Shadows crept across the ground like a rolling fog, blanketing the small city and making the surroundings nearly indistinguishable. The sky was purple, the only hint left of daylight other than the dying orange line along the horizon. Shiranui Genma's fists clenched, fingernails biting into calloused skin as he leaped across the empty streets. The parameters had said by sundown, damn it, did this still count? But then, the parameters had said a lot of things, unfortunately not all of which had come true.
The black was insidious, and it taunted him as surely as it blinded him. While the barest hints of sun still colored the sky, in the world around him, evening had undeniably given way to night, and as quickly as the last red slipped from the sky, so too did what little hope he had of meeting his contact. Genma cursed under his breath and pushed harder ahead. Maybe the team wasn't on a sensitive schedule. Maybe they had lingered on beyond the allotted time. Maybe they were just finishing up a leisurely dinner after so many nights of rations, skipping meals, and camping out? Maybe if he ran faster, he could catch them now, just as they left.
Maybe--he barely dared to hope--he was meeting Kakashi, and he was late!
"Maybe," said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Iruka, "you just fucked us over." Only years of operating in silence stifled the groan that surged from his diaphragm. In the interest of anonymity, among other small changes, his senbon was missing from his lips. The absence suddenly felt hollow, and Genma barely caught his fingers itching the holster snapped to his hip.
As he tore through the streets of the town, skidding nearly blind along hairpin turns, kicking up dust, bracing himself against stone walls and the dirt road, a large part of him couldn't help but wonder why he even bothered. Deep down, despite the thousands of absurd scenarios his anxiety could call forth in a millisecond, he knew that he wasn't going to make it in time. Hell, if he were the other shinobi, he certainly wouldn't have stayed on this long. Still, he lengthened his strides and pushed the pace harder. His shirt had come untucked in his haste, and at some point, his hair had escaped from the band that had restrained it. Both billowed behind him like the fading streaks of an after-image.
He wouldn't have let it bother him--he rarely let anything bother him--but right now, he needed this rendezvous more than he needed anything else, and fuck did he need a cigarette. He could almost taste the relief on his tongue, could see it in his mind's eye: rushing into the bar and skidding to a stop in front of a table occupied by two or three of his comrades. The idea that it probably wouldn't happen that way sank like a stone in his gut.
The sky was getting darker, but the area around him was growing lighter, and soon he could make out the familiar scent of wood smoke and the faint rumble of loud music bound by thick walls. He was getting closer. Soon he would see vehicles, and light pouring from electric signs and street lamps, and crowds of people relaxing and socializing after a long work day. The faint scents of cooking stalls and street vendors floated down the streets, mingling with the odor of garbage and too many people crowding a small area.
By the time indistinguishable chatter reached his ears, Genma had started to see other people, and was forced to slow down to a light jog, both for safety and to draw less attention. Now, the doors he passed were open, and dark windows filled with human silhouettes lit with bulbs yellowed tobacco smoke and grime. The city was respectable enough, but it wasn't clean, and it wasn't wealthy, and signs of its age and poor means showed most in small details. The people here were by no means threadbare--they were just well-off enough to know what they were missing--but, even from his short visit, scouting it a few days before, and his mad bolt through this evening, Genma new that it was only for their lack of hidden village that the small country was not a threat. People of small means rarely befriended the wealthy, after all, unless extortion or bribery was involved. This was a place where the influence of massive power shrouded in the poverty of neighboring Rice Country could easily stoke ambitions of the worst kind.
Genma had reached the square, and consciously slowed, shoving his hands in his pockets and slouching carelessly. The people around him weren't all intoxicated, after all, and it would be easy to draw unwanted attention, if he didn't watch himself. The crowd around him mostly donned collared, button down shirts, most of which had come untucked and unbuttoned. They grouped in small cliques, edging past other groups without exchanging more than essential pleasantries. Iruka's suggestion to travel incognito was a good one, Genma realized as he looked down at his own dark sweater and jeans. He had bristled at the idea at first, and had refused to leave without at least his utility belt, but in retrospect saw the idea's logic. After all, a shinobi would be out of place in a civilian country, even one surrounded by as many ninja countries as this one.
At least in a crowd like this, it was easy to slip by unnoticed, especially since he had a destination in mind. Genma could see the place up ahead. The White Hare was unremarkable inside and out. He and Iruka had stopped on their way to Sound, both to rest and to familiarize themselves with the place for when they had to find it later. The dark wood of the outside had been stained once, and had weathered in the years since. The sign was neon, but somewhat old, and it whined and flickered slightly. Indoors, the floor, flooring was beaten, honey-colored wood, and the counters and lower walls were decorated with matching bead board. The wrought iron lighting, dim and yellowed with smoke and age, played in the colors and the shiny finish, creating a warm, tired atmosphere.
Now that he could see it, Genma couldn't justify taking any longer to get there, and he shoved impatiently past slow-moving bystanders, sparing only briefest seconds to pacify them with a friendly grin and an apology. It was just that there were so many of them, and they all seemed to have materialized in the seconds it took him to register the bar across the wide square. He sighed in frustration and rolled his eyes, biting down the urge to mutter under his breath. The sky was thoroughly dark now, stars twinkling in a clear, black night, and the only illumination came from lit windows and street lamps.
"There is no way I'm here on time," he said to himself, breaking his silence unintentionally. The pleading note in his voice must have registered, despite his low volume, because a few people turned around and glanced at him with curious, pitying gazes, and froze, trapped between the compulsion to help and the need to flee. Genma grit his teeth, his jaw lined with iron, and he spat words at them, "It's none of your business," and shoved rudely past. He didn't turn to see whether they accepted the shove with wide, questioning eyes, or irritated disdain. He didn't look at anybody else, avoid knocking shoulders or apologize when he did. He didn't try to look friendly, and he certainly didn't look at anyone with his uncharacteristically burning eyes.
He got to the door even faster than he wanted to, despite his haste, and when he burst through it, yellowed light, smoky air, and din of conversation and music assaulted his senses, he knew right away that the curling feeling like his intestines had turned to snakes had been justified. He didn't have to freeze and stare for long moments, pressing his lips together, clenching his fists, slumping his shoulders and choking down the ever-growing lump in his throat, to know the back corner table would be empty. Because it was dark outside, sundown had long passed, and his Konoha compatriots hadn't waited.
There was a reason he didn't normally take missions with certain friends, and damn it, this was it. Not for the first time in his life, he wished the room were empty, or that he had a pillow to bury his face and scream his frustration until his throat bled. However, that would draw attention, and that would only make matters worse. So, instead of the tantrum that his muscles desperately itched to throw, Genma walked right past the corner table and up to the counter, where he sat heavily, slamming one tight fist down on the countertop, and ordered a drink.