| [Nov. 19th, 2011|06:31 am] |
“Hell if I know,” Inoichi said, opening his own water bottle and taking a long drink. “I was too busy reading the memories to make much sense of ‘em. Morino-kun?”
The black-haired young man flipped through his notepad. For the first time Ryouna noticed the long purple scars angling down his gaunt, angular face; they looked almost minor compared to the twisted, sneering bulldog monstrosity seated beside him. “The genjutsu itself was more fragmented than I expected,” Morino reported. “I think Arakaki-san is probably right about the masking effect of a second, layering genjutsu. But some of the memories from Kumo and Suna could be helpful, once they’re pieced together.”
“We’ve never gotten an agent that far into Kumogakure no Sato before,” the bland man next to Arakaki said quietly. “If we can cobble together a rough idea of where the village actually is, all of this will have been worth it.”
“Boy didn’t actually know whether he was in the village itself or one of their satellite installations,” the bulldog pointed out. He stood, stretched with a hand at the small of his back, and glowered down at Ryouma. “I still say the best way to locate that village is to find a Cloud rat and twist it out of him.”
The bland man raised an eyebrow. “And how successful have you been in that endeavor over the last ten years, Shida?”
“We can continue that discussion elsewhere,” Arakaki cut in sharply. “Morino, I want to see a clean copy of those notes on my desk tomorrow morning--with commentary, if Oita’s analysts can provide it.”
“I’ll keep Shibata up tonight working on it,” the bland man promised. “I want those notes, too.” He smiled, tight, discomfiting. Ryouma’s aching brain finally matched a name to the face: Oita Gennosuke, Director of ANBU Intelligence. That must make the bulldog man Shida Akamaru, Director of Torture and Interrogation.
Great job bringing yourself to the attention of your superiors, bucko.
“I think we’ve finished here, then,” Arakaki said, standing. He nodded gravely to Shida and Oita, included Morino with a brief jerk of his head, and then came over to the table as the other three filed out. “Thank you for your service, Agent Yamanaka.”
“My pleasure,” Inoichi said. “Though I’d prefer it if you’d wait another year or two before you have me do that again.”
Arakaki’s hand dropped down to rest, as if by accident, on Ryouma’s shoulder. Startled, he looked up, but Arakaki’s gaze was still fixed on Inoichi. “I’ll try,” he said. “I don’t have so many agents that I can use them up like this forever. Can you stand, Tousaki?”
“I can try,” Ryouma said.
He was already mostly upright, with the wet cloth still clinging uselessly to his forehead and his hitai’ate still lying on his stomach. He peeled the washcloth off and stuffed the forehead protector in his pocket, took a deep breath, and swung his legs over the edge of the table. The room was spinning. He tried waiting a moment, to see if it would stop, then gave up and slid off the edge of the table anyway. The bucket was still there, if he needed it. |
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