Chapter Text
<Sylvie>
The climb finally plateaued as we cleared the jarring, flickering light of the vertical firs. The timber finally surrendered to a valley depression that cradled Mori no Sato like a bruised, green lung. The sun hung as a pale, weak disc, unable to burn through the freezing fog that pooled in the hollows. Through the worn barrier of my gaiter, the air tasted of cold resin and wood-ash—a sharp mix that felt like needles on the back of my tongue.
I felt the predatory weight of a gaze before I saw the source. A mask of pale, dull porcelain tracked us from a high branch, veiled by a rising pillar of steam.
"Ignore the canopy," Kakashi said, his voice a low, dry rasp. "The Prajñā Group has a long memory. They survived Danzō and Root; they won't hesitate to see Konoha headbands as the arrival of spies. Be polite. Be professional. And Naruto—don't look like you’re looking for a fight."
Naruto didn't reply. He moved with a jittery bounce, his boots crunching through a thick layer of needles. His shoulders were high and tight, locked in a permanent shrug, and his breathing came in short, jagged puffs that fogged the air. Beside me, his orange jacket radiated a heavy, frantic warmth. I couldn't tell if the heat was coming from the nearby sulfur vents or the sheer, kinetic pressure of his body as he fought to keep his hands away from his weapon pouch.
I yanked my mask higher, the fabric biting into my cheeks. I considered using a microscopic thread of chakra to settle the cold tremor in my legs, but the mountain air felt too reactive, too thin. If I started regulating my internal temperature now, I’d be bankrupt before we found a place to sleep. Every exhale turned my glasses into a wall of white condensation, and I simply had to endure the blur.
I lost my depth perception on the trail. My foot caught on a slick, black root, sending me into a heart-stopping slide toward the ravine. I had to grab the rough fabric of Naruto’s sleeve to anchor myself.
“Whoa!” He squeaked out, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and grabbing my hand. “You okay?”
I swallowed hard and nodded slightly. My heart hammered against my ribs, and the noise of the village ahead turning into a dull, rhythmic roar in my ears.
GRRRR-CLANG.
The gate didn't swing open; it dropped. The massive portcullis of ironwood—mineral-hard from decades of volcanic curing—ground into its tracks. The vibration hummed through the soles of my feet, a heavy, bone-deep thrum. Guards stood behind it, men with grounded, stiff stability and heavy katanas. They lacked the effortless grace of the ninja I knew; they moved with a slow, mechanical weight.
In the center stood a man (Todoroki) with carred armor smelling of old oil and wood-ash clung to his frame; he looked carved from knotted rope and burnt earth. He adjusted his hat, the yellow cloth at his waist snapping in the sulfurous wind. His fingers stayed locked on his blade, his knuckles permanently stained with grit.
"Konoha," Todoroki spat. The word hit the ground like a stone. "We heard you were coming. Try not to bleed on the moss."
Todoroki didn't move, and for a heartbeat, we didn't either. The standoff stretched until the humidity felt like it was trying to weld my filter to my face. I had to wipe my lenses with a shaking thumb just to find the path past his shoulder.
“Todoroki-kun.” Kakashi said, bowing his head slightly as he passed.
So, I considered, his name is Todoroki? Roar? Boom? Maybe Thunder?
We stepped past him into a vertical tangle. Buildings grew directly into the massive trunks of the firs, their roofs covered in a stiff velvet skin of dormant moss that swallowed the sound of the village. Rope bridges swayed under our weight.
SCREEEE-CH.
Ungreased pulleys shrieked from the heights, the sound hitting my ears like shards of glass. The smell of wood-rot was thick, clashing with the sharp sting of the vents. I stopped near the main plaza, my fingers twitching toward my face to adjust the slipping mask.
Charcoal sketches lined the trunks—wanted posters for the Shinobazu, the paper yellowed and the ink run from the mountain mist:
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Monju: The boy with the light-blue hair and the cold, painted nails.
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Shura: A man with a bandaged face and heavy tattoos.
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Toki: A boy with a drilling device on his arm.
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Gantetsu: A giant of a man with black hair.
I cataloged the names, noting the crude art and the way the edges were curled. It was information, nothing more. Then Naruto stopped. He gripped the railing of the suspension bridge, the rough wood biting into his palms, and I felt the air around him spike with that same frantic heat.
CRRR-EEEAK.
I groped my head with my free hand as pressure started building behind my eyes.
The sounds. So many sounds.
I looked back, just to make sure Naruto was still behind me, but instead I caught Todoroki as he watched us pass, his hand still anchored to the steel at his hip. I felt a jolt in my marrow—a sudden, sharp projection of a memory. I saw the way Todoroki's jaw set, and I wondered if it was the same predatory hollow I saw in Sasuke whenever the topic turned to vengeance.
I blinked hard enough that I hoped it would assist in erasing the mental image.
My eyes started to drift back.
There were villagers watching us from the upper platforms, their eyes cold and sharp.
I tried to breathe and felt the air hitch in my throat.
I hate this. Stop looking at me. Stop looking at us like that.
I bit my lip and inhaled. After the foul odors of the marsh and fumaroles, my mask's faint, lingering scent of shampoo made with old cedar finally returned. The smell was firmly linked in my brain to Kakashi-sensei, and for just a moment, I felt a bit of relief: I was still allowed to breathe.
Todoroki...
I shook my head and stared ahead. I focused on the small of Anko's back. I narrowed my vision on purpose, trying to focus on the cloth of her trenchcoat and not all of the judging eyes. I watched the way folds of her coat rippled like tan waves, folding in on themselves over and over and over.
I couldn't be sure if I was reading Todoroki right or if I was just projecting the ghosts of Team 7 onto a man I didn't know. But the way he stood there, unmoving, made the place feel like we had walked across a dry branch ready to snap under the weight of the first frost.