| [Mar. 26th, 2015|04:42 am] |
Kakashi was only one fifth of the team. There was also Ryouma, barely rooted, showing glints of promise and seams of trauma. Genma, who deserved far better for his officer's career than two mission injuries and a captain who collapsed like a faultline. And Katsuko.
Katsuko, with her old scars and her blacked-out folder, who'd punched him sane and hugged him afterwards, like she didn't care about where he'd gone just so long as she got him back. Katsuko, who'd never been anything but one hundred percent on his side, at his back, ready to kill for him. If he ever needed blood, she'd probably offer both wrists and ask which vein.
Well, no, she'd grab one of the rookies, but only because she was smart too.
He still needed to petition Yondaime-sama to declassify her file. He couldn’t do that swinging from a tree.
And then there was his mothers—
He broke the thought before it dragged him all the way down the rabbit hole. Shibata was still waiting, patient as a glacier.
Raidou drew a short breath, and said, “What do I need to do?”
The unmangled corner of Shibata’s mouth twitched, as if he was pleased Raidou had finally caught a clue. “Have a conversation with me. Answer honestly.” He poured himself a cup of light, jasmine-scented tea, steam furling around his hand. “I take it you’re rethinking ‘suicide’ as an appropriate response to your circumstances?”
“Execution, not suicide,” Raidou said. “I don’t want to die, I just thought— thought the village might need me to. I’m guessing not, though, since I’m here instead, and you seem pretty set against it. Sir.”
Shibata picked the checklist up again, glancing over it. “I haven’t made my evaluation yet,” he said mildly. “But I’m glad to see you’re keeping a more open mind.”
Raidou swallowed. Now it felt like T&I, despite the soft carpets and houseplants. It was a ghoul's talent to remind you how much you had to lose, and then dangle that like a carrot.
“I want to live,” he said, because honesty. “And make it back to my team. I don’t want Tsurugahama Port to happen ever again. Ask me anything you need to, sir.”
“Good. Let’s talk about these blackouts you’re concerned about. Is this the first time you’ve injured a teammate during one?”
“To my knowledge,” Raidou said.
“Meaning I might get a different answer if I asked your previous mission partners?” Shibata took a slow sip of tea with the functional side of his mouth, sucking it through his teeth to compensate for missing sections of lip. “There’s no mention of blackouts in your ANBU records. How far back would you suggest I go?”
“Six years, give or take a few months,” Raidou said, and saw a quick flicker of comprehension in Shibata’s eye, immediately controlled. “The reports won’t be much good; I had a lot of commanders in the war, and most of them weren’t strong record keepers. But six years would have been the first time, I think. And I say ‘to my knowledge’ because when I came out of it on the front lines, there were a lot of bodies, and some of them were my friends, but I don’t think I killed them.” He clenched his hands together. “Someone would have said something.”
Shibata nodded. He didn’t make notes; he probably didn’t need to. “Presuming there was someone left to say anything, yes, I’d expect so.” His voice was entirely neutral. “How often did this happen, six years ago?”
“Maybe four times,” Raidou said. “And again, near the end. I don’t— there are pieces about the end I just don’t remember. I did counselling after the war; they said that was how my mind had decided to cope, and I shouldn’t poke at it.”
“Did you tell the counsellors about your combat blackouts? Or was that a memory you also repressed?” |
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