Chapter Text
The weight of the hitai-ate is heavy in Sora’s hands. They run their fingers over the engraved metal; the half-leaf spiral familiar now, after all these years.
(It is nothing like the clan symbol they had worn once, in another life; and this ties them to something else entirely. Still… there is familiarity here; a comfort that Sora appreciates because they have so little comforts now.)
A furrow forms in their forehead as they locate the dips and bumps on the back of the metal plate. Their identification number—meaning that, if they fall, someone can take their hitai-ate back to Konoha and their name can be added to the KIA Stone, (and is this how they will be remembered? Another name, another number, another hitai-ate remelted and recycled).
(It seems that no matter which time you live in, the vicious cycle of war never changes.)
Exhaling, Sora slides the hitai-ate around their wrist, double-looping the navy-blue band so that it sits snugly. They are not the last of their class to be called in to receive their promotion—or be denied one, as the case might be—but they are one of the few clan members left. There’s a Yamanaka over in the corner, likely being held in suspense due to her tendency for pranks; and an Uchiha well-known for ignoring teachers. Then, of course, there are a number of first- or second-gen students still waiting too.
It says a lot that Sora is cast in with this lot. In the end, though, they expected nothing else. They are a Sarutobi in name alone, not beloved by the Clan or by the Academy. Still, the sponsored—students sponsored by major clans with their tuition paid by such clans—receiving their hitai-ate before them had left Sora with a bitter taste in their mouth. Such blatant favouritism is unsurprising, but Sora still hates it for what they’d once had.
Stride a bit too eager, Sora willingly leaves the classroom behind. For all that their Academy years had been simple in that they knew what to expect, they are all too willing to leave it to the past.
(It is one of the bigger differences that they have had to adjust to—this village teaches children together; no apprenticeships or close-kin teachings. Sora only succeeded because of their memories, their Clan unwilling to give them any time or training. It is so very, very different.)
(Of course, just because Konoha claims to not throw children out into the war with no teaching doesn’t mean that’s how it actually is. Konoha teaches history with the claims that Senju Hashirama built this village so children could be children—but here Sora is, graduating at seven years with the majority of their agemates. There is nothing here to be proud about.)
Outside the Academy, there are celebrations taking place. It’s a cacophony of noise that Sora walks through without it touching them. Whatever other Sarutobi students had graduated have already left, unsurprisingly, but it still leaves Sora’s heart sore in a way they can never quite deal with. Heartache, they had once thought, would leave them behind.
It’s been years and it hasn’t yet. Sora is beginning to believe it never will.
It would have been better if they didn’t know what a close Clan felt like, had never had a taste of the kinship they now yearn for. There are some memories they are thankful for, but the ones of their old Clan are bittersweet, (they are so, so thankful for it; and hate that they have the comparison for what-was-once to what-is-now).
Sora walks on, alone, (always endlessly alone).
They avoid the rambunctious Inuzuka tussling, the cheerful Akimichi, the patient Yamanaka still waiting, and the prideful Nara. Off in the other direction, the Uchiha and the Hyūga walk quietly, paces apart, but there is a contentment to their walk that is hard to avoid.
There is no one waiting for Sora, though, and so onward they go. The walk is quiet, peaceful, and Sora considers the world around them as they do so. They have gotten used to the village now; no longer finding it so strange or odd. The collection of ninjas, clan members and civilian-born, fit together somehow; jagged edges largely smoothed down.
Laughter and happiness are more common in this lifetime, decades and generations from the era that had seen Sora grow in bloodshed and in war, (even the war they are now trapped in seems smaller in comparison; less bloody though Sora knows blood and war go hand in hand). Something that Sora is glad for, if nothing else.
It does, perhaps, take slightly longer to reach the Sarutobi Compound from the Academy via the backstreets, but Sora is far more comfortable on this route. The shadows are plentiful and the only people skittering around duck their heads and avoid Sora’s eyes. There are no crowds. This is the solitude that they choose, (and here, at least, it is a choice).
Not to mention, the market place on the main street is always awfully busy at this time of day, especially after the Academy has been let out.
After another turn, they leave behind the thin alleyways with their looming buildings and onto a bright street with a tree stretching for the sun off to the side. It’s not a Hashirama tree, but it is strange, still, caught in amongst the buildings and the cobbled pathways.
But then—there, the Compound. The Sarutobi munamon stands proudly above the nearby street ornaments; open wide with only a single Sarutobi guard.
Sora enters with a small nod, which isn’t returned, and let the wards welcome them home. The wards themselves are, by and large, one of the few things that Sora likes about the Compound. It grants them safety but, more than that, it reminds them of home.
(Home, but home from another lifetime. Home when home was a family and a Clan who cared. Home when home had been the place they always wanted to return to.)
The wards settle against their skin with a hum and then they begin to fade, returning to background sensation once again. And so, Sora begins to walk back to their house. They pass a few gossiping adults and some screaming children as they do so; all of which see them and pay no more attention.
Ships passing in the night; aware of one another but without sharing anything more than a glance.
Soon, they reach their house. It sits near the back of the Compound; a family insignificant; a family of one. A hand on the door and a soft ripple of chakra unlocks the strongest of the wards; a final gift that Sora’s parents could offer them.
“I’m home,” Sora calls, words soft; a habit still unbroken. They take off their shoes, place them carefully aside, and continue onward, heedless of the lack of greeting.
After all, everyone knows that ghosts have no greetings for the living.
Sora continues their usual routine. Bento box washed and placed to dry. Bag emptied. Clothes changed. They don’t need to do laundry yet, but perhaps in a day or two. Groceries will need to be done soon too.
Then, new paperwork in hand, they retire to the kotastu. The heading stares up at them—GENIN PROMOTION FILE. There are a few pages, but Sora doesn’t bother flicking through them just yet. It can only be dealt with in order and one at a time. They have time. Dinner is still a while away, after all.
Almost unwillingly, their gaze slides away from the paperwork and to the small butsudan. The incense from this morning has long since died out, but the flowers from yesterday are still somewhat fresh—though the petals are beginning to curl.
“Would you be proud of me?” Sora asks, apropos of nothing, and is immediately ashamed of their own question. They exhale, forcefully steady. Yūdai and Kenzō, their parents, have been buried for years now, and Sora knows better than to hold onto their ghosts. Hold on too tight and, ultimately, you will follow them into the afterlife, and into the grave.
(Sora knows ghosts and carries them with them. Their shoulders are heavy, their heart even more so. Sora carries all their ghosts from this life and their last. There is one difference between them and their ghosts, though, and that is that Sora is still breathing. They are not dead. Not yet.)
Sora turns their attention back to the paperwork. The forms are easy to fill out, made for children, and Sora tries not to overthink it as they read the instructions on what happens now—and where to find the Genin Commander to receive their orders.
Something within them bulks at the idea of following orders. It is the same part of them that Sora has worked for years to overcome; the thoughts that are best left to another era. In the past, it had been Clan leading them. Everyone in leadership positions had been known to them, or known to someone who they knew. No unknowns. No strangers. Sora could trust them, could trust their Clan.
The Hokage, in comparison, is a figure that only ever exists in Sora’s peripherals. Their paths do not cross, will not cross. All Sora has to trust in is public opinion and their own interpretations of the Hokage’s actions. They’ll never be able to guess at the politics behind anything, since the only politics they know in this life is that of the Sarutobi Clan.
Still, Sora will follow the orders given to them and do as bid.
(There is nothing else for them, in this life. They are a ninja, and have always been so. Nothing more, nothing less.)
Tomorrow, then, they will go to the Genin Commander and find what happens next.
Tomorrow, they will join the war in an official capacity.
(Tomorrow, things will change—or so Sora hopes.)
The Genin Corps are officially located on the edge of Training Ground 16. The training ground itself is little more than a field of grass, kept short, with a cluster of trees swaying off to the side. Sora casts it a single glance before turning the majority of their attention to the building close by.
The building lacks any embellishments; a far cry from the fancier building that the Hokage’s Office is situated in. In Sora’s opinion, the building looks hastily constructed, and not like it’d received any of the Shodaime’s attention like other buildings from the village’s foundation had been.
It wouldn’t surprise Sora. The Genin Corps seem to be largely forgotten in light of genin teams and higher ranks. The only reason why Sora has some knowledge surrounding the Genin Corps is because they wanted to know what to expect upon graduating, and knew that were never going to end up on a proper genin team, (not with their standing in their Clan, not with how the Clan looks at them, not when they’re a half-blood bastard in the Clan’s eyes).
Sora rolls their shoulders backwards, straightens their spine, and enters the building at a decent clip. However, upon entering, they can’t help but to pause.
A wall sits dead ahead of them. A sign points to the left with ‘Sleep Spaces’ written above it, and a sign to the right reads ‘Lounge’. It takes a moment longer for Sora to spot the door just below the signs, partially open, with a sign of its own—OFFICIAL PURPOSE.
It looks to be some kind of joke, but Sora doesn’t understand it. They give themselves one more moment to settle, heartbeat slowing, and then slide the door open and enter.
They find themselves stepping into a hall, which seems to have been repurposed into an inside training ground. On one side, there are a series of mats laid down for katas and a few sparring rings taped off. Off to the other side, there are a number of targets at varying distances and locked chests. Then, further ahead, a wooden staircase leads up to an office that has glass windows that look down into the hall. The Genin Commander’s Office, no doubt.
There are a few people in the hall, but they ignore Sora entirely. It leaves Sora wondering whether the hall sees much use, or if it’s forgotten much like the Genin Corps themselves.
(Then again, with the war, perhaps things are different. Sora only has an inkling of an idea of just how far spread Konoha’s forces are.)
When Sora reaches the top of the flight of stairs, they find the door to the Genin Commander’s Office closed. Still, they’ve made it this far, and it’s not a hardship to reach out and rap smartly against the door twice.
There is a beat of silence, and then—“Enter!”
Sora enters, closing the door with a quiet click behind them. They take in the office, which aligns neatly with their expectations. A bookshelf full of books off to the side; a map pinned to the other wall; and a desk covered with paperwork, complete with a wilting plant. Behind it sits a shinobi somewhat out of his prime, though his black hair is short enough that Sora struggles to spy the grey hairs peppering his temples. When he looks up at them, his grey eyes glint and-
And Sora exhales, steady, and remains relaxed. Doesn’t let a thought cross their mind.
(And if their heart pounds, if their mind skips a thought, if their body begs to tense up—that is no one’s business but their own. It matters not that this man had been Clan once. Or could have been Clan. There is no kinship here, not anymore.)
(When Sora died, they left all that behind, too.)
“Kurama Akimitsu, he/him,” the Genin Commander grunts, though willing to give Sora a beat or two to adjust. “New graduate?”
Sora ducks their head in a nod. “Sarutobi Sora, they/them. I graduated yesterday.” Stepping forward, they extend a hand out with their paperwork.
Akimitsu takes it and speeds through it, flicking through the pages faster than Sora had expected. They suppose that this shinobi has had a lot of experience with these things though, considering his position and his age.
“All in order,” Akimitsu says, laying it off to the side. “I don’t suppose you’ve received your orders?”
Sora wonders if they were meant to, if there’s something they’re missing. “No sir,” they reply, because it would be bad form to do anything else.
“Hm.” Akimitsu reaches for a chipped white mug, sips at it, and then places it back down. “At least I expected that. Due to the lack of jōnin teachers, you have not been placed on a genin team. Instead, you have been placed with a squad of genins with a chūnin as your mission head. You will deploy 0500 in two days. You will meet at Konoha’s eastern gate. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Any concerns or questions?”
Sora shakes their head. “No sir, thank you for your time.”
Akimitsu grunts. “May silence haunt your footsteps.”
“May the earth shudder beneath your feet,” Sora says, returning the traditional goodbye. Then, with nothing more to say and nothing more to do, they turn on their heel.
If they are to be joining war efforts in two days, there is work to be done elsewhere.