn’t matter, but from the small twitches on the kid’s face Kankurou can tell, even without the clan blood limit, he’s not just a normal civilian. “Tried to ransack the blacksmith’s shop, maybe to get supplies, and didn’t realize she was still in the forge. She put up a hell of a fight, though.”
Ah, shit. Poor kid, being forced to relive his mother’s last moments from the voice of an disinterested chuunin. But pity never helped anyone.
“Bandits?” Kankurou barks at the chuunin instead, edging it in a way that he usually doesn’t. Pity doesn’t help, but anger can, “This area is part of your outpost’s territory isn’t it? Were you just letting them run rampant?”
The chuunin straightens up at attention, suddenly faced with a superior officer not just a fellow shinobi. “No, sir. I mean, yes sir–I mean.”
“Spit it out,” Kankurou says, maybe amping it up because it’s possible there’s the smallest hint of a smile on the kid’s face.
“We’ve been gathering intel on them, trying to triangulate their base of operations. It wasn’t until the attack yesterday that we got enough to pinpoint it. We were going to do some more recon before requesting a team. But the, uh, witness seemed like a more important matter,” the chuunin reports, belatedly adding, “sir.”
“A team?” Kankurou scoffs, he’s a puppeteer–The Puppeteer what with being head of the corps, now–he’s basically a team all by himself. And besides, “Why do you need a team when you’ve got two scions of the desert?” he asks the chuunin, then nods in the kid’s direction, “Hey brat, you interested in getting revenge?”
What? Kankurou never said he was good with kids.
—
(A part of Shinki used to think that becoming a shinobi was inevitable. That even his first Mother knew it, too, despite not sending him to Suna when he turned six.
She had taught him what tricks she had learned from her own mother, and other things she had picked up or made up along the way. She had taught him about weapons and about tools, about the difference and similarities between them. About how neither could harm him–not so long as they were made of metal and sang like adrenaline in his blood.
He thinks she was preparing him for a future without her. He’s never sure whether or not he should be grateful for that.)
—
The bandits are a bunch of clichés–a group of twenty or so men all unwashed and rowdy, hiding in a cave. Kankurou is honestly a little embarrassed on their behalves. Or, you know, he would be if they weren’t the assholes responsible for murdering an unknown clan member and leaving the kid–Shinki, as he had huffed in response to being called brat–orphaned.
Okay, maybe Kankurou got a little attached. But he’s a good kid; keeping pace and falling in line and not at all rebelling and pulling some kind of bullshit impossible plan from out of nowhere that somehow miraculously works. (No doubt Sparky will ruin that given a few months, but he can appreciate it while it lasts.)
They meet up with another chuunin not far from the cave–who startles at seeing the head of the Puppet Corps and a nine year old accompanying his teammate, but maintains a sense of professionalism nonetheless.
“There’s two exits–this one’s the main one, big enough for horses and a cart, though I’ve only spotted two so far. The other one is around the southeast side of the mountain, pretty narrow, almost missed it, probably an emergency escape route.”
Unfortunately, cliché and filthy didn’t mean stupid.
“You two stay here, wait for the signal before you join us,” Kankurou says, “Us two will go through the other entrance. Catch them off guard, make sure none of them get away.”
“Uh, sir?” asks the first chuunin, nervously, “What’s the signal?”
Kankurou barely manages not to roll his eyes. Shinki and the other chuunin don’t bother refraining.
“The sounds of screaming, probably” Kankurou says deadpan, enjoying the way the chuunin flinches.
“Let’s go, kid,” he continues, before they waste more time on inanities.
The emergency exit is narrow enough that the three of them–Karasu included–have to go single file. The few traps are easily disarmed and Shinki’s silent nature thankfully extends to stealth.
Somehow, even though he’s on Kankurou’s six, the kid spots the bandits first.
Well, a specific bandit.
“That’s him,” Shinki murmurs, angry but still quiet, not stupid enough to give away their position.
Kankurou doesn’t need clarification–given the bandages hastily wrapped around the bandit’s torso and beginning to bleed through red, it’s obvious who he is.
“Stay here, kid. Any of them slip past me, you take them down, okay?” Like that’ll happen–Kankurou’s been too well trained (tortured by that old hag, more like)–but the kid doesn’t know that. “Let’s go sound that signal, then.”
Of course, Kankurou probably should have figured that the kid’s obedience would run dry at some point, because after only about ten minutes of fighting–most of the bandits incapacitated one way or another–he finds the kid standing over the prone body of a bandit. The specific bandit.
The kid’s shaking, the man is talking, and that’s never boded well.
“… I knew it. Should have known as soon as your mother brought you screaming into the world. Go on, demon, prove me right,” the bandit says, a sneer on his face for all that he’s the one at a disadvantage.
The kid has somehow ended up with a sword–poor quality, probably the bandit’s own weapon–but he shakes like he’s the one whose life is in danger.
“I-I c-can’t do it,” Shinki says, “I can’t.”
Kankurou sighs, waves Karasu closer to loom over the bandit who is finally beginning to look afraid. He puts his other hand on Shinki’s shoulder, turns him around. “Don’t look, kid.”
Shinki closes his eyes, presses close, and doesn’t look.
Neither of them mention it again.
—
(Sometimes, Shinki wishes his first Mother were still alive. Not that he prefers her over Mother–no, he loves this new family fiercely, wouldn’t trade them for the world. Even when he and Araya don’t quite understand each other, or he and Yodo get on each others’ nerves.
Sometimes, he wishes she hadn’t been afraid. Wishes that she had taken the chance to reach out, to be a part of this family.
He thinks she would have loved them, too.)
~
A/N: Kankurou, goddamnit, why can’t you stay on topic?
Technically this part ought to be third if we’re going chronologically, since I feel like Shinki would’ve been the last adopted (which kind of adds to his self-esteem issues re: succession and also his adoption sort of obligated because blood limit) but Kankurou is easier for me to write than Gaara. Which, yeah, spoilers I guess, Yodo’s part will from Gaara’s POV.
For the Dos Spinoff Hail to the Queen by @jacksgreysays
(Look at how cheeky she is! Probably voted Cutest Hokage, let’s be honest here 😀
I absolutely love it!)
JackSGreyson Says 