| Short Straw | [Aug. 10th, 2013|10:17 am] |
[Takes place Yondaime year 4, February 19, towards the end of Asuma’s and Genma’s rookie year in ANBU]
“Beer has arrived,” Asuma called through the door, after giving it a solid thump with his fist. “Point-five bottle charge for every minute you make the delivery boy wait.”
Multiple sparks shifted behind the closed doors of the barracks hall. The one to his left jerked open not even a second later. “I’ll take it for two ryou more,” Yamada said, leaning around the jam. He looked like he’d just come out of the shower, skin dewy and hair a damp mess of spikes. The fact that he wasn’t even bothering with a towel was another decent clue.
“Only two extra?” Asuma replied skeptically. “Five and a handjob.”
Yamada groaned, tipping his head back dramatically. “You’ll make me a pauper.”
The door finally opened, and Genma gave them both a silent, inscrutable once over. The look he aimed at Yamada was particularly unimpressed. “‘Many battles have been fought and won by soldiers nourished on beer’,” he quoted, “which explains your poverty, Yamada, but not your track record.” His eyes shifted back to Asuma. “Blowjob, just the tip, final offer.”
Bottles clinked in the paper bag Asuma had balanced against one hip as he gave the naked ninja a rueful shrug. “Who could resist? Better luck next time.” He pushed the bag at Genma, blew Yamada a kiss, and slipped in past his teammate. Genma closed the door on Yamada’s curses with a laugh.
Just like every other room in the rookie barracks, there was just barely enough space for a bed, a dresser, and a tiny table in the kitchenette. Unlike most, Genma’s was remarkably homey feeling, with pictures on the wall and a clean sink, like some regular dude lived there — as long as you ignored the mad scientist chemistry set he had lined up on the kitchenette counter. Asuma wondered what new poison his teammate was working with this time, or if it was just prep for today’s session.
Paper rustled and plastic crunched worrisomely as Genma set the bag down on the table; he pulled out a half-squashed container of strawberries and gave Asuma a curious look.
“Kayan’s bribe,” he explained, and poked at the lump in his jacket over his left breast. It moved and chirped a happy Strawberries! in response, the tiny, child-like voice muffled but clear.
Genma made a noncommittal noise and set the container on the table. “I thought she preferred papaya.” Two six-packs of bottled beer followed, one a cheap brand, one a fancy craft brew with art nouveau labels. It wasn’t hard to guess which pack went to which shinobi.
“They were out of papaya. Apparently these are a close runner-up.” Asuma pulled the little loris out of the warm nest she’d made of his jacket pocket. As summons went, she wasn’t the most useful in combat, but her cuddly nature and adorable disposition more than made up for any faults. The fact that she actually enjoyed his presence - unlike most of the other monkey summons - was certainly a plus. Some days he even felt he was more the pet, rather than the other way around. Not that he’d ever call her that.
As soon as she was free, she unfurled like a very slow spring, both long arms reaching toward the leaky package of fruit as though it would come to her by sheer force of will. In spite of her apparent eagerness, the large gold coins of her eyes in that tiny striped face gave her a continued air of puzzled concern. He set her gently on the table and flopped down onto one of the chairs, letting her pry open the package on her own. Genma, ever the gracious host, pulled out a bowl and a packet of wasabi peas before opening a bottle of each brew. Such a gentleman.
“Hi, Kayan,” Genma greeted, seating himself; she ignored him in favor of a strawberry almost as big as her head. Asuma didn’t blame her. He’d go nuts over a strawberry as big as his head, too. “Why the bribe? Taichou give you extra scut and you want me to help out?”
Asuma took the bottle handed to him and did his best not to grimace. “If only. No, it’s to pick your brain. I got one of those offers I can’t refuse, but I’m thinking about refusing anyway. Where’s your ashtray?”
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