| Bottle of Smoke | [Mar. 27th, 2015|10:19 pm] |
[Takes place the evening of May 14, Yondaime Year 5, a day following God Save the Foolish Kings]
There was a point in time when Asuma was pretty sure he did, in fact, like kids. He got on well with the Daimyo’s children; they were well-behaved and polite in public, hilariously cheeky in private, and generally didn’t cause any trouble. And these kids had to be the epitome of ‘spoiled rotten’, right? So any other children had to be a walk in the park in comparison.
“Durian harvest?” Mariko exclaimed, nose wrinkling. “I’m a genin, not a farm-hand!”
The two other genin behind her nodded in agreement. Their jounin instructor pinched the bridge of his nose and stayed silent.
“The trees on this farm are over a hundred feet tall,” Asuma repeated, for what had to be the third time today. This wasn’t the first group to reject the mission out of hand. “Not to mention the fruit is larger and heavier than your head. It’s going to take two teams at least three days to harvest the entire orchard, which would normally take a civilian group around two weeks. It’s good practice for coordinating between teams, not to mention your climbing skills.”
“But we’re training to be ninja,” the girl replied. “Picking fruit and climbing trees isn’t real training, it’s… it’s…”
“Baby stuff,” one of her team-mates piped up.
“Baby stuff,” she repeated. “How are we supposed to become amazing jounin if we’re wasting our time on this?”
Their sensei was studiously looking at anything in the room that wasn’t his students or the mission desk. Aoba, who had entered the lobby with a pile of folders under his arm near the start of the argument, was doing his level best not to crack up laughing. Asuma was beginning to reconsider his previous opinion on children.
He flipped to the second page of the mission request sheet, to the section that listed anticipated outcomes and estimated skills needed for completion. “Harvest typically runs ten fruit a crate, at least ten crates a tree, with around a hundred trees. In order to get that done in the three days you’re paid for, you’ll need to harvest a little over four trees an hour. That’s assuming you only work eight hours a day.” Asuma privately suspected they’d end up doing quite a bit more. “Considering the weight of the fruit and the height of the trees, you’ll need decent chakra control and coordination to get through the day without ruining the product. It’ll be a good exercise in team-work and building stamina.”
“Jounin don’t pick fruit,” the genin replied sourly, not the least bit impressed by facts.
“They do if they want to get paid,” their jounin said, finally speaking up, and reached for the paperwork.
The genin groaned in a chorus of adolescent despair as he signed everything in triplicate, like anything related to mission-work required. Luckily, at this point in their career the genin were not also required to sign—Asuma had a feeling that wouldn’t have gone through without another twenty minutes of complaining. And after confirming the start date and receiving the mission folder, the jounin turned and left without another word. His genin followed after, the dourest flock of ducklings this side of Amegakure.
“I remember doing that mission,” Aoba said once the door shut again, stepping forward to the desk. “One of my team-mates dropped the fruit on my head from thirty feet up. I got a concussion on the first day. I still got paid, but I smelled like rotten durian for a week.”
“Doesn’t all durian smell rotten?” Asuma asked.
“Yeah, now just imagine that smell made genuinely rotten.” He plopped the folders he’d been carrying onto the desk and tapped them lightly. “More of the same I’m afraid. But I’ve got a good excuse to get you out of work early.”
Anything, Asuma nearly begged, then remembered who he was talking to. “Will it involve more paperwork?” he asked skeptically.
“Not from you personally,” the other man replied. “But there’s blood and bandages and antiseptic involved. And you’ll probably have to buy the beer.”
Asuma frowned slightly. “Who’s getting discharged?”
“Genma. He got in three days ago, and they’re letting him go tonight provided he’s got assistance.” Aoba smirked. “But since I have a mission, I volunteered you for the job.”
“I could kiss you.” The ancient desk chair complained mightily when he pushed away from the desk, getting to his feet and gathering the folders. “When’s the discharge?”
“As soon as you show up.” Aoba punctuated that statement with the jab of a key in Asuma’s direction. A scuffed up charm of something on a surfboard dangled from the keyring. “I’ll expect payment in vodka — none of that cheap stuff — and for gods sake, wash the bedsheets.”
He accepted the key, turning the charm over to inspect it better. No, that was in fact a pickle on the surfboard. Wave Country had a really strange idea of how to promote tourism.
“Decent vodka and a load of laundry.” Asuma pocketed the key. “I think I can handle that.”
°°°
Once inside the hospital, Asuma found his way to Genma’s room with relative ease—general admissions had been remodeled since he’d been out, and it was much easier to navigate now—and took a moment to look through the window before knocking. Genma appeared to be dozing, covers thrown aside, one leg swaddled in bandages and elevated, a pair of crutches leaning on the wall within easy reach. He was paler than when Asuma had last seen him, with the faint remnants of bruising on his face, and his hair looked like it could desperately use a wash, but he was still alive and in one piece, thank all the gods. Asuma exhaled, letting go of that stress for the moment, and knocked briefly before letting himself into the room. |
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