Asuma watched her little two-step, amused, and then mirrored it, scattering ash and finishing with a heel-toe jig. "Your turn again."

This time he got a look from all three eyes, dark gold and icy blue.

He shoved an unembarrassed hand through his hair, sweeping it back from his face (again), and lifted a one-shouldered shrug. "Aren't we dancing? I figure you must be building up to a really fantastic lunch after all these questions. Or d'you just like making your men work hard?"

She was a funny little thing, half-drowning in mens' clothes a few dozen sizes too big for her. With her hair in her face and her body hidden by hanging cloth that only clung occasionally, when the lingering wet stuck it to skin, it was hard to judge an age. Late teens; maybe early twenties at a stretch. Her chakra was even harder to guess. What little he'd felt of it--blistering with unfocused killing intent--had felt a little weird.

Chuunin, probably. Maybe a high-level genin. One who'd just had a really bad mission.

Pretty smart for an Inuzuka, though. From what he remembered--which, granted, wasn't a whole lot--they generally didn't pick up on little clues like getting out.

And even if that had been true, it wasn't the point.

He tapped his temple with an index finger, throwing back a question for a question. "So what happened to you and fuzz-bucket? Decided to go for matching scars?"