"If that was your version of a thank you," Asuma said, eyeing the talking dog (ugly talking dog), "it sucked." He leaned back on his heels, re-sheathing his trench knife, and returned the three-eyed once-over.

Seriously ugly dog. Someone had recently decided to gouge an eye out, lop an ear off, and strip away half its facial fur, leaving raw scabs behind. The rest was falling out in great big clumps--where the other dog hadn't torn it away.

And it talked, but Asuma had been around Inuzuka before. He remembered the clan leader's dogs from endlessly boring meetings.

Not that this dog looked like one of those.

The woman--he cocked his head, flicking a second glance over those here-and-gone-again curves--was a little on the prettier side. Not much prettier, what with the bandage at her temple, scratches over her throat, and diamond-blue glare aimed right his way.

Actually, that was a little sexy.

He swept his hair back out of his face (it was past collar level; he really needed to get it cut) and let his grin broaden.

"How about you try again? Let your buddy pick up the tab for the broken furniture--" he nudged the unconscious Inuzuka with a foot, "--and show me a place that's good to eat? Preferably one that'll take..."

He dug through one pocket, pulling out a mess of cross-world currencies.

"Water-country dollars, Suna brass, or... hey, beads on a string." Blue glass dangled from his wrist and glinted in the sun. He had Fire-country cash, what with three years of Daimyo-owed backpay stuffed into his rucksack (not to mention an untapped trust fund lying around somewhere), but getting a laugh might stop him from getting the blow off.

Grateful civilian cafe owner was one thing. Kunoichi were always more interesting.