Sagara took them across the training field, through a grove of trees, to the first of a set of imposing buildings nestled behind the Hokages’ stony heads.

“HQ, barracks, medical office, cafeteria,” Sagara said rapidly, pointing out landmarks. “T&I building. Stay out of there unless directly invited.”

Eyeing the squat, grey-stone building, Kakashi didn’t need telling twice.

“The QM lives at the back of the HQ building,” Sagara went on. “He is one man with a heavy workload, and very few assistants. You will treat him with extreme respect, or you will find yourself in a cockroach mask. He has full control over the designs. You have none. Do not argue with him.”

Ryouma crossed his arms over his chest, flattening his unbandaged hand over a finger-length gash in the side of his jounin-vest. “Do we repair our own gear?” he asked.

The hawk-mask regarded him. “No,” she said. “You maintain it. The QM will repair any damage, or provide replacements. He does not attend to regular jounin wear, or personalized weapons. Those remain your responsibility.”

Kakashi was starting to suspect the QM was a touchy man.

Ryouma nodded, and didn’t risk another question.

“I expect rookies to remain silent in the HQ,” Sagara said, and led them through the front doors.

For a building with a rich history of bloodshed behind it, the ANBU HQ was surprisingly office-like. Instead of the usual hardwood flooring, bland grey carpeting stretched from wall to wall. A pale wooden desk stood to the left side of the door, manned by a grizzled older shinobi—a veteran, Kakashi judged, by the tight chakra signature and missing hand. The walls were taupe.

“Commander,” said the desk-ninja, tapping his stump to his left shoulder.

Sagara nodded.

There were more elevators. Sagara led them down the stairs. A winding, intricate set of hallways itched Kakashi’s senses with the metal-taste of latent chakra. They passed multiple closed doors with, as far as he could tell, no coherent numbering system. None of them were paper-screen; everything here was solid wood or stone. The walls and carpet remained the same grey and taupe combination.

Curiously, there were no scuffs or scratch marks anywhere.

Any invading ninja would have a bastard of a time navigating without a detailed map to guide him. Kakashi’s respect crept up a notch.

Sagara halted at an entirely unremarkable door and rapped twice, then three more times. After a moment, the door opened and a thin, grey-haired man peered at them over half-moon spectacles.

“Sagara-sama,” he said, with a deep, respectful bow. “The new candidates?”

“Eight of them this time, Wada-san,” Sagara said. “Is Morita-san available?”

“One moment, please,” said the assistant, with another bow. He withdrew, leaving the door partially open.

How special were the ANBU uniforms, that this much respect went to the man who made them?

The door pulled back. Sagara bowed slightly, and Kakashi blinked. The Quartermaster was young. A middling-height, sturdily built man with the distinctive darker skin and lighter hair of Lightning, but without the typical beard—and then, because he couldn’t help himself, Kakashi saw the other details. Smaller hands, a throat unbroken by the profile of an Adam's apple, the lines of flattening bandages beneath the shirt. And when Morita spoke, a voice that held more sand than gravel.

"Sagara-sama.” A broad smile showed very white teeth. "You've brought me fresh meat."

Sagara said he, which meant it was he, no matter the original landscape. Some villages were more strict about maintaining binary lines, but Konoha had always leaned towards accepting the shades of grey.

“Don’t feel you need to be nice to them,” Sagara said. “Send them over to Briefing Room 37-A when you’re done with them.”

“Of course,” said Morita. His eyes swept over the eight candidates, and landed on Ryouma. “You, tall guy, let’s have you first.”