| [Jun. 10th, 2013|04:16 am] |
Kakashi rolled the scroll back up. Shinobi rule #87, slightly paraphrased: Don’t psyche yourself out.
Bright chakra flared in the corner of the Sharingan, sending him down into a wary crouch. Steel unsheathed between his fingers. See what happens when you ask for it? A kick-up of dark dust obscured the view, but he was pretty sure he could see someone moving out there, and they weren’t wearing ANBU armor.
A light wind jutsu—not his—blew the dust away. It swirled back instantly, but Kakashi got a good look.
He blinked, then winced.
It was Akiyama, the candidate with the giant fuuma shuriken strapped to his back. This morning he’d been neat and sleek looking, dark-haired, with fine features.
He looked mostly bloody now.
“Run into some issues?” Kakashi asked.
Bright crimson froth spilled over Akiyama’s pale lips. “Help,” he rasped, and staggered, falling to his knees.
Yeah, that wasn’t suspicious at all.
Narrow-eyed, Kakashi sheathed his kunai and approached the man, keeping a careful watch on the empty landscape around them. Nothing else stirred. He stopped just out of arm’s reach.
“What happened?”
Akiyama braced himself on empty hands. “ANBU,” he managed; the word came out smeared. He spat red into the black dust, where it shined. “Tripped a trap.”
It smelled like real blood.
“What do you want?” Kakashi said.
There were deserts less dry than the look Akiyama gave him. “Medical assistance?”
“You have a med-kit,” Kakashi pointed out.
Akiyama’s back heaved as he retched and brought up a stomachful of bile and blood that splattered between his hands. He didn’t look stabbed, just sliced and torn, like someone had gone at him with shuriken and a briar thicket. Poison, maybe?
And then he’d translocated into the middle of the burning lands and somehow landed on Kakashi’s head?
“Drop your weapons,” Kakashi said, after a moment. “Then we’ll see.”
Akiyama almost threw his weapons down. The fuuma hit the dust first, then a welter of kunai, shuriken, senbon needles, and a short blade he’d strapped in the small of his back. He shoved them out of reach and sat back, visibly shaking with effort. His skin was waxy pale.
Kakashi scratched the back of his neck.
“Okay, then,” he said, and pulled his canteen off his belt, offering it across.
Akiyama reached for it, closing unsteady fingers around the neck. “Thank you,” he croaked.
Lines of intent snapped together in the Sharingan’s sight.
Kakashi yanked his hand back, but Akiyama caught him by the wrist. Two sharp, hot lines scratched across his skin — needle points from steel rings. He broke the grip and reversed it, forcing Akiyama’s elbow against the joint until something popped. Akiyama hissed and spat blood, splattering Kakashi’s arms and jounin vest.
Three openings presented themselves. Kakashi hit all of them, jaw, neck, and a knee in the side, and translocated the hell away while Akiyama choked.
He landed in cool, dark shadows between overhanging rocks, and resisted the urge to whack his head against one of them.
Stupid.
His arm was burning, and Akiyama still had his canteen. He ripped into his med-kit and flushed the scratches with alcohol, wishing he’d thought to pack more antitoxins. He had two; one of them covered contact poisons. He found the slim tube, swiped the thick green paste over his arm, and bandaged it. The burning faded, replaced by a dull ache.
At least his throat wasn’t closing up.
He lifted a scarlet-splattered hand to his face, inhaling carefully. Blood, yes, and something else sugar water, he realized, to keep it wet and fresh and red.
He spared another pour of alcohol, sluicing the mess off his skin, and raised his head.
Crags and broken stone stretched out in front of him, splintering up into dark, jagged sides of sheer rock. He’d landed halfway up the side, in the shelter of a shallow cave. Further down at the bottom, an anemic creek wound poisonously along a stony bed.
Well, Kakashi thought, at least I made it to the valley. |
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