| [Dec. 31st, 2016|10:28 pm] |
Fukuda tapped Kakashi’s shoulder. He dropped out, falling thirty feet to land in a low crouch. The aqueduct's filtering station was a squat, circular building with several connected structures; there were plenty of corners to hide in. He pressed back against smooth stone. A moment later, Ryouma joined him, then Genma and Raidou at staggered intervals.
Fukuda came last.
If she felt anything about touching ground in her home village, it didn’t show on her face.
“Stay close,” she said, then darted away.
They leapt after her. She slipped like a wisp through blind alleys and snickets, leading them deeper into the warren of cramped, labyrinthine streets. There were almost no people out, which struck Kakashi as strange — even at this late hour, Konoha’s center was a lively place of young (and not so young) people out blowing off steam. Fukuda cut through shadows, or up over roofs, twisting with skilled ease to use every patch of camouflage. It was easy to follow her: ghosting through Konoha unseen was a standard jounin game.
The further south they went, the more impoverished the houses became. Ramshackle buildings knuckled together like starving animals, and the rare faces they passed became thinner, desperation carved deeper than this one night accounted for. A skeletal dog lunged on the end of a short chain; Genma’s senbon cut it down before it could bark.
There were rumors that Kirigakure had a three-caste system: founders, allies, conquered. It was the shinobi mined from the lowest category who graduated by slaughtering each other, and earned the worst missions for their reward. Infiltrating Fire Country with a psychopath to extract a defector and his family, for example.
Fukuda took a sharp right. Ryouma slapped a building with an open palm to make the same turn, rebounding off a wall. Genma and Raidou took the roof. In the next street, a waft of raw sewage made Kakashi’s head jerk back. Giant sanitation pipes running next to the road were cracked in places, open to the air.
Two more turns ended in a closed alley, so narrow the moonlight could barely filter through Three squat, round houses leaned into each other. Two of the buildings had boarded windows. The third had drawn curtains, a door with metal reinforcements — and inside, the thin wail of a young baby.
Fukuda’s composure cracked. She drew a shallow, shaking breath and pressed her forehead against the door, narrow shoulders heaving.
“There’s no time,” Ryouma hissed, casting a wary look over his shoulder.
Fukuda closed up like a fan, snapping herself together. She pushed back from the door and placed her hand over the lock. Kakashi opened himself just enough to feel the seedling of chakra sinking into metal. The lock fell apart; she caught the pieces before they hit the ground, set them down, and pushed the door open.
Steel flashed.
Every member of Team Six jerked forward, but Fukuda simply raised her hand and caught the knife’s handle, arresting the blade an inch from her throat. Its wielder, a young woman with light brown hair and naked terror on her face, stared at Fukuda.
“Hi, Kimiko,” Fukuda said quietly.
Kimiko let go of the knife, flung her arms around her sister’s neck, and burst into tears. |
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