Sumire notably did not have a taste for sour candies, which caused Arata to smile as he stood at the counter, watching her dump a large amount of cakes and other goodies across it very haphazardly. “That sounds like something some kinda wimp would say..” he would tease her about her opinion on sour candies hurting ones mouth. He would grin, once more, making this the first night he had smiled in months. It never even occurred to him, as immersed as he was in this character of Arata, that he was feeling at ease and happy. All of his invented persona was simply a mechanism of his mind to force him to rationalize being s normal young adult for once rather than brooding. In his unsteady mind he wouldn’t realize this, however. His plans and plots were all some version of the young man buried in Sunagakure’s rubble finding an excuse to come alive. Rōi was not a villain, but Arata was meant to be. If not for that fact this coping mechanism would have been healthy.

Sumire, whom Arata had already dubbed as a bit of a drinker, mentioned the quality of the beer behind the counter was superior and more difficult to find at other locations. “I find it hard to believe any brand of that carbonated piss would taste better than any other. Do you like cinnamon?” he wouldn’t wait for an answer before signaling the clerk to grab a bottle of his favorite cinnamon whiskey from behind the counter as well. The clerk himself seemed to be dead inside, operating like some sort of robot. It was probably not uncommon for such ruckus to unfold at a shop that remained open to all manner of night crawlers like themselves. The bottle was rather heavy and made of a very thick glass. As the cashier punched in all of the different prices and values, Arata would notice a man entering the store, attempting to sling pickup lines at Sumire.

In all of his time in Konoha, there were a few things that still put Arata back to that place in his mind that he liked to stay out of. Memories of an inferno desolating his home and wiping away his family. It wasn’t the things one would suspect though. Loud bangs, flashes of light, intense heat. None of those things really did it to him. Interestingly enough, the thing that took him back to standing atop the ruins of his home was the disruption of his plans. Whatever sort of undiagnosed mental health problems the young man suffered from, post traumatic stress disorder was the most easily identifiable. He couldn’t bear to see a plan go sideways, much like it did that day. The flirtatious banter between Sumire and the sweaty looking degenerate who poked through the shop door would place Arata upon that rubble, staring down the person responsible for everything he had lost.

Arata would move passed Sumire with a quickness. Approaching the man, about equal in height but a bit more muscular toned, with purpose in each step. Aggressive. That’s what would describe the feeling of this entire movement as he came face to face with that figure. Still disassociated to that place within his flashback, he would bring the bottle of cinnamon whiskey hard across the man’s face, the thick glass of the bottle not even breaking despite the force. “You do not belong here. This is not your place.” Arata would state in an angry tone of voice nothing like what he had been using all night. A few teeth seemed to clack to the floor, likely due to the fact that as a trained shinobi Arata possessed more strength than an average civilian. The strike with the resilient bottle had been quite damaging.

The man would retaliate as he grabbed Arata by the front of his shirt and dragged him out into the streets. The cinnamon whiskey bottle rolled across the ground, the clerk looking on at the situation with some amount of concern, then to Sumire for some kind of confirmation that things would be paid for. As the man punched Arata in the face, the frantic shinobi reached into his pouch and a stainless steel scalpel would reflect moonlight directly into Sumire’s eyes, likely alerting her to its lethal potential. Arata had every intention of ending this intruder’s life.

---

741

Sumire would scoff at Arata's tastes and eye his poison of choice with curiosity as he set before the cashier. These two were setting up for quite the bill.

"I'm sorry your inferior taste buds have led you astray," She would joke. Then the vaguely attractive man would make his entrance and Sumire was interested to see the reaction of her night time friend? It'd been such a long time since Sumire had said that about anybody. Friends for her were far and few. In fact, this is the first time in a while the young woman had been semi sober and having fun. If she was being true to herself she was at a comfortable buzz currently. The effects of the alcohol lessening but somehow she was enjoying herself still.

Sumire trained her eyes on Arata as he made quite the display. He moved swiftly around her and in front of the man. Though she hadn't known the young man for very long something felt different about the way he moved. It was as if he was a completely different person. When he spoke the venom in his words should have stunned Sumire but the perks of still being buzzed kept her complacent as she watched the scene unfold. His voice sounded much more gutteral in this state he was in. The horned woman turned back to the person at the cashier with a flick of her bob and looked at the woman whose eyes were trained on the commotion.

"Boys? Am I right?" Sumire would remark before turning back to stare.


Sumire stood still as the once friendly orange eyed boy grabbed that bottle of cinnamon drink and struck the dark haired intruder across the face with it. The sound was sickening and the sight of teeth on the floor sobered Sumire the rest of the way quickly. Her eyes averted to the cashier who was still focused on the scene before them. Sumire would quickly stuff the snacks into her handbag while he was preoccupied. She glanced back at the scene to find them outside. The dark haired man grabbing Arata by his shirt but Sumire was now aware that her new friend was definitely a shinobi. There was no other explanation as to how else he could have done that much damage with only a glass bottle.

Sumire grabbed the bottle off the floor and walked to the door of the convenience store still watching her mind gone from the cashier. She briefly wondered if she should step in. The answer became very clear when she spotted the scalpel in Arata's hand. Sumire muttered curses under her breath as she realized this may be getting a bit out of hand. She rushed over readying her hands to produce small sparks of raiton chakra. She would then flick the sparks at the ground causing them to burst into bright light. If Arata's eyes were open he would be blinded for a few seconds long enough for Sumire to pull him off of the stranger by his free hand and run with him away from the corner store and towards her apartment, which was only a few blocks away. If not, that poor man would more than likely meet his maker.

---

Indeed, a plan that failed to achieve its purpose was one of the leading triggers for Arata’s PTSD. As the livid young man pulled a surgical scalpel from his pocket he knew the civilian hadn’t yet realized it as he continued on his offense. There was no way to look back to see what Sumire made of all of this, and in this state of fury it didn’t much matter. Even if the medical ninja had wanted to spare this sorry filth, he had seen too much. And of course, that was the last thing that went through Arata’s head before a shower of blinding sparks snapped him out of everything. His vision went entirely for a few seconds as he felt himself being dragged away.

As his vision slowly returned he wouldn’t recognize where they were, only that it was completely different than the street front in front of the convenience store. Sumire had saved him. Whether it was from the man he was fighting or from himself. She had taken the initiative to pull him out of a bad circumstance he ran with the direction she pulled, knowing that any resistance would’ve resulted in a fall with his state of disorientation. Finally he pulled back, stopping the retreat to look upon her with his eyes still filled with the veins of his anger “Why?”

That was the only thing he could gather to say in the moment. It was a loaded question. He wasn’t sure of the answer he’d receive. And the question wasn’t even fully geared toward her, but also introspective. Why had he done this? After all of the trouble he had gone through to try and learn about her. He had subconsciously deemed her some sort of step holy relic he had to obtain. He would glance around at the row of apartments. They were nice, but small and cozy looking. This did not seem a place people who sought permenant residence would take up a lease in. He would remember this place for future reference as he looked over at Sumire. “Did you manage to get any of the snacks?” he would say this with the intention of ignoring the elephant between them. From his pockets he would pull out the two packs of sour candies he had stolen. “These are only for those of us with higher tastes, unless you’re brave enough.” He would lightly toss a bag in her direction, expecting her to catch it.

---

423 | 1164