| [Mar. 28th, 2015|03:14 am] |
The estate was sprawling and ancient, built before there had even been a hidden village called Konoha, when Fire Country was divided into a dozen minor fiefdoms and the ninja clans swore their allegiances to local lords or no one at all. Genma slipped silently from shadowed room to shadowed room, bypassing understated opulence at every turn. At the entrance to the target’s bedroom, there was a tall ceramic vase with a gold seam running around the rim and down one side, mending a crack and turning a ruined item priceless.
The door was open a few centimeters, but it was dark within. Genma’s earpiece crackled with static. Distantly he heard Raidou’s voice, Code broken link. Abort mis— An explosion. The high pitched whine of shattered electronics.
His heart raced. From inside the room, he heard Katsuko scream.
He tore the door open, and fell.
And kept falling, through earthy-smelling, lightless nothingness until he landed hard, with the breath knocked out of him and a fierce ache in his gut. Rain spattered onto grey paving stones. There were black-clad shinobi everywhere, dressed for a funeral. None he knew, but all in their hitai-ate and dog tags, lined up orderly ranks on the parade ground.
He pushed himself to his feet, trying to see past the ninja nearest him to the five frames set up next to the Heroes’ Stone, black-bordered and draped with fabric veils. Thin grey light reflected off the glass, obscuring the faces of the dead. In front of each photograph there was a vase of white chrysanthemums, and a small brazier with sticks of incense smouldering fitfully in the misty rain.
The ninja around him moved away when they caught sight of his face, creating a bubble around him.
“Who are we mourning?” he asked the woman nearest him. Her eyes went wide, then she shook her head. “Shiranui-san, I’m so very sorry.”
“What?”
“You aren’t to blame,” she said. “You couldn’t have—”
A man next to her shushed her, put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her away. “Forgive her, Shiranui-san,” he said quietly. “It’s just such a shock.” He wiped roughly at a tear that threatened to spill.
Who died?
Genma moved through the crowd, which parted around him like he was contagious. He could hear their murmurs now, hear his name. That’s him. Shiranui. What’s he doing here? I thought he was—
The rain fell heavier. As he approached each frame, the fabric rippled, or the light changed, so that he could never see the face of the deceased. There was a scroll next to each portrait, but the ink had run in the rain, rendering the calligraphed names unreadable.
He turned to face the sea of shinobi on the parade ground. “Who died?” he demanded.
As one, they shuddered in revulsion, broke down weeping, and turned anguished faces away. One small, formally-dressed child took a few hesitant steps towards him, but its mother snatched its hand and dragged it back. There was blood staining the front of its kimono.
The ache in Genma’s gut twisted, and he looked down to see the same blood covering him. He stumbled forward a step, his leg buckled under him, and he fell again. |
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