Storm Chasing, Mind Breaking
Chapter 2 - A Fugitive’s Peace
Summary: Sorano carves out a small place for herself in the world beyond Sunagakure.
Word Count: 3,637
Warnings: Self harm, violence and graphic murder. At best a morally grey main character, but realistically she is a bad guy.
A/N: Self indulgent Naruto/Akatsuki OC story which shockingly has gone beyond the first chapter.
<- Chapter 1
It only takes two days for news of the murder to arrive to Jun and Goro.
Two days of silence. Two days where Sorano's mental energy was her own. Away from the prying eyes of the village, without whispers and sideways glances and the constant unending buzz of their minds. Two days where the only company were teammates who would rather keep their distance anyway.
Usually, she felt freer, more grounded, when she was on a mission - when she has a purpose and her talents are appreciated instead of only feared - but this mission had been different. She couldn't be sure whether Jun and Goro felt it themselves, although given how carefully they watched her they would have to be fools not to notice the tension in her shoulders. It was only a matter of time of course, until word was sent. She had been foolish. Careless. So unlike her methodical choices in years gone by. The death of her neighbour, seemingly out of the blue, would never go unnoticed by her jailors.
Perhaps, in some secret corner of her mind, she wanted to be caught this time.
To be known for what she was truly capable of, even if she was the only one who knew what a relief it had been for the small and bitter man. For the world to see her work. Certainly the two days she waited kept her on a knifes edge of indecision; would she return to the village and face her death, smiling in the face of the boy who should have faced the same repercussion himself? Would she slip away in the night, perhaps plant a memory of her death at the hands of their target, to keep the village off her back?
In the end, when the falcon arrived with a scroll attached to its leg, the choice was made for her. She had waited too long.
The bird alights with astounding grace on Goro's arm, looking much smaller compared to the hulking brunette man. Sorano had fantastised about being rid of the pair of Suna-nin many times, but never before had she been faced so directly with his size and strength, or with Jun's fierce pursuit of a target. They had always been on her side, however unwillingly.
Sorano begins to climb the tree she was sitting at the base of, and watches the bird fly home through the light morning rain. She should have stopped it there: it's arrival back in Suna unharmed and without its scroll sent a clear message. But to do so would have given her away before she could climb to an advantage...
Jun peers around Goro's shoulder to get a look at the message, her blonde hair a stark contrast with his tan muscles.
The moment Goro’s eyes flick over the tiny scroll, his entire body stiffens. His expression cracks into confusion, then rage. Jun’s reaction is slower, more deliberate. A thin, satisfied smile unfurls across her lips, and when she looks up, her eyes are gleaming with vindication.
It's just as well that Sorano has the high ground now.
"It was you..." in just a few words, Goro's voice waivers between disbelief and crackling fury.
"It was always you." Jun's voice on the other hand is firm, sure, and almost delighted at this revelation.
Sorano flicks her long red hair over her shoulder, cracking a smile herself, "and what of it? I wouldn't be the first killer your village embraced. Whatever did that demon-brat have to do to have you all forgive him?" She casts a pointed glance at Jun before inspecting her fingernails, voice dripping in faux-curiosity. "I hope it wasn't the very thing you've been wishing for every night since you first set eyes on him."
A flash of blonde and silver. Jun springs upwards so fast her figure blurs, kunai aiming straight for Sorano's throat.
Exactly as planned.
Sorano releases her chakra hold on the branch at the last second. Gravity takes her but she’s already twisting, upside down now, her hand locking around the smaller woman’s bare ankle in a vice grip just as she soars by. A quick, vicious tug, and Jun is hurtling back towards the earth, slamming into the ground with all the momentum she had launched herself up with.
A split second later boots are thundering up the tree trunk as Goro joins the fray.
Sorano spins away, feigning a retreat as her hands dance through a rapid set of hand signs.
Tori, Ni, Ushi.
A low, wheezing moan rises from the ground below, where Jun had fallen.
Eyes still on Sorano - he has always had a singular focus - Goro swears and drops to the ground, landing hard in the mud. But Jun is already half way back to where Sorano stands. It's just too easy... How many times has Goro seen her use this exact genjutsu to bait their common targets? And yet, he won't risk Jun. Too easy by far.
Sorano's grin sharpens.
"Bitch," Goro spits.
She shrugs and lets herself fall, landing light as a shadow. Jun mirrors her, but her boots sink slightly into the softened dirt, too enraged to focus on proper chakra control. Sloppy.
The hulking man and wild-eyed kunoichi come at Sorano at once.
She ducks low, twisting on the balls of her feet below their attacks and they just barely miss hitting each other while the murderess is already setting up her next strike. Her movements are fluid, weaving a figure-of-eight around them, leading them in violent dance. Their attempts to land a blow only fuel their mistakes: Jun overextends in her eagerness; Goro's bulk slows his recovery from each missed swing. Sorano takes each opportunity, striking hard with surgical precision at ribs, collarbones, noses.
Sharp impacts. Fleeting, but effective.
But two against one makes a decisive hit near impossible. Goro at least will tire, but not fast enough to escape them, and Sunagakure with them.
Rain-damp earth churns to a thick, clagging mud beneath their frantic feet. Clinging and slowing and suffocating movement. Sorano feels the drag on her boots, the increased pull of each step, beyond what sore muscles should be inflicting. Goro and Jun must feel it too.
She surges her chakra to her feet once more, repelling the mud from her boots just as she pivots into a roundhouse kick.
Jun's head snaps violently sideways, brown earth splashed across her face. She stumbles, momentarily blinded, and jumps away to the edge of her clearing while she drags her sleeve across her eyes.
Now is Sorano's moment.
Jun's arsenal of jutsu are most effective at mid-range like this, and Sorano has always been a risk taker.
Spinning back to Goro she swipes an exaggerated right hook at his head, leaving her body wide open. She flashes him a sharp, knowing grin, and the confused horror on his face is almost enough to distract her as his knee makes brutal contact with her stomach.
Pain explodes through her ribs and her breath is ripped away, but she doesn't resist. She allows herself to be taken by it. She invites it. It is precisely the bait she needed.
Through the blinding ache she watches Jun's hands for movement. For the hand signs for her signature jutsu.
And there is it!
"Katon!"
A wall of heat detonates in the clearing. Blistering. Searing. Flame swallows up all the oxygen on it's way towards the pair grappling in the mud, the fireball rushing like a hungry wave.
Sorano moves only at the last possible second. Her foot whips out in a ruthless arc, sending Goro crashing into the ground. He can't scramble up fast enough. The fire is too quick.
Almost too quick for her! She shoots lightning into her legs she dashes away for an aching burst of speed, a streak of red motion dull in contrast with the inferno. Fire licks at her heels and she escapes the flame at the last second with the acrid scent of her own singed hair following.
Goro isn't so lucky.
His scream splits the air open with more impact even than the fireball had moments before. It is unearthly and raw, clawing at Sorano's spine like some primal, desperate animal. For a moment he writhes, flames devouring him, arms flailing as his synapses fire all at once in every possible way to try to escape. But almost as quickly as it began the movement stops, his body seizing up, and the screams go quiet.
The scent of roasting flesh thickens the air. Her stomach tightens, instinctively recoiling.. Not purely disgust. Not purely hunger. Just… something. A bodily reaction, nothing more.
Then a new sound rises. Soft at first, then breaking. Then wretched.
Jun drops to her knees and the fight leaves her, staring across the scorched earth at the burning ruin of her partner. Her breath hitches with each choking wail and her body shakes. No longer with rage, or righteousness, but with something smaller and much more broken.
Sorano straightens with a hiss, and with burning lungs and aching muscles she crosses the clearing. The air feels too thick to breathe, cloying and heavy with smoke and, sickeningly, caramelised flesh. The rain too hisses, as it meets the dying embers across the ground, but does nothing to cleanse the scent.
Jun doesn't move, even when Sorano crouches beside her. With a gentle finger under her chin, the rogue shinobi tilts the small woman's head up, and she doesn't resist. Tears track through the mud and blood smeared across her face, lips trembling and eyes unfocussed.
He only suffered as much as any shinobi should expect. Only as much as he had inflicted on others. She can't keep the sneer from her lips, but she hums softly, low under hear breath and almost lost in the rain. A gentle lullaby to sooth these last few moments for her opponent, who surely would not have afforded her the same kindness.
In one clean motion, the fugitive's kunai slices across Jun's throat.
The trembling stills.
Sorano sits at the base of her tree, closing her eyes and turning her face up to catch the rain as she hears the last few gargling breaths fade.
She takes a breath, letting her muscles go slack.
She is free.
❈❈❈
Sorano spends the next five days strung as taught as a bowstring, the arrow knocked and ready but despite the ache coiling in muscles, unable to loose.
By day, she moves fretfully through the forests in the land of rivers, unable to stay still in case Suna-nin come looking for the former Squad 17, too afraid to go beyond the lands boarders in case the might of Konoha, or an ambitious bounty hunter, should find her. How long until bingo books would include her face?
She is restless, feverish, and every snapped twig or rustle of leaves sends her into the canopy, gaze snapping over her shoulder as she expects sharp steel, or cruel chakra, and certainly death. And yet, if Suna has sent a hunter, they have yet to strike.
At night, she steals sleep in two or three hour shifts, bound into the highest branches to keep her safe from detection and from falling, but feeling like a trapped bird. The knots bite her skin, and bark digs into her spine, but sleep does find her.
Though, as the first few weeks pass, she realises the imminent attack isn't coming, a new fear creeps insidiously into her mind. If there truly isn't a soul around, why can she feel the thrum of a conscious mind?
Why can she not locate its source amongst the trees?
If she is being watched, why can she not find the culprit?
She hopes it is simply paranoia, and lack of sleep. The Omowabashigan has been known to lie to it's users, even though she has been lucky so far.
In spite of the tingle at the edge of her mental periphery, as time goes on with no attack, and no sign of another person, she begins to relax. She is practiced at silencing the buzz, so even though this time she is sure it's her mind playing tricks, a tightly squeezed thumb, or a quick, sharp slice across her palm does the trick.
She knows she will be a target, but she must be one who the village deems safe enough to wait for. They will take her when she shows her face, rather than scour the forests in search of her. Well, even if it stings to be underestimated - to have her prowess that they used time and time again ignored - being left to her own devices suits her just fine.
❈❈❈
Weeks turn to months.
She finds a rhythm, a routine, that belongs to her. She finds a life.
❈❈❈
Sorano's arms quiver as she oh-so-slowly lowers her body back to the ground in what felt like her thousandth push up of the morning. The grass in the clearing she has appointed as her personal gym is still damp with dew - even though she craves the summer heat but at least has the good sense to complete her daily workout before the sun creeps over the treetops. A tall blade tickles her nose and her core aches deliciously as she fights a sneeze.
With the last of her energy, she springs back to standing and reaches tall towards the sun, spine clicking as vertebrae decompress and muscle fibres throbbing as the stretch long. This is been how she begins every day, now. On her own time. Crunches until her core aches. Kicks until the trees break.
She can't remember the last time her body has felt as sharp as her mind, under her total control and thrumming with sensation. Perhaps she never has felt like this, even as she took control of the lives of others. The staggering soreness of her muscles grounds her in the here and now and finally she can notice the feeling of her breath. The blue of the sky. The glowing warmth of the sun kissing her skin.
By midday, Sorano is walking to the edge of the forest where she has made her tentative makeshift home. She savours the ache of muscles unwinding their knots as she heads towards the nearby civilian village for market day. The heat prickles at salt lingering on her skin and she pushes threadbare sleeves up over her shoulders to catch the sun. The distant scent of rain is carried on a light breeze, promising change on the horizon and the corners of her lips curl. The world outside of Suna has such beautiful variety.
She knows the way without thinking, now. The dirt-packed pathways are warm beneath her feet, heat soaking through the soles of her black sandals as she follows the scent of wood smoke and bubbling broth from the villagers homes, the distant murmur of midday bartering and further off, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer.
The mental energy here is light, and as her familiarity has grown she almost welcomes it: the villagers are too few, and their lives too peaceful, to cause the kind of itch she felt in Suna. She has been here enough now to recognise a few faces, not by name, but by their routines, and they seem to know hers, in turn.
She is an outsider, but an outsider who returns.
When she first visited, stony faced and squeezing her fists so tight her bones clicked, they eyed her warily. Too much muscle, and too much grace in her movements, and she had felt their wordless thoughts like an animal curiosity. Now, they mostly leave her be, occasionally making small talk as she purchases supplies with funds they never ask the source of.
At the meagre market she scans the familiar stalls built of bamboo-leaf baskets and faded awnings in the front of more permeant shops. Her fingers hover over dried fruit, salted fish, and bundles of herbs with twine. The shopkeeper, a round woman with a kind face weathered as much by the sun as by her many years, squints at Sorano through the bright light.
"You're late today." The woman remarks, the mirth in her voice making her younger by a decade.
Sorano quirks a brow, pausing in her inspection of the goods available, "I didn't realise I was on a schedule."
The woman huffs a small laugh, "You're not the only observant one here. You're a creature of habit, always here before the noon bell for market."
Had Soano been lax? She doesn't think so, but it wouldn't do to let her guard down, even around civilians. "Maybe I wanted to keep you on her toes."
The shopkeepers eyes crinkle and she juts her elbow in the direction of the back of the building, where large wooden crates are stacked tall in the grass. "I'll take 50 ryō off today if you help me carry these inside."
Sorano hesitates, biting her lip, but only for a moment. There's no threat in the woman, simply someone wanting to make use of her strength. She lifts the first two crates with ease, following the woman as she bustles inside and instructs her to set them by the shelves in a a small storage room behind the counter. It smells of dried herbs inside, comforting like the scent of her mothers hair had been...
Once all the crates are inside the shopkeeper nods and sticks her hand out, "Fumi. Thanks for the help."
Sorano grasps Fumi's hand in her own, "Sorano. Any time."
"Don't be late again, Sorano!"
She nods over her shoulder as she exits the small wooden building, and shuts the door behind her.
❈❈❈
The air crackles with potential. Sorano can feel pent up electricity raising her long hair and tickling over her arms, roiling clouds overhead matching a pent up energy within her. The scent of rain, so delicate this morning, now fills her nostrils. The first drop lands on her shoulder, cold against her sun-glossed skin.
Then another.
Then a dozen, fat and heavy and dotting on the earth in quickening bursts which quickly fill the canvas in a rich dark brown of freshly wet mud. The first jagged crack of lightning splits the sky in light and the afterimage lingers in her vision until a rumble rolls across the sky and through her bones. her pulse thrums in response.
Her boots leave the mud, finding the bark of a tree. Hand over hand, she scales the tallest tree she can find, moving with a practices ease and savouring every pang in her sore muscles that keep her tied to her body. Rain thrashes her skin and soaks through her clothes. It won't be easy to dry them tonight in her small tent, but she welcomes it nonetheless.
The wind howls through the canopy as she pulls herself onto the highest branch which she is sure will hold her weight. She can see the world stretching out beneath her, the tops of trees a mirror to the heavy clouds overhead.
Lightning strikes again, closer this time and illuminating the world in an eerie, flickering white.
The storm-chaser turns her head to the sky and closes her eyes.
Breathes in the crackling storm.
The static hum of the rain overtakes the hum in the back of her mind.
No thoughts of her own. No thoughts of anyone else. No one waiting for her to obey.
Only the roar of thunder rattling her ribs. Fresh, ion-heavy air. A rush of wind that lifts her damp hair. She is weightless.
❈❈❈
She finds shelter as the lightning eases, slipping into the small tent she's made into a semi-permanent home. It's nothing like her apartment in Suna: instead of thick oppressive walls that trap and surround her, and do nothing to drown out the static of the village throng, there is only thin canvas separating her from freedom, and it amplifies the sound of the rain dancing above.
Stripping from her sodden clothes, she bundles herself into a blanket and begins to chew on the last of the jerky she dried last week. The fresh vegetables from today will have to wait - there would be no fire to cook in this weather.
As the rain lessens, she feels it again - that distant hum, pressing at the edge of her mind. A consciousness lingering beyond the trees and whispering against her senses in a language she can't understand.
It is unlike any mind she's felt before, its presence vast, unfathomable. Alien...
It is other.
Yet, she has never seen this watcher. There has been no evidence of anyone else moving through the trees. Surely then, it is simply her mind playing tricks on her... Has she used her Omowabashigan too much? Given it too much control? In those first weeks it had seemed the only way to ensure Suna's retribution didn't find her. But it's been months now, months of telling herself she is just keeping her mind sharp. The line is too thin, too easy to cross. What if she already has?
For a moment, the sound of the rain warps, stretching and folding in on itself as an echo bouncing in her mind. Her breath hitches. She's gone too deep. Not real. This isn't real.
She presses her finger tips deep into her thigh, rhythmically plucking at a knot in the muscle like the string of a guitar until an electric buzzing pain snaps through her nerves, bringing her back into her body. The world rights itself, and the spiralling calms. A reminder that she is real, she is here, and she is alone.
But that strange hum lingers, a little further, a little softer.
Not gone. Just... waiting.