| Field of Daggers | [Jun. 9th, 2013|08:06 pm] |
[Takes place Yondaime Year 5, April 15, immediately following Choose Your Blade.]
Raidou wished ANBU’s commitment to drama involved less translocation. Space-time jutsu tended to give him a nosebleed.
It took a moment for the candidates to finish filtering away; a few hung back, lingering on the scorched training field. Raidou could understand that impulse. His Trials had been three years ago, but he still remembered the vibrating impatience to get to the second stage—and the tiny bit of terror that said, oh god don’t fuck up.
He was pretty sure he’d never looked that baby-faced, though.
When the last candidate left, he stepped down from the ridgeline of ANBU’s HQ’s roof, crouching on the edge. Rain dripped from the bottom of his mask.
The HQ was built behind the Hokage’s monument, surrounded by the ANBU-only training fields. They shared space with T&I and the barracks, plus a few other buildings. From here, he had a prime view of the whole village, framed through the spikes of Yondaime’s stony hair. A prime view of the other ANBU, too; most of them were clustered below, scattered around the buildings and in the woods.
Booted feet stepped forward on his left.
“Care to join us on the ground, Namiashi?” said the commander.
Raidou was easily a foot taller than Sagara-sama and twice as broad, but every single cell in his body went eep.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and gripped the edge of the eaves, dropping an easy twelve feet to the ground. He unfolded and stood to attention, drawing the focus of his fellow ANBU, who slipped from the shadows and did the same.
Sagara landed lightly in the middle of the circle. Instantly, the vice-commander appeared at her side, because he was a boot-licking, career-advancing little—
Raidou yanked his attention back to the commander, who was removing her hawk mask.
The revealed face was sun-weathered and strong-jawed, with a silvering of steel at the temples. Sagara had been a handsome woman in her younger years. Now, at the respectable age of forty-something, she was still handsome, but the knotted white scar stretching from the corner of her mouth to her ear levelled her up to scary.
Not that she needed it.
“Ono,” she said, addressing the man wearing a frog mask. “How’s your knee?”
A whispering laugh went up from the clustered ANBU. Ono gave an unhappy grunt. “Bent backwards, ma’am,” he said. “It’ll mend.”
“See to it afterwards,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She surveyed the group with pale blue eyes. “Well,” she said at last. “I believe that went acceptably. You have two hours to eat, rest, and pack your things before we begin set up for the second stage. New captains—” her gaze found Raidou, Usagi, and Shinji. “I suggest you liaise with your new lieutenants, if you haven’t already. Any questions?”
Usagi raised a hand. She was a stocky, muscular redhead with a rabbit mask, because the Quartermaster thought visual name puns were hilarious. “Bombs,” she said. “Encouraged or not?”
Something flickered behind Sagara’s eyes. An unwise man might have called it amusement. “Whatever you need to make a point,” she said. “Anyone else?”
Silence made the rain seem louder.
“Very well,” she said. “Kuroda, a word?”
The vice-commander’s masked face turned sharply. Before he could say anything, Sagara translocated away. After a half-beat, Kuroda followed.
Nara Shikaku whistled softly. “He’s in the shit.” |
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