The Price of Loyalty
The boy with no name watched the Wolf carefully, his ink brush poised to spring into action at any moment, just like the man in front of him. The Wolf was surrounded, laughably outnumbered – perhaps, if the boy knew the meaning of the word laughter. If he did he would have realised what the Wolf was doing right now. The ring of foes closed tighter. The tip of the boy's brush touched the page and he began to draw.
The Wolf drew his katana. The blade lashed out of its sheath and into an enemy's throat. The boy drew the Wolf's weapon, a shade darker than it had been in the last frame. The Wolf continued to make the same soft, throaty sound. Was this laughter? The boy failed to see what was amusing, though he hadn't really tried. Again the circle of enemies closed in. The corpse was hidden from view. This had not made a perceptible difference to the group's number.
"Something funny about your death?"
Ah. Conversation. The boy with no name laid down his brush slowly, balancing the scroll on the tree limb beneath him. He withdrew a finer brush and a thinner, lined scroll. He transcribed the first line of dialogue, adding after it: forte; largo.
"Now that you mention it, possibly how alive I feel considering," allegro; mezzo forte.
He had been told that the volume and tempo of a person's speech contained important information. He wasn't sure what exactly this information might be, but he stacked these remarks neatly after each sentence so that his master could analyse them later.
The enemies hadn't seemed to like that comment, although the boy was not here to make such judgements. The Wolf continued.
"Actually, I found it amusing that you decided to ambush me like this," mezzo forte; lentando, "There's an old lady whose son was captured a couple of months back. He's probably dead. The village never enquired as to the cost of his freedom. After all, Shinobi are priceless. Worthless, in fact."
The boy's hand moved automatically across the page, his eyes fixed on the Wolf, trying to anticipate when the conversation would end and the fight begin.
"He probably told his captors everything he knew before they killed him, in the hope that they wouldn't hurt his only remaining relative. And all this time, his mother's been selling secrets in exchange for her dead son's freedom. This isn't the amusing part either, though it is a fun little irony. The mother continues to betray the village not knowing that her son's already a hell of a lot freer than the rest of us."
The boy unrolled a little more parchment, making sure the ink had dried before rolling over what he had already written.
"So what is so amusing? Perhaps the idea of bloodthirsty rogues saving an innocent old lady from being killed? No. She's not innocent and you won't save her. Actually, I just found it amusing that I've finally been given a chance to kill the criminals as well as the victim. Sorry, I understand if you don't quite share my sense of humour."
The Wolf once more carried out what the boy had to accept as laughter. No one joined in. The boy nearly dropped his brush as he was forced to switch to his first scroll and sketch the arc of the Wolf's katana and the three bodies that fell at his feet. From then for perhaps a full ten minutes the boy didn't get a chance to rest. A cramp steadily spread from his wrist to his shoulder as he struggled to match the stroke of his brush to the frenzied strokes of the Wolf's sword, and the enemy's counter-strikes, which were occasionally just as hard to follow.
The boy with no name inspected his work critically. He wondered if, without any red ink, he could really do the scene justice. The Wolf had backed off a little. The remaining ninja stood across from him, the dead and dying occupied the no man's land between them. The Wolf was bleeding, his foes breathing heavily. The boy switched scrolls. One of the rogue ninja seemed less fatigued than the rest. The others looked to him as he spoke. Respect, fear, deference. These words were not in the boy's vocabulary. But he knew what obedience meant and that appeared to be what this man commanded in his remaining followers. Their leader. The boy consulted his bingo book. S-Rank.
"That woman doesn't mean shit to us. There are hundreds more idiots who'll happily commit treason, thinking it'll keep the person they love alive a bit longer. Probably more than a killer like you can even imagine. Keep fighting and you'll die for her too, just like her son. We've got all we need from that woman anyway, so I don't mind being generous. We'll kill your target for you. How about it? That way you might get out of here with your life."
There were several moments of silence, in which the boy added largo; legato to his transcription. Possibly the Wolf was using this time to think. About what, the boy hadn't been instructed to speculate. He steadily counted the seconds, making a small mark on the page for each one. Six in total.
"You're right. If I abandon my mission I'll make it back alive for sure. I would have to, otherwise how could they execute me for failing to carry out my duty?"
The muscles in the leader's neck stiffened, the red of his cheeks diffused to white. The Wolf kept talking. Sometimes a drop of his blood would hit the ground, dividing his speech like punctuation.
"You're right. I would live. And so would my target. And so would you."
Even the boy with no name could understand why the leader didn't respond. The Wolf had stated the obvious. Which in this case was an unacceptable scenario. Targets only live when Operatives die. There was nothing left to say; the boy switched scrolls. This time his brush moved methodically as the remaining enemies coordinated their assault, using their smaller number to sharpen their teamwork – a word which the boy understood to mean a group of people with the same goal, operating so as not to impede the others.
He no longer had to move his wrist so fast when recording the Wolf's movements. It seemed the Wolf was analysing, planning, waiting - trying to avoid a fatal injury. But these were vague notions and the boy wasn't able to depict them. He was ready to draw the leader's blade slash open the Wolf's throat, but as his brush touched the page to begin the thick, jagged line the Wolf jumped. His katana flashed. The boy continued his line anyway, which was now drawn from the Wolf's chest. He then paused. He frowned, more from concentration than annoyance. Annoyance would imply prior satisfaction, which the boy had never been instructed to feel.
He paused because he had already drawn the head of the group's leader, which he couldn't so easily erase. He would have to re-draw that frame later. For now the Wolf was still moving. Airborne, somersaulting over his enemy's battle line. Landing behind them, killing them as they stared at their leader's body, continuing to kill them as they turned. The few that remained had stopped their resistance. One or two dropped their weapons and fell to their knees. The boy was unsure of what this gesture was supposed to accomplish. Moments later they were all dead.
The Wolf began methodically to clean his katana, not stopping until the blade shone. The only object in the immediate area not dripping blood. The Wolf sheathed his sword. The boy rolled up his scroll, slotted the brush into its holster and stowed it in his pack. He was about to do the same with the second scroll but then he heard the Wolf's measured intake of breath.
"I would ask you if you enjoyed the show, but I doubt you'd know what I meant," legato; mezzo piano.
The boy transcribed neatly. The Wolf rummaged in his pack, drawing out a roll of bandages, some thread and a needle that reflected the dying sun in a burst of shuriken shaped light. The boy realised he had nowhere to relate his observations. He had been instructed to record the battle, nothing more. But his brush moved automatically across the scroll still laid out before him.
"Tell Danzo if he wants to see any more he'll have to pay for it."
The boy with no name did not respond. He wrote what he heard. He had not been ordered to engage the Wolf in conversation. Nor had he been ordered to engage him in battle, unless he decided to abandon his mission. In which case, his task would be to detain him until a squad arrived to arrest him. The memories of the Wolf's katana flowing like ink across the paper figures of his enemies seemed particularly vivid in the boy's mind. To the boy with no name, fear was simply a collection of letters, a word that seemed infinitely applicable but whose actual meaning was allusive. Even so, he reflected, submitting his report would prove difficult with his entrails spread as far from his body as those of the ninja around him.
The Wolf expelled air from his mouth, vocalising this exhalation into what the boy – had he been more familiar with the word – might have termed a sigh. He didn't record this as it wasn't truly speech. He rolled up his second scroll and waited for the Wolf to finish with the thread and bandages. The boy used this time to begin compiling his notes into a more acceptable mission report, redrawing the frames and inserting dialogue where necessary. When the Wolf finally moved on, so did he, keeping to the trees as the Wolf kept to the ground.
A small house out in the woods. The boy with no name was confused – or at least, the present scenario contrasted with what he had been instructed to expect. This was not the target's location. Had the Wolf decided to abandon the mission? The boy slid his hand slowly towards the grip of his tanto. It made sense that he was hesitating. The Wolf's betrayal had yet to be confirmed. His fingers hovered over the blade's hilt. He noticed that his hand was not as steady as it had been when he had held his brush earlier.
The Wolf entered the house. A gust of wind blew a scent into the boy's nostrils, which flared before his nose wrinkled. Death. The Wolf dragged the corpse from the building, shouldered it and continued, leaving the boy no choice but to follow.
Occasionally the Wolf's even stride would break just a little. It was not the boy's place to make assumptions, but it seemed rational that the Wolf's wounds were making his burden harder to bear. All the more reason, in the boy's opinion – if, of course, he'd been instructed to have one – that the Wolf's unsanctioned actions were, although not exactly treason, entirely illogical.
Now they were at the correct location. Another small house, this one on the outskirts of the village. The half-light by which the boy had drawn the battle had faded into darkness a long time ago. No lights were on anywhere. The Wolf entered the target's house, the corpse draped over his shoulders. The boy with no name had been instructed not to follow too closely, but he had to verify the kill. He jumped down from the tree and approached the building. He pressed his back against the outside wall. Turning his head slightly, he could make out the scene inside.
The old lady looked up. Her face moved and changed rapidly. The boy had put his scrolls away. He looked at the women's face, wet tracks lining her cheeks like scars. Without his brush, his observations were as good as a blind man's. The Wolf laid the corpse on the floor. The boy's nose wrinkled again as he stood in the darkness beside the open window. Drawing his katana, the Wolf straightened up. The boy with no name could have sworn the man was swaying slightly. But then swearing would imply that the boy knew how to lie. To him, lying was simply what one did in bed every night.
His scrolls were in his pack. His orders had been to fully record any altercation the Wolf may be involved in on the way to completing his mission. And then to make sure that the mission was completed. That was all. Nevertheless, the boy found himself inscribing every word of the dialogue in his mind, as permanent as ink on paper.
"This is your son. He was also a traitor. How much consolation you take from that is your choice. It's the last choice you'll ever make."
Moderato; calando, he thought, before realising he had nowhere to write these notations.
It wasn't good protocol to talk to one's targets before killing them, however it wasn't technically against the rules. The boy doubted that this would be enough to brand the Wolf a traitor, but then that was for his master to decide. His job was to report what he saw.
The old woman now knelt on the floor. The smell from the corpse was making the boy's body instinctively want to move further away. Therefore, when the woman wrapped her arms around the body and buried her face in its chest, no logical reason stood out in the boy's mind. She was making noises as if she were being strangled. The boy with no name reasoned that the stench of the corpse was probably choking her.
She raised her head. She stood. She spat in the Wolf's face. The spit trailed harmlessly off his porcelain mask. Perhaps the boy would ask later why humans did pointless things. The Wolf didn't move.
"Your son's captors and killers are all dead. They were rogues not bound by the laws of the village. Your son was a shinobi sworn to protect our secrets. And so were you."
The woman's face moved again. The expression she'd had when she'd spat at the Wolf melted into something new.
"I would betray the village a thousand times. I would sell every secret I know and every rumour, lie and speculation I could think of, if I thought it'd keep my son in this world a second longer."
Tremolo; the boy acknowledged silently.
"They used your bonds of family to manipulate you. Your love for your son is what killed him."
The boy with no name continued to memorise the dialogue, even the words he did not understand.
"Do you even know what love is, monster? What do you see when you take off that mask? I'll bet there's nothing left but a beast behind it. Do what you have to. Love's what killed my son, you say? Then let that same love kill me!"
Again the Wolf did what the boy vaguely recognised as a sigh. "I'm sorry," pianissimo, "what kills you is me."
The boy began his journey back straight away. He didn't think the Wolf, wounded as he was, would be too close behind, but he had been instructed to be careful. He never looked back. So, that was it. Once again, the Wolf was not a traitor. He might have wondered how his master would feel about that. But he couldn't. Feelings meant nothing to the boy with no name.