"Hikouto wouldn't be on fire now if Yoshihara-sama had agreed," Minato said quietly. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the glass shower door.

Asuma nodded jerkily. "Daimyou-sama refused to hear him out. Said he'd uphold the oaths his father made with the First and wouldn't have anything to do with the idea. He walked out of the audience, but the twelve of us ended up getting in an argument in the greeting hall. We split down the middle, six for and six against the idea." He caught his breath, hissing in pain, as Hyuuga drew a thin cotton swab from her medical kit and began probing the gash in his forearm.

He wouldn't be telling this to Minato now if he'd been one of the traitor six. Sarutobi Asuma, the Sandaime Hokage's only son. He'd been ANBU a year ago, jounin before that. No serious black marks on his record that Minato could recall. And whatever the Saindaime's other faults, the old man had raised his children, at least, to be loyal to Konoha…

But the Sandaime had practically raised Orochimaru, too, genin to jounin. And Asuma was clever, with all his father's wiliness and a year's independent thinking under his belt. Had Minato had arrived just a moment too soon, surprising Asuma in the act of trying to break through the saferoom door? Was Asuma even now waiting for his moment to strike?

He'd be a fool to do so, with Minato here. And while the boy in Minato's memory had been smart-mouthed and impatient, stubborn and impulsive, he hadn't been a fool.

Hyuuga hadn't signaled an elevation in heart rate or respiration, either. Her head was still bent over Asuma's torn arm, but she hadn't released the Byakugan, and those blank white eyes saw far more than the injury beneath her hands. And Yuuhi was Intel; she'd hear a lie long before Minato did.

"The Twelve argued," Minato prompted.

Asuma was white with pain beneath the smoke and blood, and his good hand clenched hard on his knee. "Kazuma said he'd replace the Daimyou by force, if he had to. If there was no other way to make him listen. Then he attacked. The five who agreed with him fell in like it was premeditated. Three divisions of the palace guard joined them, too."

He faltered, then, red-rimmed eyes dropping to his filthy hand. His raw voice thickened. "Chiriku broke off early to ensure the Daimyou and his family were safe. Masaki managed to leave the fight without me knowing, and led a contingent of palace guards down here to the safe house. Chiriku stopped them. The rest… They weren't willing to surrender. They all fought to the death."

They'd been dead men anyway, Minato thought, from the moment they'd rebelled against their sworn lord. A daimyou couldn't pardon mutineers, much less traitors from his elite bodyguard. Every man and women among them had known when they first lifted their hands that they had to win, or die.

That didn't make it any easier for the ones who killed them.

His questions wouldn't, either. But he wasn't here to coddle a wounded boy. He was Fire Country's military commander, and he had no time for gentleness.

"I need details, Sarutobi," he said, hardening his voice. "Exactly how many of the guard rebelled? Whose deaths can you confirm? Where are the rest of the Twelve?"