Land of Water

[STORY]

Saihō stood with one hand looped lazily on her hip, the other coiled with Nuibari’s thread, as she watched the guards haul the unconscious blonde away like a sack of silk someone had tried—and failed—to pass off as high-quality. Her gaze followed them just long enough to catch the faintest twitch of movement from Yuihime’s fingers, before she turned away, disinterested. “Flimsy fabric,” she muttered, flicking her wrist to draw Nuibari’s thread taut again before biting it clean off with a neat snap between her teeth. She spat the frayed end onto the floor near the cracked marble and shook her head.

Known for her quip remarks and euphemisms, Saihō instead on a rare occasion held back her tongue and chose to slid her gaze towards Saburō as he spoke. She tilted her head faintly, as if weighing the gesture of his pat on Aōi’s shoulder. An attempt at comfort, maybe. Or just a calculated pressure check. Hard to say with the icy ones. Their compassion was always kept in cold storage. Still, her gaze shifted next to Aōi, lingering this time. He was composed—outwardly. But she’d walked beside him long enough, stitched through enough missions with him, to see where the seams strained. His breath had been shallow earlier, his eyes unfocused for a blink too long. And now he stood like a man pretending the stitch hadn’t popped. “Snowflake,” she said, nudging him lightly with the back of her knuckles. “You need to mend that expression. You’re starting to wrinkle.”

She didn’t wait for a retort.

With a flick of her wrist, she slid Nuibari back into its sling on her back, the oversized needle settling into place like it belonged there—which it did, as naturally as her hand belonged to a bolt of cloth. She began to pace slowly through the lobby, her steps echoing in sharp rhythm, each one falling with precision as if she were measuring out a runway line no one else could see.

“Somebody oughta tell the receptionist to stop yelling like that. Shoddy acoustics in this place—echoes throughout the foyer and out onto the street. You'd think this tower would have better sound proofing."

She paused by a decorative display vase that had fallen in the chaos, 'Probably some overpriced Kirigakure ceramic monstrosity' she thought to herself before righting it with one hand. She then turned her sight at the entrance door, "We oughta stich up that PR disaster out front", she added, before noticing Nozomi and other Shinobi re-assuring the crowd, with people leaving while the more curious stayed; more noticeably the reporters. "Though, Kid's doing a fine job." Turning back to the group, she began walking again—but not away. No, her steps curved toward the inner hallways towards the lifts, the furthest one on the right which only responded to certain key cards. They're passed down by the Mizukage to the Seven Swordsman, and those that work in the Tower who have authority to schedule her appointments and organise her calendar, such as the receptionist.

Beep.

With the sleight of her hand over the pad, it registered hers. The meeting with the Mizukage, after all, still loomed.

"Coming, boys?" Her hand raised to keep the elevator doors from shutting, extending an invite for the two to join her on the 91st Floor. The Mizukage's Office.

​

 

[Typist]

Noriko Norikawa sat perfectly still on the tatami mat, her kiseru pipe resting across her palms as though it were a sacred relic. The dawn light slanted pale through the paper shoji screens, illuminating the faint trails of smoke still curling from the altar in the corner. Seiji’s name was etched into the small wooden plaque there, each character darkened by years of her mother’s thumb brushing over it.

It felt sometimes as if her brother’s spirit hovered in every room—a silent reminder that she was the child who survived but would never be enough.

Her mother’s voice slipped into the hush of the room, quiet and flat as a blade sliding from its sheath.

“The time has come.”

Inori folded her hands in her lap, her black sleeves pooling around her wrists. “You have no more excuses to hide here. I have trained you beyond what most genin ever endure. You will report to the Mizukage’s office at noon. Your squad assignment awaits.”

Noriko’s mouth went dry. Her gaze dropped to the Mist emblem tied around her waist, the stylized waves engraved in polished steel. Her mother’s lip curled at the sight of it, the same way it always did, like she had bitten into something rotten.

“I understand,” Noriko whispered.

“You had better,” Inori murmured. “You are not gifted, Noriko. You are adequate only because I have made you so.”

The words landed in the hollow place inside her, the place that never filled no matter how many hours she drilled sword forms or practiced channeling her chakra through the kiseru until her lungs ached. Swordsmanship had never come naturally. She could not remember the first time she picked up a blade, but she remembered every time she dropped it. The sweat stinging her eyes, the burn in her shoulders, the cold disappointment in her mother’s face.

Her wakizashi, at least, felt slightly less unwieldy than the katana her mother had first demanded she train with. The shorter blade had been a concession—a small one—that let her keep the kiseru steady in her off hand when she fought. Even so, wielding it had never felt easy. Each movement was the product of countless drills, hours and hours of repetition, and the shame of never finding the grace other students seemed to have without trying.

Some days she wondered if she would ever wield it with anything approaching confidence. She longed for the ease she saw in her peers—their fluid movements, their ready laughter.

But for her, the sword was always an effort. A performance.

Inori rose, smooth and soundless. “Make yourself presentable,” she said. “Today, you will meet your teammates. You will not disgrace this family.”

Her mother left her alone in the quiet.

Noriko’s shoulders trembled. She let out a thin, shaking breath and turned her head to look again at the altar. There was no father’s name beside Seiji’s, no memory she could cling to for warmth. Just Seiji, whose face she could barely recall, and the old stories of how brave he’d been before the war’s end.

Her mother never spoke of her father. Never spoke of what they had fled when they left the minor nations as refugees. Never spoke of why she despised shinobi—and yet demanded Noriko become one.

Was it penance? Was it fear?

Noriko pressed her lips together and stepped into her narrow room. It smelled of lavender and sandalwood, the fragrances her mother crafted in the shop below. Ceramic jars lined the shelves—powdered blossoms, crushed herbs, beeswax. They were easier to understand than people. Easier to control.

It was people she had never learned how to manage. Other children had come and gone outside the shop’s windows. She had watched them chase each other through the alleys and felt a terrible yearning, an ache she could not name. She wanted friends—had always wanted them—but her mother had never allowed it. Friends were distractions. Attachments. Weakness.

And so she’d grown up alone in the quiet perfumed rooms, her mother’s expectations pressing down on her like a weight she could not shrug off.

She changed into her uniform. Smoothed the folds of her tunic, adjusted the black mesh on her legs. Slid her wakizashi into its lacquered sheath. Its shorter weight was familiar by now—less punishing on her thin arms, easier to draw while keeping her kiseru balanced in her left hand. Still, it never felt natural.

Noriko paused with her hand on the doorframe, her heart hammering against her ribs. She did not know how to be perfect. She did not know how to belong. She did not even know why her mother demanded so much when she so clearly resented every scrap of shinobi life.

She stepped out into the morning fog.

The shopkeepers were just beginning to set out their wares—crates of dried fish, baskets of kelp, strings of bright glass floats. She walked down to the river’s edge, where the canals opened to broader water.​

Noriko crouched and picked up a flat stone. Rolled it between her fingers, feeling the smooth chill against her skin.

Her wakizashi pressed at her hip, an ever-present reminder that today was supposed to be the start of something. That she was meant to walk to the Mizukage’s office, introduce herself to her team, pretend she knew how to be a real kunoichi.

But her throat was tight. What if she failed? What if they saw straight through her—saw how clumsy she was, how her skills came not from talent but from sheer repetition? Would they shun her as her mother did, never saying outright that she was a disappointment but always, always making her feel it?

Noriko drew her arm back and skipped the stone across the river. One, two, three skips—then it vanished beneath the surface.

She picked up another stone. And another. The Mizukage’s office could wait a little longer.

If she stayed here, maybe everything would somehow work out. Maybe if she just kept skipping rocks, she could hold off the moment when she would have to face her imperfections in front of everyone.

For hours, she stayed there at the water’s edge, her heart beating ragged as she threw stone after stone, the mist curling around her ankles like it was something alive.

​

 

[Aōi]

The unusual kind gesture from his regularly cold cousin was a welcome change. He turned back towards him with a soft smile that was familiar to him. His presence was unexpected but he was a sight for sore eyes, as the two hadn’t been around each other much lately due to their opposing schedules as Aōi has taken on more roles within his capacity as an elite-ninja, while Saburō has become more entrenched within his family’s estate, having since left the Hunter Corp behind a while back.
​

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” he responded.​

He paused for a moment, taking note of the crowd clearing out from the finished excitement, he looked around for Nozomi who hadn’t come in with the two older shinobi. He soon managed to place him at the entrance of the building, holding his scarf over his mouth like usual, keeping the peace within the vicinity of the area as the people resumed their regular behaviours. “Good job kid.”

Saihō collected her effects and removed her blade from the wall, then expertly sheathed the needle-sword behind her as he looked on towards the ‘cold ones’ as some villagers called the two cousins. Studying Saburō’ gesture and Aōi’ overtly controlled demeanor, she knew all too well that like a fly on an unstable zipper, it had come undone. She commented about needing to iron out his wrinkles, a sentiment that hasn’t escaped him for the entirety of the day, alongside his need for new attire. She offered no space for a retort, but he ignored hers entirely, opting to keep his wits about him further and place the incident far out of his mind. Much like the usual.
​

“What brings you to the mainland?” he asked his cousin. Smiling, he followed up with, “Any chance you can loan me some cash?” he said sarcastically.​

He playfully patted his cousin on the shoulder, but his attention was taken by the seamstress who had reaffirmed Nozomi’s well adjusted approach to the situation. While he couldn’t take complete credit for his mild-mannered behaviour, in this instance, he would take a little pride in his prize pupil’s discipline and disposition. Saihō then sauntered down the hallway to acquire access to the elevator to take them up the tower. Hollering out to the pair, she was ready to go up to see Kirasui, the princess of Kirigakure. He looked to his relative and nodded towards the hallway for him to follow, stepping past him and quickly closing the gap with long strides. He gave Nozomi one final glance, almost telepathically telling him to stay here until he gets back.

He walked past Saihō into the elevator and leaned against the corner on the left hand side, resting his palm on the rail, and crossing his legs comfortably for the ride. Having taken it before, he knew it’d be a short trip up despite the many levels there were within the building. He wondered how the princess was doing, and also fretted if his hair were out of place.


​

 

[Kami]

---

Sarcasm, a method of speech that’s used to convey irony, something that Saburō was continuing to improve upon. Aōi was aware of this but others were not and because they weren’t, it slid Saburō into a tactical advantage. And Saburō, as someone who is primarily concerned with efficiency, would not let such an opportunity pass. Aōi patted Saburō on his shoulder all while his attention was taken by the seamstress, but his attention would be reverted back onto Saburō one way or another after he had noticed Nozomi’s behavior. It was almost pin drop silent when Saburō responded, “More money…” he said out loud with a raised eyebrow, his eyes analyzing Aōi and conveyed an actual sense of confusion. “Didn’t I just fund your entire estate?”

Was this true? No. Not in the slightest. In fact, Aōi would have been nearly as wealthy as Saburō had he given the efforts at Dotō Island some attention. After all, it was a multi-generational conglomerate that was run by their parents. Many knew that, but they did not know the true depths of their wealth which was why what Saburō had said would muster some muffled snickers all throughout the hallway. Saburō smiled slyly at Aōi as the crowd around them continued to clean up. Beep! The sound of Saihō swiping her credentials allowed for the door to be open. Had Aōi reverted his gaze back onto Saburō, he’d merely smile as he walked past him towards Saihō with a double pat on his shoulder.

Saburō walked past Saihō into the elevator and leaned against the wall towards the back of the elevator, crossing his arms across his chest as he patiently waited to reach their floor.​

---

 

[KaioriSama]

“zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”

BEEP BEEP

“zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”

BEEP BEEP

“zzzzzzzz.. Zzzzz.. huh?”

BEEP BEEP

“OH MAN!”

With an unprecedented speed, Raito springs from his bed and sprawls on the floor from his extended slumber, simultaneously tapping his alarm clock as he descends. Missing the correct button to turn off the device, it tumbles and rings louder into his exhausted face.

“UGHHHHHHHHHH”


Despite the clumsy and disastrous nature of this morning, it does not reflect the young shinobi gathering himself together as we speak. Raito Namija, one of the few Namija Clansmen who bear the name and title of shinobi, comes from a clan of known fishermen and is coincidentally also the son of well known politicians within his clan. His path to this occupation was undoubtedly challenging, mirroring the nature of his morning today. Nevertheless, he perseveres with affirmations and goals to become a strong and respectable shinobi in the future. As the young Namija finally regains his composure both physically and mentally, he gradually becomes more coherent and cautious of his surroundings. His thoughts running rampant on his surroundings


The house is empty, indicating that my parents have left. It is likely that this was some time ago. No surprise visit from Mizuki…
That means everyone is occupied today apparently.


While absorbing the information slightly bothered him, he understood that now was the day to occupy himself. Without any endeavors in mind, no one in his home, and a plate devoid of activity, Raito decided to muster the courage to visit the Mizukage’s office and request a mission. the young Genin of today, who dedicated themselves to their craft alone or with their leaders, constantly harped that there was never any time for action among shinobi of their rank. In his mind, today would be the day that changed, even if it was only temporary. Something had to be done.


Upon fully donning his complete shinobi attire, Raito exited his residence and proceeded through Kirigakure. Residing and growing up within the village throughout his life, there was no necessity for sightseeing or detours. He was fully aware of his destination and made his way directly to the Mizukage’s office, ostensibly to ascertain the temperature. As he drew nearer, his gaze was met with an intriguing figure standing quietly beside the entrance of the Mizukage’s building. It was none other than his actual teammate, Nozomi Kori. A fellow genin whom Raito barely knew personally, as their team had not yet been established for an extended period. However, he was sufficiently acquainted to recognize that Nozomi’s abilities as a shinobi were comparable to, if not superior, to Raito’s own. With this in mind, Nozomi had already received the nod of respect from the young Namija. Although this did not entirely dispel the uncertainty he harbored towards the boy, Raito, as he approached the entrance, halting his full run into a slight trot. He raised his hand, waving to Nozomi to initiate a greeting and prepare for an interrogation regarding his current position.

“… Yoo, Nozomi. How are you? Why are you here at this moment?


​

 

[STORY]

The elevator chimed softly and opened to the top corridor, where the scent of polished stone met the faint brine of sea air. Saihō stepped out first, her pace unhurried yet deliberate, just enough to force the boys behind her to keep up or risk being left behind. Her dainty hand tugged a thread at her sleeve back into place as she moved. Without looking back, she spoke with her usual blend of ease and edge, “Alright, gentlemen. We’ve got a meeting with royalty, so try not to track any emotional baggage onto the carpet.” Nuibari hung at her back, its larger than life needle form swaying with each stride, its presence as casual as if it were a handbag and not a relic of war. She didn’t bother to rehash what had just occurred below, not yet anyway. That would be for the Mizukage. “The Princess needs to be looped in about the lobby mess. Mystery woman picks a fight with one of the coldest nobles in the village, leaves the place looking like a tantrum mid-stitch? Definitely something to tack to the board.”

They approached the polished double doors adorned with the Land of Water kanji. Saihō didn’t hesitate. Three crisp knocks was all it took. No posturing, just presence. A familiar voice called from within, sweet as ever: “Come in~!” She pushed the door open and entered first. Saihō pushed the door open and stepped inside first, greeted by a warm waft of floral perfume and the faint scent of lacquered wood. The office was immaculate, naturally. Sunlight spilled through the arched windows behind the Mizukage’s desk, casting soft glows across her arranged calligraphy scrolls, open documents, and delicate ceramic teacups. Kirasui stood behind her desk, radiant and composed, the picture of the poised, camera-ready Mizukage. Her eyeliner was as precise as any blade, her smile bright enough to sell sea salt to shinobi. “Look who the tide dragged in!” she sang, rising just slightly from her seat. “The Princess of Thread, the Coldest Cousins, and Kirigakure’s quietest prodigy, all in one package. What’s going on?”

Saihō had just begun stepping forward, one heel turning as if preparing for a dramatic flourish, ready to deliver her usual brand of clipped sarcasm and sharp updates with flair. But before she could utter a word, the room was split by a sharp electronic buzz. Her eyes shifted to the sound instinctively. The Mizukage's mobile on the corner of her desk pulsed with a rare urgency, the screen already flashing. Kirasui’s smile faded with precision. She turned to her mobile and hovered over its screen, her face darkening as she read the ID. This mobile was second to her personal one, only shared between the Kage's as a measure for quick communication—rarely used now; if ever—since the last Shinobi World War.

INCOMING: SUNAGAKURE — KAZEKAGE

Everything in the room paused. Saihō’s arms lowered to her sides, the casual air around her dissolving as her senses sharpened. There was no smirk now, only a stillness that signaled she felt the same thing everyone else did. This wasn’t routine. This was a seam coming undone. Kirasui answered the call. A quizzical expression painted across her features, twirling her finger through the strands of her hair partially framing her face.

 

[Aōi]

Though the trip up towards the Ninety-First floor sounded like a voyage that would take several minutes, the modern updates towards the Kage Tower have aided in such trips gracefully, allowing almost anyone unfettered access to the upper floors within the office building. It was almost as though the boys blinked and they were right at the door for the Princess of Kirigakure, the one and only Mizukage, Kirasui. The seamstress stepped out first, poised as ever. Behind her, the Icicle Cousins moved in tandem, their pace and presence like two halves of one cold breath. Saihō sauntered confidently towards the only door located on the ninety-first floor, and offered some words of advice before allowing her presence to be made aware beyond the door.
​

“Alright, gentlemen. We’ve got a meeting with royalty, so try not to track any emotional baggage onto the carpet. The Princess needs to be looped in about the lobby mess. Mystery woman picks a fight with one of the coldest nobles in the village, leaves the place looking like a tantrum mid-stitch? Definitely something to tack to the board.”​

Aōi responded with a light laugh, hand resting at the back of his neck. The joke about his “personal feelings” wasn’t lost on him. Still, he knew better than to bring his emotional residue into this room. He’d built a reputation as the Mizukage’s go-to shinobi—not by being careless with his presence.
​

“You don't need to remind me…or else she will.” he replied to the Princess of the Threads. ​

As all the elite ninja approached the immaculate double doors, decorated in traditional Land of Water motifs, the seamstress rapped her knuckles three times against the door, not forcefully but enough to evoke attention. From within came a voice like silk across fresh ice. Aōi’s shoulders visibly eased. The melody of her words melted tension from his spine, her cadence so familiar that his eyes fluttered at the sound. Saihō, unfazed, opened the doors with a casual push and strode inside.

The room was immaculate, bathed in soft sunlight and kissed with a new fragrance. Aōi noticed it immediately.

The group was greeted by a soothing smell, clearly the princess had taken a liking to a new scent and was currently experimenting with it. “She’s trying something new… Did she visit the Norikawa Clan for this scent? Would she like one that I would buy for her?...Maybe I’ll ask next time. Privately.” He let the thought pass—but didn’t let it go. He would be sure to test the water later at an appropriate date. With much* less people around.

The office was clean and full of sunlight which also temporarily beamed into the halls momentarily before all three ninja had finally arrived. The Mizukage stood just behind her desk, looking out towards the street and the rest of the city and looked as ravishing as ever. Her face was always well-beat with makeup but never overly flattering but just enough to accentuate her clear beauty. When she turned, their eyes met. Aōi, strong enough to stare down rogue ninja, and wear the blood of his enemies on his ledger, immediately looked away—redirecting his gaze just past her, to the window.

A trick. One he’d perfected.

If she ever saw too much in his eyes, he feared she’d know everything. Instead, he stared off to the window just beyond her so as still able to focus on her without looking the fool.
​

“Look who the tide dragged in! The Princess of Thread and the Coldest Cousins, all in one package. What’s going on?”​

​

“Marry me.” ​

A quiet thought allowed to slip out at near full volume, but would be contained by the meekness of it leaving his mouth. He soon clasped his hand over his orifice, his eyes shot open wide and before anyone had a chance to comment or catch the slip he quickly corrected himself.
​

“—Mission brief,” he blurted suddenly, trying to recover. “We’re here to… uh, debrief. Some shit went down, downstairs, m’lady.” He trailed off as he comically corrected himself.​

He could only hope that his minor flub of the words wasn’t caught on by those present as he casually tried to be casual hoping the conversation would flow as normal. Thankfully, it would appear, he was saved by the electronic bell, as the Kage line rang just before anyone could pick up on Aōi's verbal misstep. He did however watch the relaxed smirk on the Mizukage's face slowly leave the room as her hand hovered over the caller ID. The room felt frozen in time, as she lifted her arm to answer the phone. Regardless of the outcome of the phonecall, Kirigakure's top shinobi would be ready to mobilize in whatever way his Kage saw fit, as he slowly shifted into being mission ready.


​

 

[Kami]

---

For the greater part of their journey to the Mizukage’s office, Saburō had blanked. The entire time as they maneuvered through the hallways he was on auto-pilot. HIs cadence matching Aōi as they walked behind the Seamstress. Truth be told, he wouldn’t be able to tell ya what they spoke of—or whether if they had spoken of anything at all. Fortunately for him, one wouldn’t be able to tell by visual inspection. It wasn’t until the Seamstress knocked her knuckles three times against the double doors that brought him back into the present. There was a bit of silence before the Mizukage’s voice pierced through the silence. In that moment, from the corner of his eyes, he noticed something peculiar about his cousin. His shoulders visibly eased and out came a smile painted across his face. “Oh here we go again..” Saburō thought to himself as he rolled his eyes before following Saihō in.

They walked in through the standard double doors. The room was—normal. Clean, as it should be given that this was the leader. One would not be able to host highly classified debriefs or have sit downs with other leaders in a pile of dust, could they? For once, there was a decent amount of sunlight flourishing through the windows. Everything seemed quite ordinary until he caught him again. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed the way Aōi’s eyes glistened under the sunlight as he stared at the Mizukage—mouth open, salivating even. While this was not reality, this was what Saburō was seeing as he finally began to turn his head. His eyebrows furrowed and he raised his finger to point at him to call him out. Then suddenly, he heard the Mizukage shuffling and immediately before she completed her turn the man reverted to his original posture.

The Princess spoke what had brought them here and before any of the logical ones could answer, the one thinking with his lower extremities responded “Marry Me.” Saburō’s jaw would’ve dropped had it not been the phone ringing. A lot changed in that moment. The smirk of the Mizukage’s face left the room and in came a coldness that would make everyone momentarily uncomfortable outside of him. While her hand hovered over the phone, anticipation set in for all of them.​

---

 

[Dio]

The murmur of the crowd had nearly faded when Nozomi heard familiar footsteps. He didn’t look right away, already pre-occupied as a sort of guard keeping his eyes on everyone to ensure people were safely leaving. He had been here long enough for the tension to cool, for the last few onlookers to peel away into alleyways and streets, but something in the pace of those steps pulled at him. And then came the voice, casual and clear despite the hour:
​

“Yoo, Nozomi. How are you? Why are you here at this moment?”​

He turned, not abruptly, but with a paced shift, his gaze catching the movement just as Raito came into view. It had been weeks since he’d seen his teammate in person; long enough that he started to miss him! And here he was. Hair still wild, posture tight with purpose, voice the same blend of blunt and open. Nozomi raised a hand in greeting, the gesture firm, unspectacular, but softened by the briefest crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “…Hey,” he murmured, voice barely rising through the cloth across his mouth, but undeniably pleased.

He shifted slightly to the side, making room without making a show of it. “Awkward time to show up,” he said, glancing toward the tall doors of the Tower, where tension still lingered like smoke. “Something’s going on inside. Aōi-sensei’s handling it—with Saihō.” That name alone cast long shadows. Raito would understand. Nozomi didn’t elaborate.

His gaze flicked back to his teammate, studying him quietly. Raito looked stronger than he remembered - more honed at the edges, more sure of his weight in the world. It was strange, seeing someone so familiar and yet altered in all the subtle ways time works on people. “You know,” Nozomi said after a pause, voice dry but not without warmth, “you could’ve at least answered one of my messages.” A faint glint of amusement flickered in his eyes, subtly jabbing at his team-mate.

Then he nodded slightly toward the Tower again, letting his tone shift just enough to carry a hint of irony. “Now that you're here... makes me wonder where he is.” The scarf at his face shifted with a quiet exhale, the words more thought than inquiry, drifting out without the need for reply. Nozomi also refrained to ask any direct questions yet; about Raito's family, about Mizuki, and how he had spent his days away. There would be time. For now, Nozomi stood quietly beside him, the space between them warm in its simplicity. The reunion with a teammate felt like fitting a piece back into place. But one piece still remained missing. Would he come too? Would their portrait finally be whole?