บท 10: Family of Geniuses
Marcella blinks, breaking her gaze from the wall and staring down at her lap with a small frown.
Her parents are taking her to the Nara compound today. Making the reincarnated woman question her sanity all over again. She knows it's irrational to dwell on it; she knows it's inevitable at this point, but the mere thought of the consequences her actions could bring keeps it in place amidst her thoughts.
She shakes her head and sighs. Two weeks had passed since her first meeting with the Nara family, and in that time she had started making her rounds around the village, exploring the intricacy that was the Hidden Leaf.
Marcella felt it was necessary to have foreknowledge of where she was at all times for all purposes. Leisure, escape, espionage, exercise—you name it.
Marcella takes a deep breath and stares at the wall again, raising a spoon of cereal to her mouth. If someone had told her amidst the end of the artifact wars that she'd be reincarnated into the body of a child in an anime, she never would've believed them.
But here she was, sitting around a table eating breakfast with a new family as a four-year-old child from an anime.
The young woman, no girl, takes in a long breath.
Getting up from her seat, Marcella places her dish in the sink before taking her parent's hands and walking them out the door.
They walk for a few minutes in silence, the noise of the village prior filling the space between them as she tugs at her father's hand and has him place her on his shoulders. She could hear the sound of her heart as it beat against her chest and could feel the tingle of untapped chakra at her fingertips.
She looks to the side, catching the eye of a passing civilian and watching their gaze shift from soft to thinly veiled disgust in an instant.
This was another thing she had been forced to get used to over the last two weeks. Some civilians here—because she's never been given these looks by the Shinobi or civilians near their district—were racist, or at least semi-racist. She hadn't seen traces, much less been a victim of it for such a long time that she almost forgot it existed. They saw her and her dark skin and saw something to be hated and ridiculed.
In all honesty, she found and still finds their dislike of the color of her skin fairly amusing and childish, especially when it's the adults who she catches. The only reason they hadn't gone as far as being downright disrespectful was because of the positions of power her parents held in the village.
Again, she thanks whoever put her in this shitfest of a situation for giving her some good parents.
Her father of Kumo descent, growing and ascending to the rank of Jonin Commander, garnered a certain amount of respect and authority that couldn't be ignored. As a result, they placed a shield around her.
Her mother was Konoha, that alone had some civilians placing her in their good books.
She watched as their trio gained smiles and frowns alike and was somewhat intrigued when she realized it wasn't only her father gaining this type of attention. Her mother was getting quite a few glares from a few passing civilians or wondering Shinobi, which had her wondering what her mother had done to gain such a preposition.
She weaves a hand through her father's hair, playing with the strands as her thoughts wander back to the Nara.
This playdate could very well be political. Possibly to strengthen relations outside the usual Shinobi circles or to converse without the gaze of their fellow ninja.
She chances a glance at her parents, specifically her mother, knowing the woman would feel her gaze.
"Darling?" The woman in question murmurs as she continues her menstruation.
"Is this interaction with the Nara family a chance to build stronger political relations with the clan, for you both to talk to your fellow Commander, or an actual playdate?"
The caramel-skinned child looks down from her spot on her father's shoulders, watching Reiko laugh as a hand rose to ruffle her ebony locks.
"No matter how many times you do it, I'm always surprised by your ability to pick apart a situation." The woman laughs seeing the startled look on her daughter's face.
"Don't be surprised, dear that expression you have when deep in thought always gives you away. Your perceptiveness can be both a treasured asset and a fatal flaw. It'd be best for you to learn to suppress it better."
"As for your question? I'd say it's all three. You've been avoiding anyone who could even remotely be your age, like they have the plague." Marcella frowns at her.
"Don't think we haven't noticed; we simply chose not to say anything. You seemed a lot more at ease when you were with Shikamaru and Naruto than you've ever been around anyone since you began going outside. We thought that since you were comfortable enough to talk with Nara, you'd like to have him as a companion more often, while I and your father deal with some stuff we've been putting off."
Marcella closes her eyes at that. She didn't think they'd notice her put-off behavior, much less acknowledge it. It's a problem she's been trying to figure out for the better part of five months, even longer if she adds when she first noticed. The fact it was different around Nara and Uzumaki was new to her, though, and the fact they noticed before she did speaks to her self-awareness, which she resolves to improve.
"And you couldn't do this on your own time because?"
Her father speaks up. "It's the best time to deal with our particular situation without it looking too obvious."
"That's what I thought," She murmurs into the lingering silence, not even blinking when she's moved onto her mother's shoulder.
She's not even nervous hearing this; not really. Her heart echoes in her ears, but it's not because of fear. There's this insistent thrill wrapped in a deep-seated curiosity that has her wondering what would happen if she were at Konoha's mercy.
And in some roundabout and twisted way, she still is, only it's not as bad as it could be. It's not as dangerous as it could be.
Somehow, the thought doesn't scare her as much as she knows it should.
Shaking her head, she attempts to zone out, making her brain do something other than think about the situation until they reach the clan compound.
*****
The compound, at least from the outside—fine wood, bamboo, timber, paper shoji screens—screams Japanese architecture, which is to be expected, but the way the clan uses it gives the area a calming effect.
They're greeted at the entrance by two Nara guards as she slips off her mother's shoulder and into the compound without a word.
She looks around in idle curiosity, turning to see her parents take a step by her side.
She's been playing games with the head of the smartest clan in basically the whole ninja world like it was nothing when really it was like stumbling through a minefield.
The game wasn't even finished, and as her heart steadies under her calm, she wonders if their game will ever really end.
They walk up onto the patio of the house in the center of the compound, and she watches her mother tap a finger onto the shoji screen with no hesitation.
Once, twice, then without pause, the screen is swung open, the smiling face of one Shikaku Nara greeting them at the entrance.
"Nara-san," she says, bowing slightly in greeting as they step into his home.
The way Shikaku looks at her in that moment causes her to flinch; it's so reminiscent and disarmingly similar to the father of her past that she can feel herself lock up under his gaze.
His dark brown, calculating, and guarded eyes bring her unwanted levels of comfort that she shovels down and begs her tenant to lock down on.
She's not ready to face the past of her past, especially not in front of the Nara.
"Hello, Marcella-chan" He replies after their brief silence, a small frown on his features, and she just knows he caught her lapse in emotions.
She walks into the house, sending a small wave and a nod to the man for pretense sake, before moving on.
She sends the stalker child a nod in greeting as she walks further into their home. More to tamp down on her emotions than for the sake of curiosity.
She walks slowly and quietly but doesn't stray as she explores the Nara household.
The house gives off this vibe, and the clan as a whole seemed to emit it: cozy enough to feel like a forest cottage but aesthetically plain enough to not catch attention while being pleasing to the eye.
Disarming, she decides after a second.
The true beauty of the house seems to only be found by those who feel the need to search for it, and if the intricate yet deftly decorated seal in the very center of the kitchen ceiling was anything to go by, then she'd definitely found it.
She stood staring up at the seal in interest. A barrier seal? A widespread silencing seal? A deep, untold clan secret?
To one day figure out what lay beneath such complexity would be interesting, to say the least, but for now, she leaves it to her half-hearted theories.
She leaves, walking into the living room and taking a seat beside the Nara patriarch, giving a small smile and bowing to the woman.
Sitting here and watching the grownups talk somehow feels adversarial. She watches with a feeling of dissonance as the four exchange pleasantries before sparing a glance at the so-called reason for her presence at the Nara home.
She has to play with this child—shinobi, civilian—it makes no difference to her if they're trained to kill or grown to thrive—a child was still a child in her eyes—for the next two to three hours.
She is the figurative and literal definition of expressive suppression, and they want her to spend her days playing with children—well, as of right now, this one child. If not for her not knowing how to even bring up the problem, she's sure this situation would feel less like it was being forced upon her.
Instead, because of her silence, it feels like she has no way out, which she knows is anything but the truth. Her parents probably have no idea the full extent of her discomfort, much less this unknown, mysterious dislike she now harbors.
They have no idea of the possible repercussions that could occur with her and this simple playdate.
Marcella knows they're trying to help her; she knows that they're trying to make making friends easier for her, and she appreciates that they're trying, but
"Ella... She hears her father call softly as he takes a seat at her side. "What's wrong, Hon?" He looks down at his daughter, clutching at the hem of her shirt with a white-knuckled grip. Marcella hadn't even noticed her actions until he'd come over.
She feels a hand come up to cup her cheek and silently pull away. Shinsaku furrows his brow at this and slowly places the hand in his lap.
The conversations around him taper down to a mere whisper in the background as he takes in his daughter's face, looking down at the floor.
Marcella takes a minute to breathe, knowing he can see the inner turmoil written all over her face. This is a chance, she thinks; the timing is wrong and it could be done anywhere else, but she finds herself uttering the words before her brain can catch up, before she pulls back into herself before she can even take stock of what she's saying.
"Remember what Mom told me earlier today? How I am around kids my age has something to do with that. And I think it may be a problem that I can't control, or... she trails off, staring blankly as she moves forward to lean into her father's side.
He takes a breath, and so does she. She can feel the minuscule tensing of his muscles as he motions for her to continue.
"I think something's wrong with me." The words are but a mere whisper in the space between them, but she knows he hears her.
"I'm feeling things I don't understand, and I don't know if they'll ever stop. It has something to do with what Mom said earlier. I know I don't react well to kids my age. I know... but being near them, some of them—most of them—make an indescribable feeling crawl under my skin, and the things I've seen only seem to enhance it.
"It's not nervousness; it's not jealousy; it's not even anxiety; it's not even envy. I know what those things are; I've experienced them in full, and what I feel around them is different. It's worse; it's violent, and that scares me.
It's not even hate; don't ask me how I know; I just know. If it were, it would be so much easier to explain than whatever this is.
I can speak to and tolerate them easily enough, even if it leaves me feeling like someone tried to slide glass underneath my skin.
Eventually, I'm hoping this feeling will dissipate, as it has with Shikamaru. I just want to understand it better, grasp it, or control it at least.
It doesn't make sense to me; it only reacts around kids—not even babies, just kids, children. I don't know if this feeling will grow with me or if it'll stay here in what would be my childhood memories, but I'd rather figure it out now."
She's gasping now, her breathing coming out in heaving puffs. She'd never been this nervous before the Nara or the Hokage. She can feel herself gasping for air, but she can't stop. She won't, because she knows if she does, she'll never say a thing about it again.
After a minute, she continues ignoring her shaking hands and unshed tears, which she knows he sees.
"Sometimes even the very reason for my dislike seems to disappear for a moment, and sometimes I wish it would stay that way, but it's their attitudes that always seem to pull me back.
I know that they're children, and they don't yet know the impact their actions have on people, much less the world around them, but whatever this feeling is seems to draw on that. Their lack of understanding, their lack of any real knowledge,
It pulls and grows taut under my skin, making me see red in such a way that it feels like I'm watching and seeing someone who isn't me.
It focuses on the fact that they always want more, even when it's unnecessary. They claw at it, pulls me in, and by the time I realize what I'm doing through the haze, I'm mere minutes away from doing something I may regret.
It's not just that, though; it revels in their nonsensical pleas, laughs at how easily they're manipulated, and smiles at how easily they're corrupted by the people around them. If I see them as layers of backstory or pawns and pieces on a chess board, this thing sees each one of them as ignorant lambs in a slaughterhouse, and as messed up as it is, I understand that too.
I don't know what to do with myself because, half the time, I know these are my thoughts and feelings. I know that this is how I see the world.
It's so damn confusing. Because I know what I'm feeling is me because, after all, it's done and the haze clears. I know deep down that if I'd gone through with whatever this is, I'd never regret the action.
I find it startling how the mere thought of all that makes my skin crawl or chills run up my spine, but at the same time, if given the chance, I wouldn't stop; I'd see through whatever this damn thing is until the end.
It scares me that I wouldn't stop myself even if it were in my control. "
Her father furrows his brow, his eyes, never leaving his daughter's face. She wants his opinion, and she wants to run; she wants to go to the woman she now calls mom and hide away from the world, but she doesn't.
She looks up, expecting something—anything—from the man she calls dad. What she doesn't expect is the eyes of everyone in attendance on her.
She sighs shakily, holding her head in her hands. Had she raised her voice during their conversation? Had they listened? The mere thought has her moving. Her feet are off the couch and moving to leave the room before she can even breathe.
A quick hand on her shoulder holds her in place. She spares a shaky glance at her father, who in turn pulls her into his side. His expression is pinched but surprisingly calm, despite her knowing he's jarred by her revelations.
She had never understood the emotion, and she hasn't been able to tell her tenant her thoughts as of late.
Her almost toxic behavior, bordering on violent impulses against children in this world, has her in a vice.
A minute passes, then another, and another. She doesn't know how much time goes by, but when he speaks, she feels herself go.
slack in his hold.
His voice comes out soft and somewhat nostalgic as he responds to her rant. He doesn't fill her with false platitudes about understanding what she feels, nor does he claim to know how to make it better; he speaks of himself the only way he knows how.
He speaks of childish naivety as if he'd been speaking about the weather and of their ignorance as if he were taking a walk in a storm.
By the time he's finished, an hour and a half has gone by, and no one has moved much less uttered a sound since he's started.
Shockingly enough, it's not one of the adults but Shikamaru who breaks the silence that had enveloped them.
He gets up from his position at his mother's side, walks up to her, and stares. She doesn't know what he's looking for, be it a shift in her expression or something in her eyes, but whatever it is, he must find it because not a second later he's dragging her up the stairs.
He doesn't release her arm from his grip until they're in his room. He immediately drifted to his desk after releasing her. She doesn't ask questions; she just watches as he takes up a small board, walks to the other side of the room, and places it on the window nook.
'Take a seat,' he gestures silently, setting up what she could vaguely guess to be a shoji bored.
Marcella takes a deep breath and swallows hard. There were many things she was expecting from her day, but this was not it.
She was surprised that he wasn't questioning her about the literal emotional deep dive that had been happening for the last hour, though she doesn't doubt that he has a good grasp, if not a basic understanding, of what had transpired.
Her gaze shifts over to him once again, taking in the sight of him looking up from the shoji pieces he'd set against the board.
"Do you know how to play? If not, I'll teach you as we go along." He mutters quietly as she sits down across from him.
It took her a few minutes between sitting down and staring at him to answer his question.
Shikamaru sighs before going through a short but helpful set of shoji rules before they begin the game. She sits parallel to him, moving her pieces across the board.
Shoji, she realizes after her first loss is quite similar to chess, if just a tad more restricting and complex in its rules and strategies.
As the games continue, she slowly starts to pick up on the boy's strategies.
After the fifth game, she thinks she understands why she lost the first four times and sighs when she's handed another loss. She catches on quickly, and by the time she realizes it, hours have passed and the game is set three to five with five losses on her part.
She glances at the clock again and hums as Shikamaru's father calls them down for dinner. For a moment, she considers declining the dinner altogether before pulling herself from the window nook and heading downstairs. Shikamaru was three steps behind her.
She walks past her father and to the dining room she'd seen earlier, sparing the man a glance before walking over to the two mothers and helping them set the table.
The men of each family sit at the ends of the table on the left and right sides, respectively, with children on one side and wives on the other.
Idle chatter is shared throughout, and both she and Shikamaru share a look when the events of earlier aren't wrung into the conversation.
By the end of it, Marcella almost forgets about her outburst.
"This was a splendid dinner, Nara-San," she says to the patriarch. "Thanks for having us."
The woman's lips curl up, a small smile gracing her features as she bends down and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
"It was no problem, dear." The woman responds, surprising Marcella and her son with a hug. She doesn't spare the head a single glance, surprisingly enough, despite the feel of the man's gaze on her back.
She breaks off the hug just a tad bit dejected, ruffling Shikamaru's hair as she returns to her parent's side.
They depart from the Nara home; small gestures are exchanged, and promises to visit hang in the air.
When she gets home, she gets ready for bed; there isn't much else to do at this point. She brushes her teeth and changes into her sleepwear, and by the time she makes it back to her room, she's stumbling and tripping over nothing.
Marcella contemplates writing something—a thought, a quote—to sum up the day's events and her thoughts without too much effort.
A second later, she's grabbing a strip of paper from a section of her desk and taking her quill from the ink, deciding on a simple question instead of a quote:
Life can take us to so many unexpected places; we know this. So why are we so surprised when it introduces us to a situation we never thought could exist?
May 13th ~
She places the quill back into the ink pot and pushes herself away from the desk, stumbling towards the bed.
She doesn't lie in it though, grabbing a pillow and stumbling to her parent's room. She knocks and enters, and their shared glances say more than any words could. She says nothing, and they don't ask, and she's grateful despite knowing there will be a conversation.
Her head hits the pillow with a dull thump, a stifled yawn escaping her as she decides to buy a journal in the morning. Her vision fades to black as she drifts into slumber, the small piece of paper tumbling out of her hand and onto her pillow.
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