Storm Chasing, Mind Breaking
Summary: Chapter 1 - Shadows in Sunagakure
Summary: As she navigates the complexities of the village’s expectations and her own ambitions, Sorano faces internal struggles about her role and identity, and gets closer to a breaking point.
Word Count: 3,650
Warnings: Self harm, coerced suicide and suicidal tendencies, mentions of death and murder, at best morally grey main character. I don't think anything hugely out of the norms for Naruto but please tread carefully if those sound offputting.
A/N: Self indulgent Naruto/Akatsuki OC story - will there be a second chapter? Doubtful, but hopeful. I wanna get to the good stuff.
Chapter 2 ->
Almost seven months have passed since the last death, and tensions in the desert-village are still high: threads of anxiety and a morbid excitement taught through everyone with something to lose. Sorano plucks the thread, vibrating the questions already ringing about her mind. When would the next be? Where? Who would be left in mourning? Would the collective anxiety shatter into relief, or sharpen?
Skin sticky from the pervasive and oppressive heat, she lay staring at the sandstone ceiling, scrunching the plain white bedsheets between her fingertips as she contemplates the questions surely on the mind of every Sunagakure resident. She should expect this kind of heat by now, with the many years she had lived here. She should be used to it. No one else seemed to mind it very much. Of course, they kept out of the direct sun in the middle of the day - the only time the temperature felt worth it to her - and most left their window open a crack at night, but they were born in the desert, and the desert was a part of them.
Sorano was not born here.
Aggressively, she pushes her hair up above her head, pulling out a few thick, red strands in the rough attempt to free herself from the feeling of being suffocated. Anything for any relief. But she wasn't surprised when no relief came; she was stifled by more than her hair, and more than the heat.
A dull thumping sound begins from overhead, pulling her from her intrusive thoughts. A moth bumps against her lampshade repetitively, leaving a light dusting of its precious minute scales. Beige, like everything else in the small government-appointed apartment. She slips her bare legs off the side of the bed and stands to open the window. The moth needn't be trapped like her, but it will have to find its own way out. She stretches her fingertips out into the dark night, just barely able to graze the outside wall of her building. The walls in Suna are thick, apparently to help keep the insides of the buildings cooler. It seems to her that at night they have the opposite effect, because there is a pleasant breeze brushing against her fingers which certainly doesn't make its way into her room. Even the thickness of the walls feel claustrophobic, separating her from the eddies of air dancing outside.
As usual, she can hear distant conversation from the streets below, some jovial and some argumentative. She can feel the faint buzzing thrum of their minds pushing on the periphery of her senses, but thankfully they are too few and too far to pay any notice to. A peel of laughter cuts the air, reminding her that for most there is still the opportunity for fun in the middle of the desert; for a social life with drinking and dancing and eating and singing with friends.
It does not help her to be this bitter, nor would it help her to have friends.
The floor is rough under her feet as she pads back to her bed, laying on top of her sheets once again and twisting her fingers into the pillowcase so tightly it might cut off her circulation, and biting her lip so hard it might bleed. But not quite that tight, or that hard. She is practiced at this ritual for sleep.
She is hurting herself, more than anyone she actually wants to hurt, with her resentment, but it builds inside her nonetheless. It is an uncontrollable thing, twisting and tumbling around her stomach, boiling like a wild sea in a storm and making her sick sick sick sick sick every time she is called upon by the village. Every time she catches a glimpse of furtive whispers shared between those few acknowledge she exists. Usually, holding onto it only hurts her. But the hurt is hers, and it feels like it could be power, so she holds on anyway.
❈❈❈
In the daylight Sorano walks with a very purposeful look of casual comfortability to the office of the new Boy-Kazekage. More Shinobi than usual appear to be on duty, in an effort to prevent another suspicious inexplicable death, and she supposes to put the civilian population at ease. Foolish. Not a single body had been found in the streets, and the deaths all appeared to have happened at night. Then this must be for appearances alone. There had certainly been more foreign envoys since the former scourge of the sand had taken office, so the need for apparent safety made sense. And it did seem to be working, tension visibly melted off families catching sight of this increased surveillance, full of joy to be together, and for this effort to keep them safe, even as they cast wary glances her way. Hypocritical, given the Kazekage himself was the source of that same fear only a handful of years ago.
She glances at a mother and daughter with hair almost as red as her own, catching the woman brush some dust from her daughters shoulder in a moment of casual comfortability that Sorano lost almost eight years ago. Even her own family couldn't stand to be around her after a certain point, so is it really any wonder these strangers mistrusted her? The buzz of mental energy is worse at ground level, amongst the comparative throng of the night, but if the deaths had caused even more passive aggression towards her on the part of the villagers, it has at least kept the streets, and therefore her head, clearer. Perhaps this is in part why it had been so long since the last...
The thick soles of her oh-so-practical shoes slap with a dull thud against stone steps as she climbs towards the thick wooden doors of her keepers office. She is quite sure he doesn't see himself as her keeper. Perhaps he thinks himself benevolent, embracing this outsider in a way his father never did. Too little, too late. She is to meet her teammates outside before they enter to receive their next mission. Her next mission would be more apt. She is only called upon when absolutely necessary, so in reality the task is hers, and her companions will join as back-up and support. To keep tabs on the liability is more like it. As Sorano understands it, it is unusual to receive missions directly from the Kazekage, but it is the norm to her. She needs to be monitored - perhaps well meaning, perhaps malicious, but either way it is another watchful eye to keep her in line. As far as anyone knows she has never stepped over, or even near the line, it's simply not an option available to her. The line is unnecessary ball and chain around her ankle. Around her throat.
Two pairs of feet come into view above the top of the stairs, close together and angled towards each other, but just far enough away from where Sorano will emerge to know that it is purposeful. She hears their clandestine whispers, and digs her fingernails into her palms as hard as she can, taking a sharp breath of relief at the outlet for her anger, grounding herself with the pain. Plastering a deliberately mild expression on her face she rounds the last few steps and stands a few feet away. The tall man and woman before her have been on her team for two years, but she can count on one hand the number of times they have spoken to her outside of work. She knows from what they think are secret smiling glances, from the way they mirror each others stance, and better yet from her intrusions into their minds, that they are a couple, or at least something akin to it. There is little need to bother themselves forming a bond with her, when every mission gives them time as good as alone.
"Good morning, Goro, Jun." Sorano says curtly, her lips curling into something like a smile because she knows they will never use her given name, and they do not like her to use theirs. Far too familiar.
Goro nods. Jun sneers.
"Morning, Hōraku." Goro is also curt, but it is an acknowledgement, at least.
If she is entirely honest with herself, she hasn't given them, or anyone else in Suna, a fair chance in some time. In years. Earlier efforts to integrate fully or better yet to make a connection have fallen flat shortly after beginning, if they haven't imploded... But they hadn't given her a fair chance either, and in this case she is quite sure that two wrongs do make a right.
"Squad 18, please enter." A flat, almost breathy voice cuts through the tension and Jun pushes the door open, leading the way into the domed office. Many round windows reveal bright and searing light outside, but the room itself is dark and calm, with a lingering scent of sandalwood. For the leader of one of the Five Great Nations, the Kazekage keeps his workplace simple and unassuming. There are a few plants, mostly succulents that can handle the heat, a few shelves stacked with papers and books, and a large wooden desk sitting on top of a small rug. The pleasant scent is the only thing that has changed since she first set foot in here, more than ten years ago.
She would do so much with the space, if it were hers.
Standing side by side with Goro and Jun it is all she can do not to glare at the boy sitting before her. It isn't his fault she's in this situation, but knowing she's here to be used by a child tastes bitter, regardless of how accomplished he is. She is reminded again that just a few years ago he two received fearful glances in the streets, and moreso than her. Now he is the golden boy. The reformed monster. What it is they want her to reform about herself she doesn't know.
"Thank you all for coming, Goro, Jun, Sorano." The Kazekage speaks so softly, it is clear he has never had to raise his voice to command attention. Is it because he used to be so feared, or because he is now so respected? Whichever it is, she envies him both.
"Of course, Kazekage-sama!" Jun speaks lightly, rocking forward on her toes. She looks so pleased and girlish in the moment that despite being half a foot taller than Sorano, she seems small.
The Kazekage smiles slightly, "We have a B-rank mission requiring your talents as a squad." He pauses, and Goro's brows shoot up, just for a moment. The Kazekage spots it the same moment Sorano does. "You may feel a B-rank mission is below you, and in usual circumstances you would be correct. But this is no reflection of the importance of your task, I simply do not expect a need for combat."
As suspected, the mission was for the foreigner.
“We have received intelligence that a high-profile mob boss from the Land of Rivers will be travelling through the southern borders of the Land of Wind a few days from now. You are to ensure that does not happen.” She inclines her head slightly, waiting for him to continue. “This request comes from myself, rather than the Land of Rivers. It will strengthen our relationship to rid them of their problem.”
Goro frowns slightly before speaking low, “So this is entirely pro-bono?”
“If that’s how you would like to think of it.”
Jun jumps in, “It doesn’t matter much what it’s for Goro, an order is an order.”
Sorano can't help but agree with Jun, knowing better than most that realistically they have no choice, but of course Jun would jump at the chance to show the Kazekage how well behaved she is. Sorano is a hypocrite in both her mind and her actions, because she says nothing.
“No, you deserve an explanation,” the Kazekage murmurs, and Sorano feels a small amount of warmth towards him for shutting down Jun’s boot-licking, “it is pro-bono. However, there are many benefits to the village. Allowing him to travel through our land unhindered may appear weak, and as I said, this will strengthen relations between us and our neighbours. You should not underestimate the value in that, simply because it is a smaller land.”
Satisfied, or perhaps mollified, Goro nods.
“He is due in five days. Your squad should leave tomorrow to ensure there is room for incorrect intel. You will receive a packet with a full briefing this evening.” He gives another small, almost tentative smile, before looking back down at his papers and flipping a page. He doesn’t dismiss us, but the effect is the same.
Sorano turns on her heel and leaves the room behind her comrades. Colleagues? They are about to walk down the stairs when Jun looks back, just for a moment, and Sorano, blank-faced, raises her hand in something like a wave.
“We’ll meet by the gate at midday tomorrow.” Jun says sharply, snaps her head forward once more and side by side, she leaves with Goro.
❈❈❈
Sorano's room feels like a trap, about to spring any second. The staticness and stagnation it reflects in her is the trap, and if anything were to spring it would be a breath of fresh air. Her building is unusually busy, a party for someone or others birthday on the floor below her, and although the thick walls dampen the sound to a low thud like that of the moth, the mental noise is too much toomuchtoomuch!
Quick as a slap she takes a knife from her kitchen draw, slicing the blade across her thump deep enough for the blood to flow steadily. It wouldn't do to truly injure herself before a mission but oh, oh relief. She heaves a sigh, flopping back limply on a hard wooden chair and letting her eyes flutter closed as she focuses on the sweet throbbing in her wounded digit. The buzz still intrudes on her, but it is manageable now, lesser than the pain.
Picking up the light brown envelope from where she cast it on the desk a few hours ago, she unwinds the fastening, wrapping the soft white string around her thumb as she does so, stemming the blood flow and increasing the pang. Her skin below the makeshift tourniquet is almost as white as the twine was before the blood soaked through, a hard contrast from the peachy tan of the rest of her hand.
Distraction and first-aid in place, she must read the report and prepare for the mission. Goro and Jun can probably go without, and likely will, since combat isn't expected, but for the lonely woman a strong understanding of her target is essential. Ideally she would have had the chance to watch him and write the report herself, but either he is too unpredictable, or the village leaders think she is, so the task was assigned to someone else.
It quickly becomes clear that while the mission will be a difficult one, the target himself is nothing extraordinary. Not a shinobi, but skilled in combat nonetheless, he has been causing issues at the Katabami gold mine and neighbouring villages since the death of Kurosuki Raiga a few years ago. No matter the tyranny of having such a skilled, albeit deranged, ninja at the head of their operations, the protection he offered must be missed by the locals now that multiple gangs are running rampant. Better the devil you know. At only thirty-three years old, Aoyama Kenta has been making a name for himself as a brutal, inhumane, greedy, mob boss interested only in profit and hedonism, with a single exception of his infant son.
How touching.
Sorano could work with that.
She flicks through the pages a few more times, savouring the smooth surface of the paper under her fingertips and seeking out any minute bumps. She already knows she hasn't missed anything of importance: she is meticulous, and she must be to show the people in Sunagakure she is worth keeping around, to keep their already probing minds from looking any further.
Almost seven months have passed since she last stretched her Kekkai Genkai to the depths of its abilities, but she has been sure to keep it limber.
She lays back on her bed and closes her eyes, letting sight and touch and smell fade away and instead seeking that painful buzzing static of minds. The buzz grows louder and somehow as she embraces it it becomes her whole, the sound of synapses firing all around her, fuzzy, iridescent, shapeless forms moving in and out of her minds eye. They thrum with life energy, a melting pot between chakra and mental signatures, bright and loud and beautiful in their joy, or their despair. She feel where there is a greater depth of emotion, and although she wants to go looking in many directions, following all those threads of thought and chemical signatures, she focuses inwards. The rest becomes a far-away tinnitus-like buzz around her as she finds the mind she is listening for, and attunes to it. This is a rich well of emotion, one she has been working on and cultivating for months. His thoughts sound as a despairing violin, his mind's iridescence closer to that of an oil spill.
It isn't quite the workout or the challenge she would usually chose, as her upstairs neighbour has no genjutsu training to speak of - or any shinobi training for that matter - but he was so dispassionate about everything save for his disgust for his foreign neighbour before she started work on him, and just look at the range of his feeling now. Beautiful.
Through many solitary nights in her apartment, listening to his mind as she was now, she has come to know the man well. Much better than he knows, or cares to know her. People like comfortability, and easy paths through life. Assuming the new neighbour from another village, still just a small girl but holding a power you won’t bother to understand, is a threat, is easy. Certainly it’s easier than welcoming her into a frightening new home when her mother and her siblings disappeared. Than accepting that as a child, she will only become as much of a threat as everyone makes her. Him and many others have taken the easy route.
He is in his late forties, not particularly notable for anything - he works in a weapon manufacturing workshop in the village. He also spends most nights alone in his apartment, and apart from proximity to Sorano, he was perfect content with that. Passing through life like a ghost. He was friendly with many, friends with few, but he didn't mind. He was passive in his own lack of life force. But she had helped him the last few months, to make something of himself. To long for more and to really feel something.
She doesn't always, or even usually, take this length of time with her work, but for the vitriol he has spat at her, for the daily discomfort he has caused, she considers it her return gift to him.
As she listened from the back corner of his mind, he pours himself an over-full glass of sake. It is quickly downed, topped up, downed again, and the remainder of the bottle poured to half fill his cup. He looks at the floor, for a short moment boring venomous holes at the wood and plaster separating him from his secret tormentor, but quickly his eyes fill with tears blurring his vision, and his mind is scattered into misery. It shines brightly to Sorano.
She is about to push a little further, to leave a little calling card to help the story she wishes for to play out, but as soon as she does she realises she will barely have to, it would be heavy handed, even if enjoyable. The probing, parasitic vine she planted, tended, and loved, has done it's job so well, tearing apart the tree it wrapped around and thriving on the remains of its trunk.
--There's nothing here for me. What am a doing drinking alone every night? Nothing I haven't done before. All I've ever done, what's the fucking point?--
Slowly, oh so slowly, she edges into his mind. He must not know she is here, but with his lack of training there was never really a risk of that. With a voice like honey, just under the surface for him to find on his own, she leaves the spark. Would anyone even notice?
--No one would even notice. What do I mean to anyone? What do I mean to the village? Nothing...--
With a finality that certainly brings him relief he stands, and like a whip she comes back to herself, following one floor behind up the stairs to the roof. The sky is a dark inky blue, unmuddied by clouds, and with a waning moon. It will be gone tomorrow night. His silhouette is only visible because the stars cannot be seen behind where he stands, up on the precipice of the building, arms out and eyes closed with his back to the drop.
Guessing that she only has seconds she makes her way over to him, silent as any member of the ANBU. As she raises her hand, hovering it just over his chest, she sees the culmination of her work. Abject despair giving way to joy that he has finally decided on a way out. His brows unknit and a serene smile spreads across his face as only one content with their imminent death can.
This is perfect.
At the height of his relief, she gives him a firm push, and for a brief moment in the second it takes him to fall they are united in ecstasy.
This is art.
