Campy old educational songs.
Just heard them and they're GOOFY fun.
''We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat
them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.''

-- James Nicoll

Mekadave:
Should you read this, I *may* have to recruit Ridan Zero's help for a run against Lord Recluse himself. I've tried my usual 'carry lots of purples and blues' strategy, but even in Elite Boss form he's rocking my socks.
If not, I'm going to do the rest of my missions, hopefully achieve a level or two, come back and ROCK HIS ASS. But that's a second, less preferred option, albeit more gratifying.

Foxboy:
You were right about the Story Arcs, albeit inaccurate. Each Patron has 4 story arcs - 3 specific to the contact, and the shared fourth. The last of which, as you can see above, I'm stuck on.

JPub/Paradoxe
--
Christopher Angel, aka JPublic
The Works of Christopher Angel
"Camaraderie, adventure, and steel on steel. The stuff of legend! Right, Boo?"

(I love writing Lethal. While there is a lot of Thibor in her make-up, she is excitable and puppyish in a way her father is not, and far more random. Thibor always has a plan, Lethal always makes it up as she goes along.)

Despite what you think, danger isnt my middle name. Papa says Im not allowed to change it until I turn 18.
Liesel Lethal Sawchyk
The rising sun peeked over the war walls, its soft yellow rays dancing off the gigantic globe that Atlas bore aloft on his broad shoulders. It lit the neat and orderly streets of Atlas Park, creeping along the darkened boulevards. Then it hit the windows of the third story of a five story walkup; lifting the darkness with the golden light. The light streamed through the window and onto the face of the teenager who slept, curled up nose to feet, in the center of a queen sized futon. This is when the bad things started happening. Mostly to other people. Had these people known, a dozen interior designers would have been dispatched, to shroud the window in question in blinds, drapes, and perhaps heavy ironwork with enough space to allow the egress of a mouse, but not much else.
But they didnt know. Their morning horoscopes spoke only of potential business windfalls, romantic complications and the shadow of Jupiter rising in the house of Mars. Not one mentioned Liesel rising in the rented apartment of Sawchyk. Well perhaps they did, but rather than being published in the morning papers, the prognostications were bantered around the morning cup of tea leaves in Magi headquarters and caused no small amount of giggling on the part of the seers.
Liesel awoke as the errant sunbeam crossed her face. She uncurled from her decidedly canine position, going through a series of languid stretches that would have had the average person screaming for a swift and slightly less painful death at the hands of an unmerciful god of an unrelated, and likely hostile faith. Thus refreshed, she ran her hands through the long, silky blonde hair that fell well past her waist. She grabbed a handful and brought it in front of her face, sniffing at it tentatively; her eyes did not quite cross or water at the smell, but it definitely triggered a strong, negative reaction. A similar investigation of her armpits merited the same response.
Breakfast! Shower! Danger! Liesel announced her intentions to the room. She ran for the door to her small apartment, stopping short of turning the knob before amending her list. Clothes! Breakfast! Shower! Danger!
The various piles of clothes scattered haphazardly around the apartment yielded a faded halter, comfortable, well worn sweats and a pair of battered flip flops. Thus attired, Liesel made another leap for the door and charged down the three flights of stairs, making only slightly less noise that an empty, metal trash can traversing the same route. She burst through the front door of the apartment building and sprinted across the street, oblivious to the possible presence of traffic and pushed through the door of the small Greek caf. Behind the counter Andrea Pappadimos was industriously scraping the grill, his huge, hairy arms moving back and forth with metronome precision.
You wan breakfast? Andrea rasped, the toothpick tucked into his mouth making the long journey from one side to the other.
No breakfast. Cheeseburger! Liesel hopped over the counter to the fridge and retrieved a double-handful of drinks; three bottles of orange juice, a two liter bottle of water and a six pack of Red-Bull. Andrea made an inarticulate grunting sound and began flipping burger patties onto the grill; only stopping when a half dozen were spitting and sizzling. He hefted his considerable bulk over to the fryer and dumped a huge portion of frozen French fries into the hot oil. Liesel smiled intently, not quite drooling, her left leg tapped the floor excitedly. Papa was not a fan of most American food, but Liesel had embraced it wholeheartedly and in huge quantities. It was necessary; the sheer level of her energy, combined with her ability to regenerate damaged tissue and her willingness to put herself in the path of that damage; required a phenomenal intake of calories. Papa and Mama were the same way, though their habits had matured slightly and were not subject to the added burden of teenagers hopped up metabolism. Andrea dealt a line of buns across an oversize platter, topping each with a rare, grease-beaded burger patty, a slice of cheese, and a generous dollop of tsatiki. The bun tops were slapped on and the platter slid to within arms reach of Liesel who had reclaimed her seat on the other side of the counter. She immediately fell upon it with furious energy, interspersing dangerously large bites of cheeseburger with huge swallows from the variety of drinks spread out in front of her. Andrea sighed as he dumped the fries into a basket and upended most of a bottle of ketchup over them. He approached slowly, carefully.
Grrrr. The growl started in the back of Liesels throat and her arms moved reflexively to cover all possible avenues of approach to her plate of food. She shook her head slightly and offered up a slightly guilty smile. Sorry, old habit.
Andrea placed the basket of fries on the counter and gave it a push to send it the rest of the way. His regular morning patron always paid her account promptly, tipped generously and had not yet bitten him hard enough to draw blood. There were other benefits to. It was rapidly becoming known that she favored the caf and that alone was enough to keep most of the riff-raff a healthy distance away. The initial encounter had been within the first week of her arrival. The small, blonde girl with the British accent had been enjoying supper when a group of Hellions had dropped by for their protection money. Being ear deep in a triple-sized gyros platter with extra everything, she hadnt even noticed; or at least had pretended not to notice. Then one of them made a mistake. The sort of mistake that starts wars, end lives and nominates you for a Nobel Prize in incredibly poor judgment. He had cadged a French fry. It had not been the most efficient beating that Andrea had ever witnessed, Paragon being rather cosmopolitan in that regard, but what it lacked in subtly of technique, it made up for in pure feral intensity as the small blonde had latched onto the back of the Hellions neck and proceeded to knock all his teeth out on the edge of the counter. A process that took three individual impacts. Andrea never learned if she had actually recovered the French fry, and had no intention of ever seeking out the answer. The remaining Hellions had taken it upon themselves to seek redress for the dental distress of their comrade.
Faced with an assortment of knives and baseball bats, the blonde had extended her hand and plucked a sword out of thin air. The blade was straight, double-edged and almost five feet long, but she wielded it with a single hand as if it were a baton. She had turned, slashed, nodded, and resumed her seat and her dinner, leaving the bloodied sword propped up against the counter next to her. The sight of her adding an extra dollop of ketchup to her meal had almost turned Andreas stomach. How anyone could taint a gyro with it was mind-boggling. After that he reached for the mop to clean up as best he could until the police arrived.
So the problems the diner had died out almost entirely. Occasionally a group of Hellions would show up. The new ones. Young, brave, stupid and usually hungry. In these situations Andrea did the sane and logical thing. He fed them. It was always at the same table. The one with the picture of Manticore presenting the Defender of Truth medallion to Lethal Sawchyk. They were standing in front of that very table. Manticore had his arm around Lethals shoulder. Andrea has his arm around Lethals other shoulder. Lethal had her arms around the thirty pound gyros that Andrea had made in honour of her accomplishment. The photo was signed. Woo! Danger! Danger! Gyros! Danger! The Hellions usually took several long minutes to notice the photo. After that they got very keen to leave, at which point Andrea delivered the bill to the table, which always included the 30% tried to shake down the wrong Greek tax. They paid. They always paid.
Urr-Urrr-Urrrp! Lethals burp was resonant, and she pounded a fist against her chest twice in order to ensure that every resonant gastro-intestinal syllable was given full release. Andrea nodded approvingly at the compliment to his cooking. It had taken him some effort to convince his patron that a heartfelt burp was a compliment to the cook, but trying to get through the entire Greek alphabet was not only futile, but robbed the compliment of its full effect.
See you Later Mr. A. Lethal hopped off her stool and tossed down a handful of bills on the counter. Danger awaits.
Shower awaits. Andrea reminded her. Even the perpetual cocoon of frying smells that permeated his establishment could not mask the unmistakable taint of sewer that permeated Lethal. She must have been hunting zombies in the sewers. Again.
Shower! Then danger! Lethal nodded in agreement and then sprinted through the door, the hinges strained as it banged open, but it stayed in one piece. Barely. Andrea cleared the dishes and then turned his attention back to scraping the grill. Cute girl, he would have to introduce her to his nephew Miros.
* * *
Lethal turned off the hot water and shook herself violently, splattering the inside of the shower stall. She glanced at the cold water tap and silently wondered if it worked. She had never actually tried it. The trials and tribulations of a good old fashioned sewer slog required much higher temperatures to achieve anything even vaguely resembling spring freshness. Lethal attacked the problem with the same gusto that she attacked every other problem. Pumice soap and a shampoo that bordered on industrial strength were enough to get rid of the even the most persistent stink. For the moment she was clean. Yay. Victory. Tallyho. She stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her body.
Liesel glanced at her reflection in the mirror, turning her head slightly from side to side. Her finely boned features mirrored mamas but her nearly black eyes were definitely Papas. She used to joke that she had her fathers eyes, but it was okay, because he grew them back. The rough, jagged, scar that traced across her cheek and crossed her nose gave her a feral, dangerous look. Liesel shook her head. Everyone assumed that she had gotten it through some bizarre, torturous set of circumstances, involving supernatural evil, supreme peril, vampires and possibly clowns. She was deliberate in not telling the actual circumstances around it. They were kind of lame. At age five she had decided that she wanted a scar on her cheek, just like mama had. Her plan; Papa always told her to have a plan, involved a very sharp knife that was a little too large for her hands, and a bottle of India ink. Unfortunately a mirror had not been part of the plan, and the result was far more ragged, and elongated than Mamas. Still she had been very proud of it when she presented her still bloody face to her parents for their approval. Mama was aghast; doubly so when Papa suggested that it could be easily removed with a few minutes on the belt sander. While Papa seemed upset; Liesel always felt he had somehow been proud of her. Probably because she hadnt cried at all. Like that was an option. Mama almost never cried; royal weddings or the death of a friend were it; and it was always silent and very reserved. Papa never did. Ever. Period. Full stop. She could still remember watching Mama pull silver bullets out of Papa after a mission, digging the forceps into his chest, and then cutting away the poisoned flesh with a knife. No tears. No whining. Nothing. Crying wasnt an option.
William and Doru hadnt figured that out until much later, especially as their little sister was quite capable of getting them to roll onto their backs and offer up their throats. They might have been full blooded Sawchyk werewolves; but she was alpha bitch and unwilling to relinquish the position. Okay, mama was alpha to her; so was Papa, only his had a capital A. She had tried to challenge dominance with Papa. Once. He had sat her down and explained calmly and patiently that it was one thing to play at such things, but she was never, ever, to make a serious dominance challenge to another wolf unless she was absolutely, one hundred percent, willing to back it up. Did she think she could do it? Overconfidence and a combination of teenage rebellion and the perceived immortality of youth answered before the rest of her brain had a chance to catch up. Papa had smiled gently at her and then rolled back his sleeves and visited a thorough and savage beating upon her. When Mama had found out she had been appalled; and had delivered a second beating; although she had described it as training. The sad thing was that they were both right. The world was filled with hideously dangerous things, and while little Lethal Sawchyk thought she was unstoppable, there were any number of equally confident individuals who would be all too happy to prove her wrong.
A sad smile blossomed as she was combing out her long blonde hair. She missed her parents already. Especially when it came to dealing with her hair. She could manage it on her own, but it was nice to have one of them brush it out. She missed it the same way that she missed wrestling with her brothers. Wolves were pack animals and the need to congregate socially was buried deeply in her bone and sinew. So was the need to mark territory, but she left that one to her brothers. She would try and remember to call them tonight, but for now, there was danger to be fully embraced. She had another pack to hang with and the Little Legends had been tasked with dealing with a disturbing upswing in Skull activity. It was time to break heads, take names, stop for lunch and then continue.

* * *
George Heisman moved the wad of gum to the other side of his mouth and chewed reflectively. The skull continued to charge forward, a nail-studded baseball back cocked behind his shoulder, ready to deliver a huge swing. Dad always said that timing was key in sports, and crimefighting. The fist sized rock that George held in his right hand felt good, the air was slightly humid and there was a slight wind from the east. The time was right. George kicked up his leg and snapped his arm forward. Throwing the heater was out, a curve was in order. The rock left his hand with a slight back-spin, arcing slightly to the left and slamming into the white painted forehead of the charging thug. Forward momentum of the forehead was halted as the rock effectively transferred energy. The Skull flipped over backwards. The ground reached up and smacked the skull in the back. Normally this was a figure of speech, but not where George was concerned. The ground actually did reach up and smack the skull, wrapping tendrils of earth around him and pinning him helplessly to the ground.
The skull blinked several times and re-evaluated his situation. He had been stealing a purse when some high-and-mighty hero douche had intervened. As said aforementioned douche had been wearing a baseball uniform, it had seemed deliciously ironic to smash him with a baseball bat. Shortly thereafter he had been struck in the head by a fist sized rock and then grabbed by the earth itself. The situation sucked; and was likely to get worse before it improved.
Danger! Danger! Go! Tallyho! The voice was filled with enthusiasm. The manifestation of the situation getting worse from the skulls perspective, were the enthusiastic voice, flavored with an overseas accent, and a pair of legs in loose camouflage pants. Worse was also wearing well-worn combat boots. The final injury added to insult was the fact that one of the boots was currently on his face.
Please move. The skull managed as best he could under the pressure. The owner of the boots was unlikely to tip the scales at 130 lbs, but that was still not a weight that one would relish when applied bootfully to the face. The boot wiggled slightly and then lifted as the owner assessed the situation. Nice dark eyes, white teeth, a cute, delicate nose, high cheekbones, and a long, ragged scar crossing cheek and nose.
Danger! Danger! Danger! Liesel jumped up and down, adding a second boot to the enthusiastic stomping. She paused for the barest of seconds; perhaps stomping someone while they were held helpless by geological forces was not fair. It wasnt fair, fair was where the pony rides were. It wasnt supposed to be fair. Kicking someone when they were down was the right thing to do; far better than waiting for them to get back up and then knocking them down again. Far better than giving them a chance to return the favor. Her karma re-aligned with the universe, Liesel continued to jump.
Get the heroes! More skulls. Liesel considered the numbers. Was doing a headcount of skulls redundant? What did you call a group of them? A gang of skulls? A flock of skulls. Visually appealing. A flock of Seeskulls. There certainly were a lot of them. There was a rusty, shaking rattle as a nearby warehouse door rolled up on neglected tracks, the dark and dingy maw vomiting forth a spew-tastic stream of death themed miscreants.
This is going to be bloody great! Lethal enthused happily; jumping up and down in anticipation. Roight then! I call bagsies on the ten on the left, you get the ten on the right.
George considered the situation. Careful evaluation was the key to victory. They were about to get stomped. The cons were apparent. A solid beating, teeth knocked out, ribs kicked in and a long talk from dad and mom about not biting off more than you can chew. Pros. It was 4:00pm and it was possible that the pretty blonde nurse who always forgot to button her blouse all the way to the top was on duty at the medical center. That pretty much covered it. Running like a bunny was also an option, just not a very good one. Lethal might survive. No, Lethal would survive; civilization could end and all that would remain scuttling across the face of the blighted earth would be cockroaches and Lethal. Fortunately even the worst of the gypsy curses she could inflict on him were on par with the danger of hanging with her normally. No fear there. Or at least a consistent level of fear. That was reassuring.
Whos winning! Englands winning! Lethals costume abruptly changed, the fatigues vanishing completely, giving way to a short, white blouse, long red and white scarf and black slacks, decorated with elaborate red beadwork. George winced. Unlike most superheroic transformations, Lethals lacked gratuitous flashes of flesh, it was entirely modest. So much for the home team advantage.
Okay you lot. As you might ave noticed, these are me clubbin clothes. Lethal smiled savagely and plucked her wicked blade out of the air. So the lot of you can get changed into yer baby seal suits and we can get started.
Shes crazy. One of the skulls said with a touch of reverence colouring his voice.
You have no idea. George shook his head, letting his senses dive under the pavement to the tectonic forces of the earth itself. It was a simple thing to twist the strata, turning solid asphalt into a sticky morass that slowed the charging miscreants as the suddenly hungry earth sucked at their sneakers. He figured that he had delayed the inevitable savage beating by at least 15 seconds. Fifteen whole seconds. Enough time to say goodbye to each of his teeth individually. Enough time to contemplate the taut muscles of Lethals abdomen as she jumped up and down excitedly at the prospect of the upcoming fight. His teeth would have to do without their tender goodbye. Priorities.
At fourteen seconds Lethal disappeared under a wave of bats and knives. At thirteen seconds a high-pitched, girlish scream echoed across the street as skulls flew back in various directions. Some landed with the boneless sprawl of the mercifully unconscious, while others cried out to their deathly patrons; impassioned pleas for a few moments more of life. Only one skull was begging for death, and given where the sword had struck him, the high-pitched prayers, and in fact the cause of the high pitch itself, were wholly understandable. There was no doubt that modern medicine could fully repair the damage, but such thoughts were absent from the mind of the skull, who was suddenly thinking with one fewer brains than he had been employing minutes before. George sent a cautionary thought down to his own second brain and returned both to the task at hand. The street buckled again as fountains of rock erupted, grasping and pulling at the skulls. This arrested the motion of the skulls charging towards him, as well as stymieing the efforts of the ones who were trying to flee the five foot circle of whirling steel that encircled Lethal.
Woo! Bring it on you bloody tossbags! Lethal enthused, hefting her sword menacingly. The group attacking her had been shattered and the few stragglers were exercising what little sense remained to them and fleeing. Lethal made to pursue, but stopped herself and turned back to the group that was slogging towards George. It went against all her instincts. Prey that ran was to be chased to the ground. It was a rule treasured highly on the list of wolfly commandments; topping the ones about greeting friends with a polite sniffing and never giving up an opportunity to stretch gloriously. Still George was a mate, and you didnt leave a mate to get the claret tapped out of him. Besides, she knew she could run faster and far longer than any of the skulls. They just thought they were going to get away. They were wrong.
Ten seconds away from the predicted dental apocalypse, George turned his senses back to the pavement. The trick was keeping it squishy where the skulls were, while solidifying it wherever Lethal stepped. It meant keeping one eye on her feet and legs. To be safe he used both. The five slowest skulls were down before they even knew what hit them, and the next four managed to turn around just in time to see the flashing silver blade that dropped them to the earth. The last one turned and held his ground. He was larger and presumably stronger and more experienced. He held the double-barreled shotgun with the casual ease of long use. He didnt seem scared, or if he was, he hid it better than the others had. George gathered up another fistful of rock and threw it, but the skull caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and jerked his head back, bringing it out of line with the hurtling stone. The skull inhaled, held the breath for a moment and then gently squeezed the trigger of his weapon.
Danger! Danger! Dang-whoof! Lethal doubled over as the discharge from both barrels caught her squarely in the midriff. George winced as the pale white skin erupted into a geyser of blood and shattered pink muscle. The skull laughed, a thin, evil chuckle that carried the dark hint of the grave. Then Lethal laughed. George did too, though his held a relieved tone. The terrible wound closed up almost instantly. One second a grotesque, gaping hole, spraying blood and bile, the next, smooth white skin under which powerful muscles played. The blood and various bits of viscera had been drawn back into the wound, so only a slight splatter of blood on her blouse and slacks gave evidence to her having been hurt at all. Lethal paused in her charge and rolled her tongue around briefly in her mouth in a strange, questing motion. Her eyes lit up and she thrust her tongue out. The two solid steel slugs rested on it for a moment, then fell to the pavement. The skull watched them fall. They hit the ground at the same time he did.

Okay, somehow I've been inobservant, and anywhere from three to five new members have joined the forums in the last week or two without my noticing. I'm sorry to have ignored you -- I normally spot first messages right off the bat and send a welcome, but as I have not yet figured out who you are, I can't do that yet. For the moment, please accept this collective welcome to the forums, and I hope you all enjoy your time here.
-- Bob
---------
...The President is on the line
As ninety-nine crab rangoons go by...

...Sure wasn't expecting anything like this from the Beatles...
The Beatles: Maxwell's silver hammer
Joan was quizzical, studied pataphysical
Science in the home
Late nights all alone with a test-tube ohh oh oh oh
Maxwell Edison majoring in medicinem
Calls her on the phone
Can I take you out to the pictures, Joan?
But as she's getting ready to go
A knock comes on the door
Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon her head
Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that she was dead
Back in school again Maxwell plays the fool again
Teacher gets annoyed
Wishing to avoid an unpleasant scene
She tells Max to stay when the class has gone away
So he waits behind
Writing 50 times "I must not be so" oh oh oh
But when she turns her back on the boy
He creeps up from behind
Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon her head
Do do do do do
Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that she was dead
P.C. Thirty-One said "We caught a dirty one"
Maxwell stands alone
Painting testimonial pictures ohh oh oh oh
Rose and Valerie screaming from the gallery
Say he must go free (Maxwell must go free)
The judge does not agree and he tells them so oh oh oh
But as the words are leaving his lips
A noise comes from behind
Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon his head
Do do do do do
Bang, Bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that he was dead
Wow wow wow oh!
Do do do do do
Silver hammer Max

I think it's quite clear what kind of weapon this song would bring about, though there might be some unexpected mental complications with the song...
Maxwell's silver hammer -Flash animation
edit: Suuure, I ran this page through google searching for this particular song but didn't even think of looking at the first page of the song list. thanks for the note rob.... (I'm too google reliant...)

It struck me as somewhat amusing that I hadn't considered this angle before.

... is the reason I haven't been around lately. Well, that, and Uni, and Shinobido (which, while not perfect, is pretty nifty), not necessarily in that order.
There was originally supposed to be more of it, but I decided to stick with one major even per 'short' and stuck the rest in the ideas file for later perusal. Still took me three rewrites to get it somewhat decent.
Complete with blatant cliches galore.

---
Dancing flames, reaching up into the night sky, the rising columns of smoke akin to fingers grasping the firmament to rip it asunder.
The ground littered with blood. Littered with ash. Littered with embers of still sparking steel and charcoal skeletons of domiciles.
And the skies open up with a torrent, racing down to bathe it all in tears.
The human will is a wondrous, frightening thing. Strong enough, and it can let you move mountains, overcome any adversity, walk where others invariably fall ... for a price.
With the rain, a will of fire sputters. Flickers.
And dies.
---
Foxes Wild
third in the Kyuubi Chronicles line
by Griever
Disclaimer: goes here ^_^.
---
It's old.
In truth, nobody knows just how old.
Once upon a time, it was rumored to be cursed, but such tales didn't survive the test of time. Not with the sheer span between then and now. Back when the woods were lush, and there was water aplenty ...
Now?
A crater of barren ground in a landscape of such, on a spire of stone, in the land of endless sands. Baked for day upon day, upon week, upon month, upon year, upon decade ... and so on into the centennial ranges. The springs are no more, the woods are less than a memory ... and yet, the crater endures.
By right, erosion should have dealt it a crushing blow ... but somehow, no such thing seems to have affected it.
There is, as they say, a grain of truth to every myth.
Even those long since gone into the sands.
In the middle of a barren waste, days from any settlement, human or otherwise, the winds stir.
They roll.
They roar.
As a crackling, shimmering bolt of Otherness splits the heavens and earth for an instant so brief, it would have been considered an illusion.
The loud crack and whoosh of displaced air that follows is no illusion, though, and for a moment the winds dance as if directed by demons, slicing stone, scattering of sand, and tearing clouds asunder.
Then, as if never having been gone at all, silence falls. Complete, and total.
A footfall. Rough tread on equally rough stone.
Shambling and hesitant.
Followed by another.
And another.
And a third one, more certain, more decisive.
Eyes look to the South and East, seeing beyond the horizon, ignorant of the blistering heat coming down from the heavens.
A minute passes, turning into a half, then a full hour ...
Hands clench, filled with a profound sense of emptiness and wrongness.
Legs tense.
And, like the wind, the figure is gone.
Little more than a spot of blackness against the white sands.
It has a grave to rob.
Its own.
***
A bonfire, over a month ago.
A demon.
A kunoichi.
On the way back 'home'.
"Ne, Kyuubi?"
With a bag of bloody metal.
"What, no 'bastard'?"
And a trussed up prisoner.
"Saa ... if I asked you to give me a reason, would you promise?"
Crackling memories, and the scent of ash on the wind.
"Promise? Promise what, ku-no-ichi?"
"I want to belong. For once, I want to belong."
A cause. Not her cause, but one she'd chosen to follow of her own free will.
It feels ... odd ... to have one of those again.
At least, one that isn't focused on getting revenge.
Eyes open to a long familiar ceiling of a sparsely furnished room. Bare walls, few decorative knick-knacks, a picture or two.
She wonders if this is any better than the years of being obsessed with a snake-bastard.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
***
Sometimes, a trickle is all it takes.
Strength.
If only they had the strength.
Once upon a time, they were titans. Once upon a time, they were a force, no, a Force to be reckoned with. They had the strength. And the will to use it. Enough to carve out a place for themselves in this lush, fruitful land, and go as far as to nearly make it their own.
Now?
What did they have left but withered shadows of their former glory?
The unholy terror of a lifetime, leaving nothing but fire and destruction in its wake, now cheerfully mocking them with its presence.
One of their greatest weapons turning upon itself in a fit of egoism and madness.
A steady decline of their power, with mongrels snapping at heels to grab even the least shreds of it.
But there were ways.
They remember.
All things documented. All things written down. Sealed up, nice and tight, in the deep darkness at the bottom of the Archives. Condemned, forbidden, undisturbed save for one instance. And one that took care of itself on its own.
They ask themselves: "See?"
They nod, and smile, and grin.
After all, this has to be a sign; They needn't bother themselves with that mishap. Such things take care of themselves. It is the way of things.
And these are desperate times.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
For silent footsteps, and moonless nights, and blackened faces.
For things that are not quite legitimate.
After all, it's for the good of the Village.
And if it lets them remove another problem, while fixing the first, well then, that's just being efficient.
So they call, and he relays, and gives orders ...
... and on a moonless night, on silent footsteps, face blackened, a figure treads.
Strength is needed. A weapon is needed. Another has been broken.
To gather the pieces, to melt them down, to re-forge them ...
... and then, the Leaf will have its weapon, once again.
To enter is a triviality. To infiltrate, not much of a challenge.
The figure knows how these minds think, knows how they operate. It knows how they were trained, knows what they know, knows _more_ than they know.
To incapacitate is a exercise at best, and to weave a genjutsu around the two insensate, unconscious nins is little more than a formality.
Porcelain masks glinting in the lighting of the hall reflect its passage, the eyes behind them closed in forced slumber.
*Ker-clack*
Unlocked.
The soundless opening of a door.
*Beep*
*Beep*
*Beep*
Inky black hair. Bandages. Unresponsive, comatose, but still restrained. What skin is visible is pale enough to almost seem as if it were glowing in the relative darkness.
"It seems we were fated to meet after all, Uchiha Sasuke-kun."
Inky black hair. Eyes as pitch. Burnished metal on his brow, and face darkened with soot. His cloths black, plain, utilitarian, nondescript. Smiling.
Sometimes, a trickle is more than enough.

*Crack*
***
The quiet clues her in first, before anything else can.
By itself, it isn't enough, but it's a start.
There's just something missing, something not consciously noticed but nonetheless there.
And anyway, she knows this sort of quiet, though it's been a while since she's been exposed to it. She may be a medic first and foremost, but that changes nothing in that she's also a ninja. A kunoichi of Konohagakure.
Genjutsu are chakra constructs. Insidious, crafty things that guide the mind into patterns their originator desires them to.
With a sound akin to that of glass breaking, and a sensation like cold drops of water falling behind her collar, the illusion around her shatters ...
It's the smell that hits first.
Thick, cloying, and just plain _wrong_ in place of what should have been sterile and antiseptic.
More jarring, though, is the sense of profound _emptiness_ that suddenly comes over her, as if the place were no more than an empty ... shell ...
*Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee*
The sound is a concerto of unitone, almost wailing, echoing through the halls in simple, mechanical efficiency.
A timeless instant of monochrome, flickering electrical lighting, and plain concrete walls that reverb with the keening noise. Shifting shadows. And the smell.
Not of blood. Or rather, not just of blood.
Slaughter.
The medic in her despairs and disbelieves, and room after room after room ...
... by the end of the mind numbing realization, Shizune is very hard pressed not to retch.
***
There's nothing gradual about it. No momentary befuddlement, no partial lucidity.
Just a wall with consciousness on one side, and a blankness on the other.
Maybe because he doesn't dream. Hasn't in longer than he can pin down, exactly. And he likes it like that.
Dreams rarely meant anything 'good' back when he still used to have them, and he isn't really fond of them.
About as fond as he is of dogs, actually.
About as fond as he is of somebody knocking on his door at two in the wee hours of the morning.
It's annoying, and an interruption, and he hates interruptions.
Doesn't seem to change the situation any, though, or keep them from happening. As if getting used to this damn body wasn't hard enough without them.
Get up, grumble and snarl a little, pull on whatever's on hand and meander through the dark apartment.
Put hand through the door.
Yank it open, with a growl of "WHAT?!" that reaches all the way into the subsonic and shakes a few windows. Doors. Metal railings.
Little angry there, aren't we?
Place is fucking deserted anyway, so it isn't like there'd be any neighbors who'll complain. Even if the most that'd have gotten them would have been a free case of cranial trauma. At best.
***
He's keeping pace.
It's almost, _almost_ more than he can manage. Which, truth be told, fills him with a mute sort of disbelief.
He knows what the boy is, of course. How could he not? It ... resonates ... with a part of him that he'd really, really rather not think about at the moment. Despite being useful, the sheer amount of unfortunate memories connected to those strings of genetic code makes it difficult for Tenzo to contemplate.
Still, a genin, even one trained by a Sannin, and a Jinchuuriki to boot, pressing an ANBU's speed to the limits ... it's certainly impressive.
Almost enough to let him ignore the nervous tic his face developed after Uzumaki's ... creative ... way of greeting late-night messengers.
Unnerving.
Considering that he and Mitarashi-kun were listed as having cashed in on the bounty for _Orochimaru's_ head, more than unnerving.
Then they're there, freefalling and skidding against a wall, coming down in front of the Village's hospital - the Hokage's pride and joy, as it were - and the moody teenager Tenzo woke up not ten minutes ago ... changes.
That's the best way he can describe it, really, even in his own mind. There's nothing overt, nothing tangible, not even a fluctuation of his chakra - what he shows of it, at least - but the resonance ...
Suddenly, the experienced ANBU wants nothing more than to get at least a few hundred feet worth of distance between the two of them.
"That's a _lot_ of death," Uzumaki says.
Tenzo can't stop himself from shivering at the faint tones of ... appreciation in that voice.
***
She thought she'd dealt with it. Thought she finally had it under control, finally managed to get on top of the demons in her own mind ...
"... we've got whatever assets we could get on this short a notice scouring the village, the Hunter-nin squads on the Wall ..."
She thought wrong.
This, maybe more than any other place in Konohagakure no Sato, was _her_ place. Where she'd put her heart and soul into her work ...
It was fortunate that Shizune understood her shishou well enough to anticipate this sort of problem.
"Ne. Ne. Ne. Ho-ka-ge," a voice beside her singsongs, making her jerk in barely concealed surprise, startling Shizune out of her report. "How rude. The party's over, and you only now invite me? Cruel, cruel woman."
Her apprentice pales. She told her, unlike her _student_. It's been too long with just the two of them for Tsunade not to tell Shizune, even with the occasional misunderstanding and difference in opinion. Fortunately, save for the two, now three of them, the roof is otherwise deserted.
"That was ... quick," she comments, feigning nonchalance.
If anything, the last week and a half had taught her one thing. The kitsune doesn't care about being rude, or other people replying in kind. It doesn't matter. Kyuubi, in his own words, doesn't _need_ a pathetic excuse like that to 'end' someone. She doesn't know whether to be happy, or afraid of that.
Speaking of which ...
"Where's ... ?"
"Messenger-boy is off playing around down below," Kyuubi said, grinning. "Wouldn't know a copy from his ass."
"What? Not even Kage Bunshin are that accurate to someone," Shizune bit her tongue before she could complete said sentence.
"Not that accurate to someone who's been my 'minder' for as long as I've been 'back'? Pfeh. Don't insult me. Jigoku's sake, the kusogaki could do it with no problems," sneered the Youkai.
... well, she had a faint hope that he wasn't aware of Tenzo watching him. There it goes, crashing and burning.
"... what the hell are you wearing?"
Naruto's body blinks back at her, momentarily thrown, then looks down and shrugs.
Fishnet shirt, rust colored vest and pants, woven sandals ... it just, somehow, doesn't mesh and fits at the same time.
"Blame Mitarashi. She was the one you sent out to get me something to wear instead of the clothes looted from Oto."
***
Straight blade.
No guard.
Blackened, non-reflective, and perfectly _sharp_.
The night itself wrapped around them.
Scent the wind. Feel it. The sky boils above, the earth shudders, and within ...
... flame.
Driving on, guided by a dozen pairs of eyes.
There!
The sound carries, up through the soles and into the mind, driving one arm out to the side in a sharp, violent arc.
Steel scrapes against stone. Sparks fly.
The flaring of a single candle in the darkness, before it's snuffed out.
*Drip*
*Drip*
*Drip*
Behind a wall, a body slumps to the floor.
Straight blade.
No guard.
Blackened, non-reflective, and perfectly _sharp_.
Made to cut, made to pierce, made to kill.
The flame burns brighter and brighter.
***
"This is it? Well ... can't say I'm surprised, really."
The Legendary Toad-Hermit Jiraiya doesn't claim to have seen it all, despite occasional rumblings to the contrary. Never has, never will, and knows the sheer impossibility of that sort of claim.
It's what keeps him going. Not an obsessive desire to know it _all_, but a deeply rooted will to make the most of what he has and see as much of this world as he can. It's wonderful, and it's terrible, and it keeps him still mostly sane with every plodding step along the stream of time's progression.
In that way, he and his onetime friend were always polar opposites when it came to approaches towards living. To Orochimaru, it's always been a death sentence in waiting, which was something he was driven to avoid so badly that he turned it, and himself, into a twisted mockery.
Jiraiya's, on the other hand, can be summed up in three simple words to live by.
Life is strength.
Keeping that in mind, he's seen a lot.
Some days, though, the realization that this journey of discovery will, undoubtedly, involve new and extremely unpleasant moments makes him reconsider said approach.
He's always been one to trust his instincts, to a degree that would likely astound anyone who ever found out. Over the years and through enough experiences to fill a dozen lifetimes, he's honed it into a powerful tool. To him, in fact, it's the _most_ powerful tool in his arsenal.
And instinct is telling him he's standing in the middle of something very, very nasty. Not just because of the blood on the walls and floor, or the bodies, or even the distinct off feeling about the lingering chakra in the air.
Out behind his back, other Konoha nin are busy with the cleanup, if you can call it that.
This, though, is where whatever it was that happened started.
Seal scribbled walls - some of them his work - and no windows, broken medical monitoring equipment, snapped restrains and a broken bed-frame.
And a body.
One that looks like it was mauled by a lawnmower, then flash fried into a husk looking as if it were months, if not years old.
The corpses of the two ANBU who'd been stationed outside were in similar condition, though maybe not to such an extent.
And there's that odd undercurrent of tension hanging in the air. One that's an old, old acquaintance.
It proves true a moment later, when a sensation that has his hair stand on end and his eyes widen sweeps over him, passing on through and past as if it were a wave cresting over the Village. Or like the concentric pattern of disturbance when a raindrop *plinks* into a still body of water.
***
A dancing, whirling, stifling vortex of chakra.
The source, emaciated and mottled with flecks of golden light the design of which makes it appear as thought they were in the process of strangling their 'host', leaning on a straight, black blade the tip of which digs into the soil.
Questing, seeking tendrils of virulent purple seep into the ground as the conflagration around this one-man epicenter intensifies.
*Beep*
"Sasuke-kun ..."
*Beep*
"You're stronger than this, Sasuke-kun. Now that you're away from that place, now that you're back."
*Beep*
"Please, wake up. It's finally over, so please wake up. Now that you can finally try to be happy. Jiraiya-sama's report said Itachi is dead, so you don't have to lock yourself away anymore."
*Beep*
"Itachi is dead."
*Beep*
"Itachi is dead."
*Beep*
"Itachi is dead."
*Beep*
"It seems we were fated to meet after all, Uchiha Sasuke-kun."
Only one remains. One part, one piece, one working, of the two which were supposed to complete him.
He will not be denied.
***
It isn't subtle. In fact, there isn't even a token attempt at making it less of a glaring beacon to anyone with even the least refined ability to sense chakra.
In a Hidden Village, that's quite a bit of the population.
She's ahead of them, though. Simply because she doesn't need the huge beacon.
The painful twinge in the back of her neck is enough.
It's why she isn't even remotely surprised _where_ she's heading towards.
When the flare finally fades, Mitarashi Anko is perched atop a power pole, looking towards a sector of Konoha that's been defunct and deserted for years now.
And she still doesn't know what it is that makes her more uneasy about the situation. The fact that she'd almost managed to close the chapter of her life involving her old teacher and his get? Or the fact the bundle strapped to her back seemed to be almost humming.
"What the hell am I supposed to do with this, bastard?"
A hand travels back to free the wrappings from around the bundle's top.
"Learn to use it. It would be a shame to let something like that gather dust."
She grasps the revealed hilt.
"Swords were never really my thing."
It really is humming, the leather beneath her palm vibrating in a way that could be almost described as eager.
"Learn to appreciate the irony, then. You keep what you kill."
The sword goes perfectly still, but she clearly feels tension mounting ...
Then she's moving, synapses burning, muscles pumping as she plummets downwards, actually running along the pole she was perched on in a full out sprint.
Kunai, windmill shuriken, senbon, and a variety of other thrown projectiles slam into the pole, coming uncomfortably close and in some cases actually skittering from her reinforced longcoat before she's jumping, pushing off from her erstwhile perch and raceway, tumbling through the air to roll across a rooftop and disappear beneath its far lip.
She's still moving when she hits the ground, skidding backwards even as hands come up to brandish a pair of kunai, darting to and fro in a frantic effort that has oncoming projectiles being slapped out of the air by either them or her coat sleeves' ceramic inlays.
When she's finally stopped, panting somewhat, eyes warily scanning her surroundings, she doesn't register what she's seeing for the first little while.
She spends a second merely annoyed by the obstructions to her field of view, though in the back of her mind there's a note being made of where they are and that they'd likely make good cover if need be.
Which is when _what_ they are registers, and she curses. Briefly. Viciously. Entirely appropriately considering the situation.
It's also the reason why, when the darkness of the now moonless, cloudy night that covers the skyline is interrupted here and there by something, she doesn't dismiss it out of hand.
Though she's wishing. Boy is she wishing.
Her back against the side of one, and surrounded by an entire clan graveyard's worth of coffins that had seemingly sprouted up out of the ground, with pair upon pair of crimson eyes glaring down at her, Anko's finds herself thinking that this is either going to be a very long night, or a very very short one.
A giant toad dropping down onto a group of her assailants, demolishing the building that serves as their perch in the process tilts the odds towards the former by at least a little bit ...
***
"It shouldn't have worked," Jiraiya says, bringing his ever present scroll holder up in a parry. It's big, it's bulky, it's likely got more reinforcing seals on it than a castle rampart.
Projectiles, and even the occasional Katon, don't really do much against it. There's a reason for the densetsu tag his name's earned. Legendary isn't just for show, or talking himself into some pretty little thing's panties, after all.
On his own, he's a force to be reckoned with. And this time around, he's hardly on his own.
"Well, obviously, there's something you've overlooked!"
Tsunade is furious and it shows. A head pops like an overripe melon, dirt and strips of flesh and bone showering outwards from the point of impact.
"The damn Edo Tensei isn't just a Jutsu! It's not even a single ritual, but a whole slew of them. It can't be used offhand, not without preparation, not on such a scale, not ... behind you!"
She twists out of the way in an impossibly fast dodge, the kodachi still managing to slip into her guard but barely drawing even a faint line of blood along her flank as she wheels around to retaliate ...
... and the blow goes wide, or rather, goes through where the head of her attacker should be, if she hadn't taken it off not a minute ago. In its place, she can see the macabre spectacle of dirt and flesh and skin and slivers of bone drawing slowly upwards, reforming grotesquely into their prior form ...
... before the body is ripped apart, into charred, sizzling chunks.
"Actually, Hebi-yarou did it when I was fighting him, though that was only one person," Kyuubi's hand trails ash and wisps of youki. "Besides, he's doing it wrong. And at this sort of scale? Pathetic little maggot has to be burning on the inside just to keep all that chakra he shoved into himself down at your hospital flowing, not to mention contained. And as soon as he's _out_, he's done. Just keep them contained, and from killing too many people on the off chance that they can feed themselves."
The kitsune grins wickedly, looking straight at Tsunade.
"Just kill them."
The spike of killing intent went right past the rational bits of her brain, to the place that was as old as humanity itself, and seemed to take up residence.
"One after another, or all in one go, it doesn't matter one way or the other."
Wisps of youki drift from his hands, trailing backwards, over his shoulders, and slowly intermingling with chakra.
"And if they get up again, then just _kill_ them again, no matter how many times."
A quartet of Kage Bunshin slowly wind their way into existence, then momentarily shift to be replaced by four large, white furred, crimson eyed foxes.
"We can do that, can't we, Ho-ka-ge-chan?"
***
He's always been proud of his eyes. That they were just that tiny bit better, just that tiny bit more accurate. That they'd never, ever lied to him, or tried to sugar-coat the world.
For the first time in his life, Hyuuga Neji wishes he could afford to turn them off.
It's the vilest thing he's ever seen.
Dirt and chakra and dead flesh breathing and moving and wanting nothing more than to _kill_.
... he doesn't though.
Some would say he'd just cold like that.
Efficient.
The very embodiment of the idea that is 'shinobi'.
But it has less to do with that, and more to do with the first of these mockeries he's encountered that night was just getting done slaughtering its way through a nursery.
***
The last time he'd seen this sort of intensity was three years back, during the invasion of the Sound and Sand, and that time he was the one playing nursemaid to the Academy students.
This time, he's in the thick of it ...
And deep inside, he's afraid.
It's why he hasn't gone on to become Jounin. It's what scares him, more than anything else in the world.
He slams through the door, armored shoulder of the vest shattering through without much in the way of problems, just as a lash of chakra laden razor wire carves its way through the space above him, going through wood and metal like a hot knife through butter. Rolling, scrambling, tossing off a spread of kunai and caltrops behind him he dashes through the dark, dusty interior.
They follow.
He's good at running, though. Good at delaying, stalling, keeping them occupied. For a onetime prankster, these things are second nature, or even closer than that.
And he's out, his pursuers occupied inside for the moment, with Bunshins and annoying little tricks and traps that don't really _hurt_ ...
... but then, that isn't their purpose.
He doesn't pause, doesn't even turn around, before reaching a length of wire camouflaged better than the traps inside are - and he knows his camouflage. You didn't run pranks past the noses of the old Uchiha Police Force on a regular basis without being damn good at that.
He's grabbing for it.
Pulsing his chakra through his hand and fingers.
Vaulting over the top of a low stone wall as the explosive tags spread through the old place go off, multiple blasts filling its insides with concussive waves as well as sharp and pointy bits of metal before bringing the whole two story building down on those within and grinning, grinning, _grinning_ so hard his scar aches.
He's afraid of this, more than anything else in the world.
Because, when he can't fight it anymore?
When it takes over?
When he totally loses control?
He _likes_ it.
And right now Umino Iruka ...
... Chuunin of Konohagakure no Sato ...
... is ...
... _loving_ it.
***
It's funny how she doesn't feel any pain.
The wound is hardly clean - rather, it's ragged edged, ugly, and winding its way just barely past an artery as it twists and turns along flesh. That had been what one of her attackers was aiming for in the first place, and she doesn't know _how_ she'd managed to try and dodge as quickly as she had. Or why her mind decided one sacrifice to be more affordable than the other.
Or, no.
She realizes well and good the reason for the latter.
It's selfish, really, but she knows that most things in life are.
Her parents aren't ninja.
So, to protect them; to do what she can so that these murdering dogs wearing human guise never get within even a kunai's throw of them ...
The pill is one that works quickly, and directly, but only for a comparatively brief time period. The second one is less effective, and a stimulant rather than a painkiller ...
She pops the first one, gives her Jounin-sensei the best glare she can muster in her current state, even as her teammates struggle to give them a moment of relative peace, and speaks.
Or rather, demands.
Her words as devoid of inflection and numb to her ears as her soul feels at the prospect of coming home to a dead family.
"I can still fight. Cauterize it."
He doesn't argue. She can tell he wants to. Argue. Yell. Protest. Give impassioned speeches about nothing being unsalvageable and if she'd be willing to fall back and ...
... his face is uncharacteristically grim as he nods and does it anyway.
It still doesn't hurt.
It doesn't hurt, but for some reason, she's screaming her lungs out as the kunai against her face is pumped with hot chakra and flesh sizzles.
It doesn't hurt when she gets back up, leaning on his shoulder, one side of her face and her neck and one shoulder wrapped in bandages.
It doesn't hurt when she leaps up, her mind a calculating machine of angles and velocities, her hands both steady and her aim still miraculously unerring, despite the lack of stereoscopic vision.
Her Village needs her.
Her Team needs her.
Her Family needs her.
If it's for them, no matter what it is, Tenten will never hurt.
***
"Having fun yet, ku-no-ichi?"
The voice infuriates her.
Annoys her.
And, oddly, comforts her.
Though she'll never let on about that last bit.
"Aho. About time you showed up."
Panting.
In a field of nicked, scarred, marred and sliced coffins.
And blood.
"See? You're using it after all."
Swordhilt clutched in her hands, blade inverted, tip digging into the ground as she half-kneels, leaning against it.
"... because I'm out of anything and everything else, bastard," she grunts out, hauling herself back to her feet, tatters of her coat hanging listlessly from her shoulders and only really kept together by whatever reinforcements she'd had sewn into it. "But yeah, it works out, somehow. Great edge on it."
"Good, I'd hate to have to look for a replacement because someone got careless," he growls. "So try not to die."
"How disappointing. You're not sticking around?"
"No, I think it's about high time to finish."
She gives him a measuring look. He shrugs.
"You ought to know, ku-no-ichi. How to kill a snake. Just cut off the head."
And he's gone.
Anko sways for a moment, pressing one hand against a nearby coffin to steady herself, her grip on the Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi firm ...
A growl.
Slinking from the shadows, a pair of familiar foxes joins her, their white fur matted with blood.
"Yeah, well, you do that, aho. You do that," she chuckles, cracking her neck with a satisfying series of pops. "And I'll help finish up here."
They move to follow, before she stops and glares.
It's a glare full of burning determination, and a promise of pain.
"Feh. Bastard. How high am I going to go if I'm leaning on you? What use am I if I can't stand on my own?"
She has a place to belong. A cause she'd chosen to follow.
Now she wants to _earn_ it.
"Gotta let a girl show off a little too, you know?"
The blade flashes out, a motion so swift and sure and _no_ she hasn't practiced it but it feels like the blade is an extension of her Self anyway.
It feels natural.
It feels like blood.
It feels like the essence, distilled, of a single concept.
To Cut.
"I'm a leaf in the wind."
The kunoichi yanks her blade loose, bringing it about in a vicious arc that separates a would-be assailant's head from the rest of him, then comes down to split the torso in twain.
"So _watch_!"
A half-step, half-jump. A foot planted on the shoulder of another one that tried to blindside her. A perfect spin, her arms dragging a silver and crimson trail through the air and slash another, and another, and another ...
"Me!"
... until it's a discord of motion and stillness, silence and noise, peace and unmatched violence.
"Soar!"
Sometimes, the person you need to prove yourself to is the one you see in the mirror every day.
***
He's seen better.
And he's seen worse.
He's also seen a helluva lot better, as well as a helluva lot worse.
They never affect him much, though, so he just walks on through.
No big thing. Just another little Genjutsu.
One of these days, he should show these people what a real Demon Illusion looks like.
Oh well.
There's time for that later.
More appropriate occasions as well.
Into and through the house, out the back, into the garden.
It used to be clean, and well kept, and pristine ... some of which still shows.
Some.
Not that he gives very much of a damn.
Not really.
He isn't here to sightsee, really, and he's had more than enough of that whole vengeful dead clinging to life concept with the Nibi.
Every.
Single.
Damn.
Time.
It gets annoying.
And if this were just what the snake-bastard had done, it wouldn't be as problematic. But no, this brat has to be different and mess with something that draws so damn much attention!
Just lucky the damn cat isn't roaming about, he supposes, since this'd draw her like an oversized catnip chewtoy.
He should know, he's pulled that one on her a while ago.
Attention returns to the here and now, though.
The garden.
Out below a wooden jetty and a lake.
Three of them.
Two like the ones outside of this secluded little corner of the massacre.
That last one, though.
Kyuubi takes his time to let out a brief, amused chuckle.
Gaunt.
Stringy, messy, grey hair, more of which lies at his feet in clumps than hangs from his head.
Hollow cheeks, and skin lined and cracked with wear and age that hadn't been there even a few hours ago.
And covered, literally covered, with simmering golden designs that creep and move and shift with every single breath of his.
One hand loosely grasping a straight, black bladed ninja-to.
Empty eye sockets staring off into space.
Mouth moving, saying something faint into the distance ...
... the two others, one man, one woman, move.
Swiftly, surely, effectively coming in from two different directions in a matter of moments.
Then there are two piles of ash, a circle of ground scorched bare, and a couple of brief flicks as he shakes the flecks of still burning hot embers from his hands.
And he's close to the softly rocking form.
"... aniki? I'm strong ... aniki ... aren't I? Say that I'm strong ... mother, father ... please?"
How ... disappointing.
Uchiha Sasuke dies as he lived, completely and utterly alone.
It only takes a single kunai.
Then the sky opens up, and Kyuubi smirks, seeing that the night isn't a complete and total loss.
He does, after all, and paradoxically enough for a being of fire, love the rain.
***
Morning dawns, and the rain continues to fall ...
... which reflects the atmosphere of the moment just fine, Tsunade supposes.
It was only with the end of the bloody interlude that her work truly started, after all. Moving the injured, and there were a lot of those, both civilian and nin, into the emergency center within the Hokage Tower. Getting on top of the situation. Calming people down, which proved, to date, the most daunting of her tasks.
For one reason or another Mitarashi decided, sometime around six in the AM, to occupy the couch in her office and was merrily snoring away. As well as irrevocably staining the leather, but she didn't have it in her to take the extra effort and throw her out on her ass, cute as it was.
Feeling every year of her age, she reflected in a rare moment of temporary peace, sucked. And she is, there and then, going through just that.
"Is that everything?"
"For the moment, yes," her assistant is as tired as herself, or looks to be at any rate.
And prospects weren't good. Despite relatively rapid intervention, the death toll was well in the hundreds. Mostly among the civilians, but the shinobi of Konohagakure weren't spared either. It was almost as bad as three years ago had been, in fact ... and that took a lot of juggling to straighten out, not to mention getting the Village back on track.
"Where the hell is Haruno, anyway?"
She wonders out loud, head drooping for a moment.
"I sent her to rest, Tsunade-sama," Shizune replies after a moment. "Her family ... she isn't taking it well."
The Godaime sighs, then nods, though that's more to herself than to her assistant.
Damnit, she needs sleep. And maybe, just maybe, this will all turn out to have been an extremely unpleasant dream.
She hopes.
***
"I could smell you half a block away, dead man," he says, entering the apartment as he does so. The unexpected occupant doesn't startle, but that could pretty much mean anything. "What the hell do you want?"
And Kyuubi, despite a somewhat entertaining evening, isn't really in the mood for guessing games.
The man is tall, lean, and dark haired.
"Not surprised?"
"Seen it before. Don't get ahead of yourself, though. I know how to make dead _stay_ dead. Didn't expect the magatama," the kitsune mentions, noting the bead-like adornment sitting right on top of the man's collar bone. "So, somebody found out I'm not gone? That was fast."
"You really ain't the brat, are you?"
"Want me to rip off your leg and beat you to death with it? I'd expect you could take a lot of punishment, considering that little gem of yours, and I'm not quite done de-stressing yet."
"Whoa, easy. Look, I'm not here to fight. I'm just supposed to pass along a message, since ..."
"... you're native, sort of. Used to be. Resonance. I know, I know, now kindly get on with it before I lose my temper."
"Well, my new boss says to tell you that, and I quote - they had him Seal the damn thing to the nines as soon as they found out you were indisposed. Things aren't quite off kilter yet, but he'd rather not lose his summer home so while he can't hop over and get you because of some sort of sympathetic dissonance thing, he's got something of his in here that'll let you cut through the Seals without much of a problem. Also, if you don't manage it within the six months, you're hosting poker night next time."
"Right," Kyuubi muttered, rubbing his head in exasperation. "Right. Because it's never just _one_ thing. Of course. I'm going to kick Susanoo's white-haired, trigram sprouting ass into next century for this shit when I see him. That it?"
"Yup."
"Then piss off, and try not to let anyone see you. We've had enough with the raising of the dead for one night."
Kyuubi growls, but otherwise appears utterly and totally calm. Composed. Perfectly at ease, even.
Knowing that there are times when discretion is the better part of valor, especially in the presence of something that was already seriously scary shit back when it was just lurking in the background of the brat, Momochi Zabuza does just that.
"Aw, to fuck with it, I'm not in any mood to think about this shit," Kyuubi growls to himself, tossing the oblong bundle he's been carrying around for the past hour onto the ratty couch, cleaning up the bloodstains by virtue of flash frying them, and incidentally his clothes as well, into ash, and finally rambling on towards the bedroom.
He collapses.
Tomorrow.
He'd deal with whatever the smug ass wanted then.
Right now, sleep sounds oh so much better.
***
'Boy on the bike, what are you like
As you cycle round the town?
You're going up, you're going down
You're going nowhere
It's not as if they're paying you
It's not as if its fun
At least not anymore
When your legs are black and blue
It's time to take a break
When your legs are black and blue
It's time to take a holiday'
-'Fox in the Snow', Rasputina
***
***
***
EPILOGUE
***
As if he didn't have enough problems.
Looking to the crimson-dusk of this Jigoku-Realm's sky, he growls his frustration, even as he quickens his pace. Here, things are never simple. They haven't been simple since he'd come out from under his mother's protection ... but that was simply the way it went in the place of unfettered Souls.
But then, he'd always managed to find some way of dealing with whatever problems presented themselves. That wasn't going to change now, either.
Around him, the camp slowly sunk into night, though here one could harldy tell by something as trivial as the amount of light the crimson skies shed.
Yorimasa, as much as he is an annoying, scheming, wasteful bastard, tends to run a tight army and usually pays well and on time. The last bit being more important than the first, more often than not, was reason enough for spending as much time as they had in his employ.
The Nue is weak, though.
He strides past the innermost encampment's silken walls, shoving a stray Inu-Youkai out of the way and almost, _almost_ getting a challenge in return ...
Spineless cowards, the lot of that get!
Pity.
He's in the mood for some mindless violence.
Then he's free, free of the stench of their collective youki, free of the wall, and free of the need to uphold this annoying form ...
... free to run.
A three-tailed streak of rust, little more than a shadow in a landscape painted through stark whites and blacks and blood-reds.
As expected, the others aren't there.
It doesn't really bother him. Better that than ripping one-another apart in frustration. Still, it's a starting point, and gathering the lot together immediately will see them away from the bastard and his host of carrion mongers.
It doesn't take a genius to know when something is about to fall apart, and the Nue's oh so precious legion is well set to do just that.
He knows where they are, roughly. He always does.
Still, he feels the wind as he runs ...
... and it brings him violence. The faint burning of youki, the universal copper of blood ...
... it doesn't take long to get there. Not long at all.
Not long at all before he's clawing, and biting, and trailing ash from rust-colored fur coated in freshly spilled blood.
There are a dozen of the pathetic wretches, always prowling, always hunting, always _hungry_ for magatama and flesh and youki in their near-mindless drive. It's surprising that there are only so few, really, considering that they're the effective bulk of the conquering army ...
... likely didn't feel like sharing a meal.
"Myobu."
Her white fur is running red with blood, most of it her own, and she can hardly stand. Despite this, she growls. The pathetic little ragtag group of local Rei cowers behind this equally pathetic spectacle.
"I should just finish you off for this," he growls out, tails lashing. "For the sheer stupidity of it!"
But he doesn't. They all have their ... foibles. The idiot healer never could become as ... efficient at some things as he and Koryo. She'd never been able to develop the appropriate us-and-them mentality ...
... but then, that was why he was leader.
And speaking of mentality ...
"Koryo," he growls, flaring some of his Youki as he circles around the huddled group. The chuckle in the air beside him doesn't come as a surprise, nor is the shimmer in the air there cause of any. "Get your smug ass out here where I can yell at you!"
"Oya, oya, taicho! No call for that! No call at all!"
The grey, shimmering kitsune fades into visibility, protesting all the while, his expression a study in innocence that's about as genuine as any of the Nue's promises had been.
"Shut up before I spay you, 'Ko-chan'," the rust of his fur flares, momentarily reducing the Gaki-blood and bits of flesh lodged here and there on his body to ash. Flickers of flame trail from paws and tails, over the ground, disappearing into the corpses. Koryo does as he's told. Good choice. "Now listen."
A few moments later Koryo's form is gone again, trailing through the Ether to track down the other six of the pack.
A bit after that, Myobu's insensate body resting across his back, the three-tails considers the Rei.
They're worthless. Scared shitless, clad in things that had never been intended for travel and are little more than rags now ... he's seen them before, he realizes. And gives a dry, mirthless chuckle.
Well.
Maybe the fool little healer isn't quite so foolish ... or maybe it's just luck.
He can use this.
He _will_ use this.
It's too good not to use.
First, though, he has to see about getting these maggots as well as his pack away before the idiot Nue realized he was missing a dozen of his most ... pfeh ... loyal vermin.
Then they'll wait, and maybe help along a little until Yorimasa's oh-so-grand legion turns on itself - something so obvious only someone as arrogant as the Nue could miss it - and play the noble beasts while brining the 'rightful rulers' back to this shattered land.
After all, his employment contract was terminated no more than an hour ago.
He's Nogitsune of the Kyuubi. He's entitled to being a mean-spirited little ass every once in a while. Especially if it means getting himself a fiefdom.
Before the thought is done, though, light flares in his vision ...
... and the body of Uzumaki Naruto bolts upwards, throwing the covers of the bed aside, momentarily red eyes fading back into icy-blue.
The Kyuubi no Kitsune glares at the dawning sun as its rays bathe Konohagakure in a golden glow.
He hates how the sun always, _always_ gets him in the face every morning.
On general principle if nothing else. It's just the way he is.
But at the moment, that irritation is shoved aside by something else.
Dreams.
He's having _dreams_ again.
He hates having dreams.
They're never -ever- a good sign.
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp ***
END foxes wild
&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp ***
---

Sleep now.
-Griever
When tact is required, use brute force. When force is required, use greater force.
When the greatest force is required, use your head. Surprise is everything. - The Book of Cataclysm

Well 4 of us in The Infamous, Lady Nogi, Mace, Jen, and TechHead started the lvl 25 sg SF. We agreed to finish it on Monday 2/05/07 6:30-7ish pm Eastern. This is a note to remind those involved of the time.

I've been complimented on my screenshots before, but I think I caught a sequence that truly is astounding this time.
This sequence of 13 shots of Vigdis Brightblade was taken at the end of a mission on Striga vs the Banished Pantheon. You're supposed to defeat all of the Pantheon and destroy a portal to the spirit world that they're trying to open. The portal itself is a unique bit of graphics I've seen nowhere else in the game yet. I'd played this mission before so I knew what to expect and I thought I could get some nice shots as Vee took out the portal. So I rotated the camera around and got a good angle before commencing with the destruction while keeping a rapid-fire trigger finger on the "print screen" button.













Now tell me that whole spinning, swirly sword strike doesn't just scream "Magical Girl"! ^_^

-Logan
-----------------
"Wake up! Time for SCIENCE!"
-Adam Savage
-----------------

For a very limited time, a fellow I know is producing minis of spacecraft from this series. Selections include the ARMD "Armor" platform, the SDF-1 and -2, and the Banshee, Tristar, and Tokugawa ships from Southern Cross. He is also considering trying to sculpt an Ikazuchi from MOSPEADA.
He will be taking orders for the next two weeks, but on the 15th he'll be shutting the website down, as it's a bit difficult to operate this kind of business from an army base in Iraq.
If folks are interested, however, I'm tempted to place a larger order for myself, and can include a few things.
Banshee Destroyer - $3, ~ 1 inch
Trister Cruiser - $4, ~ 1.5 inch
ARMD: $5, ~ 1.75 inch
SDF-1/2: $12 (I think), ~ 4 inch
He also has ships from Starship Troopers and Space: Above and Beyond. Website is forgottenstarhips.blogspot.com - the paypal links are poorly hand-coded, however, and only intermittently functional for some reason.
I'm going to have to find a source for the fighters, now...--
"I give you the beautiful... the talented... the tirelessly atomic-powered...
R!
DOROTHY!
WAYNERIGHT!
--
Sucrose Octanitrate.
Proof positive that with sufficient motivation, you can make anything explode.