Genryusai Shigekuni Yamamoto, Captain-Commander of the Seireitei, made his solemn way through District 12 of Soul Society.

He was on his way to a long-awaited meeting and, having gone without his haori, no Plus within the District should know who he was. He could count on two hands the number of Souls that would recognize his face and none lived remotely close to his destination. As the Captain-Commander he was never truly required to make an appearance to the populace of the Soul Society, and so the residents of this particular District would undoubtedly consider him an elderly man enjoying the weather. They had no reason to suspect that he was a Shinigami, much less that he were the leader of the entirety of the Seireitei. They nonetheless walked far to the edges of the thoroughfare in order to avoid his path.

This was in no way deliberate on his part. Yamamoto wasn't scowling or holding a weapon, he wasn't yelling or threatening or doing anything, really. He wasn't even exerting his spiritual pressure. He held a gnarled branch for a cane. His wrinkled brow was relaxed, his eyes were closed, and he was moving slowly, deliberately forward in the direction of one of the local parks. The very picture of a grandfatherly man taking advantage of the beautiful weather and going for a stroll.

The later-expressed popular opinion of those upon the street would prove otherwise.

"He just gave off an energy that demanded he be let through," said a grumbling and grimacing merchant-captain to his wife later that night. So said every affluent merchant to their chosen company that night; not a single one of them had wished to impede this strange man for fear of… something. None of them could put words to the feeling, and yet every single one of them knew that had they attempted to accost the elder they'd have found themselves in dire straits. Not one of them could prove the notion of their fear, but everyone on that man's path had felt it.

He was going to the park. Every Shinigami beyond the White Wall could not stop him from going to the park. You were a worm for thinking you might walk before him and hinder his going to the park.

… Or something like that.

In truth, Genryusai Shigekuni Yamamoto was simply deep in thought and, for once, truly enjoying a simple walk through the Districts without having the heavy yoke of leadership weighing him down. It was an exceedingly rare occasion for the veteran Shinigami and one that he desired to take full advantage of. He had finally separated himself from the dread-giant named "Paperwork", defeated the wiles of the Central 46, all through a single, spectacularly strategic move.

He'd appointed his Lieutenant to oversee the operations of the First Division for however long it would require for this meeting to reach a satisfactory conclusion; or rather, the rest of the evening. Well… it wasn't that simple, but it was a simple enough process to slip away to meet the recalcitrant Plus that had held his attention for over a hundred years.

Yamamoto could still remember the brief, intense flare of spiritual pressure that'd appeared all that time ago. He doubted anyone aside from, perhaps, Captain Unohana would have caught it. A signature full of anger, confusion, and power. It was an event that had stuck with him for the rest of that afternoon. Was it the awakening of a Plus to their spiritual power? Unlikely. That was a thing that was more often cultivated; a soul might possess the aptitude but it required the training of the Seireitei to bring it to fruition and the Shinigami under his command were rather adept at spotting the potential within the inhabitants of the Districts and herding them to the flock.

The intrusion of a Hollow? Decidedly not. In the first place, the energy was purely Plus. Second to that, had it have been one of their monstrous nemeses, he'd have heard of the submission of so strong a creature. Hollows were not an uncommon occurrence within the Soul Society, it was the very reason that the Seireitei extended patrols into the Districts. But with the amount of pressure released within that moment, he'd have expected to be forced to order a Captain-class Shinigami to subdue it.

And that, too, was a matter for consideration. The flare of spiritual pressure was incredible and incredibly potent. But it was just that: a flare. A spike of power roaring with fury and then an immediate silence. An expert suppression and, more than likely, a voluntary one. An occurrence that spoke of intelligence and supreme control.

All of these questions and suppositions had brought upon Yamamoto's initiation of an investigative effort. He'd cashed in a few favors with a few old Souls he'd had dealings with in the distant past and narrowed his search down to a single District. At that moment, a mission was launched whose results were immediately redacted. What little paper trail existed was treated to a thick brush saturated in black ink. The name of the operative for that mission was the first to be blotted out, never entered to the official records.

Because that operative had been Yamamoto.

And he had gleaned a name, a basic physical description, a rough sketch of his habits, and nothing else.

He'd arrived to the District - the 24th, if he remembered correctly, and he most certainly did - draped in the full mantle of his authority. After asking, politely, for directions to the humble home of one "Uzumaki Naruto" the headman of the District and his retinue and fallen all over themselves in their haste to bow and lead the Captain-Commander toward a humble lodging near a stream whose chimney was letting out a thin stream of smoke. The headman had insisted that the man would be home at this hour as he kept to a fairly strict schedule of how he went about his day, but Yamamoto's knock went unanswered. His second attempt went the same way and, when he'd slid open the door, he had been confronted with a simple room furnished by a few chairs, a rolled futon in the corner, and a low fire still simmering in its pit. One of the chairs facing away from the door was occupied, a head of straw-yellow hair reclining against the back of it. Bottling his irritation, Yamamoto had called out, "it is considered quite rude not to respond when a guest calls," before moving forward to give a one-eyed glare down at the Soul he'd come all this way to find. He'd opened his mouth again to make his introductions but left it hanging open when he was confronted, not with a man, but a scarecrow.

A scarecrow with a rather ridiculous scribble for a face and hair that was not straw-yellow but literally straw sticking up from its crown. A scarecrow with a scroll pinned to its chest with two words written in elegant script.

"Look Up"

He had and had subsequently received a face-full of paint and sodden paper when the tenuous string holding onto the contraption had snapped and crashed into him. Sputtering and stepping backward wiping furiously at his eyes, his foot had gone straight through a loose floorboard and into a bucket of what he initially hoped was mud, was thankful not to be excrement, but later enraged when it turned out to be a liquid adhesive. The fall had been abrupt though thankfully no one had been around to witness his leg catching at the knee nor his back thumping solidly against the ground, head bent at an awkward angle from its (relatively) soft impact with the wall. He'd torn his foot, now adorned with a bucket, from the floor with a roar and cast a baleful eye about the room. Finding nothing, he'd clunked his way to the door and confronted the small crowd outside, whom had given a start before immediately prostrating themselves and apologizing profusely.

After being assured that they had not been party to his ridicule, Yamamoto had demanded what else was known about the man he'd come to find, as well as where he might find him now (for wholly non-violent reasons). The list was aggravatingly short.

"Uzumaki-san enjoys fishing, I see him at the banks of the stream every morning."

"Yes, he frequents Ougi's inn every afternoon. Sits in the corner by himself for hours, drinks a jar of sake, and then heads home."

"My son says he smokes tobacco from a pipe on the porch in the evenings. He sees him there every time he's coming back from his day at the market, without fail."

And that was it. People had tried to acquaint themselves with him and, while all who had attempted described him as being polite, they also mentioned he was awkward. He rarely recalled anyone's names, in fact he would call them by a completely different name more often than not. His eyes weren't always focused, like he was gazing through them instead of at them, even before he'd gotten into his cups. But the words of the headman's cousin, a woman dressed in pants and a sleeveless shirt who led patrols about the edges of the town and seemed all too acquainted with the club hanging from a loop in her belt, had related the most interesting detail.

"He's a warrior," she'd said with finality, giving her head a single nod to punctuate the statement. Yamamoto had quirked an eyebrow and requested that she elaborate upon why she thought that. A hand was brought to her chin, grunted, scratched at her head, and then, "couldn't prove it, sir, not really. It's just… the way he walks, I guess. The way he moves in general. Sir." And that was that. It had only increased his curiosity, of course, but as much as he'd have loved to turn the District on its head to track the Soul down, he'd had to return to the Seireitei before his long absence was noted.

That had been over a century ago, when he'd assigned his two then-apprentices to the task of tracking Naruto down. They had reported a multitude of failures but each one had given a little more insight toward how the man operated. Yamamoto felt that he had, over the course of the past century, been able to paint a picture that was very nearly making sense of who - and more specifically, what - Naruto was. That picture had led him to a conclusion and the conclusion to an offer that he very much wanted to extend to the enigmatic Soul he was finally going to meet in person.

The fact that it granted him a plausible excuse for what would be, for all intents and purposes aside from this meeting, a day off from his normal duties was simply icing on the cake.

Yamamoto didn't care if the rendezvous consumed all of thirty minutes, he wasn't going back to his barless prison until tomorrow. He needed answers. Lieutenant Sasakibe's sacrifice to the dread-giant would not be in vain, Yamamoto would make it a point to leave a bottle of the man's favorite sake on his desk upon his return.

That being said, the Captain Commander fully intended to take advantage of his time away from his desk.

Indeed it was the simple things, the opportunistic frivolities that made the governing of so great a group as the Seireitei worth bearing. They cared for their work, of course they did, but there was no soul within the Society that didn't need to take a breather every once in awhile, himself included. As a matter of fact…

Yamamoto halted abruptly, causing many to abruptly freeze in their hurried pace and turn a wary eye upon him. The elder cleared his throat and mumbled something to himself, shuffling his feet. An unforgiving eye cracked open and scanned the vicinity, dismissing the nervous crowd around him and locking onto a yatai whose owner's face began to pale as he shuffled his way over. Stopping before the mobile booth, he took a long breath in before letting it out just as slowly.

After a moment of silence, the owner, a simple cook named Genjiro, worked up enough of his courage to stutter out, "May I help you, sir?"

Seconds more passed and it seemed as though a weight was draping itself steadily over the owner's shoulders, encouraging him to bow or maybe prostrate himself or, better yet, to melt into a puddle and become one with the earth. In fact, that was what he was going to do, yes, he'd hang up his apron and become a puddle. Hopefully his son would become worried and search for him, and he'd find the family yatai and know that his brave father had had a good run but was now a puddle, and then, when his five-year-old son grew and turned eighteen, he could take up the worn apron that would be left hanging on its hook, blow the dust from the counter, and be the sixth to inherit the cart. Little Shinji-kun would go on to become just as famous as his grandfather and maybe as brave as his father who may have become a puddle but he'd done so standing before a dragon so-

"As a matter of fact, I would like a bowl of udon, please. With beef." The voice was low and patient and, dare he say it, kindly. It did not waver with age, nor did it rasp or growl as the legends told a dragon's voice was wont to do. A single eye still regarded him but it did not glare at him for still maintaining his corporeal form. If anything it seemed amused.

"Oh," the owner exclaimed and then, laughing and shaking his head, "yes! Right away, sir!" He continued chuckling as he prepared the bowl of noodles. The entire street had seemed to cower at this man's passing and he must have been swept up in the mood! These upper District types were always so jumpy; he may not see nearly as many patrolling Shinigami in District 15, where he lived, but he'd stayed in District 34 years ago; he'd seen what hunger could do to and make men do after bad harvests. To be afraid of a single old man! He'd like to see how any of the local, cushy merchants of District 12 would fare against a wild boar!

Spooning the food and broth into one of the bowls he kept handy, Genjiro extended the steaming fare to his customer, "That will be 5 ryo, good sir!"

The wrinkled hand that had lifted itself from the cane froze halfway to its target. Two unmerciful eyes regarded him, measuring and unflinching. The extended hand curled into a claw and, though it possessed no scales, Genjiro was no less sure that the dragon was present and ready to forget its human form, so fearsome was this hand. There were no claws, but there was purpose. It wasn't a threat, it was a promise. That old claw held his mortal fate within its fingers and he was powerless to prevent his fate, decided as it was by a power far greater than he, as a mortal, could comprehend.

"Hmmm?" The oppressive weight returned near instantly, ten-fold, and Genjiro could now identify it for what it was: Death. Death made flesh, Death come knocking. He appeared frail, but this man bore the weight of the End. The time beyond the Soul Society, the question without answer, and he was, apparently, soon to discover it. When a Soul died, what came after? Reincarnation? A separate plane altogether? Nothingness? He would find out soon, for Death had come for him and it was time now for him to turn into a puddle and properly accept his fate.

A peaceful smile enveloped his expression, his gaze turning downward to the weathered yatai that his family had toted for generations. Yes, he would become a puddle. But he hadn't gone down without a fight, hadn't flinched in the face of so great an opponent. He'd made that bowl of noodles to perfection. Hopefully Shinji-kun would know that. Untying his apron with steady hands and hanging it upon the small iron hook near the roof, Genjiro kept his head bowed as he stepped to the side and fell first to his knees before prostrating himself fully. He gave a mirthless chuckle, with his face pressed to the dirt, the smile he'd worn morphing into a determined grin.

"I'm ready." Words like dust. Feelings like iron. He'd made right, he hadn't faltered.

He thought about his wife. He remembered his grandfather teaching him how to prepare fresh noodles in the small kitchen of a rustic home, his grandmother calling that dinner was already prepared and they should hurry up before it got cold. He recalled repairing the yatai with his father, who went on to such popularity for his revolutionized udon recipes and his hearty laugh and his uncanny ability to put a name to every returning face. The warm hand his father would drop on his shoulder whilst telling him that the smile of a satisfied customer was what it was all for, bringing joy to the working men and women of the Soul Society. He wondered if his end would be painful, for he couldn't guess at the process a dragon might have in turning a mortal into a puddle.

A minute passed and, though he felt it might have been an hour, it was probably just the second minute. It was very quiet on the street and, as far as he could tell, he was still very much a man. Counting to twenty in his head, Genjiro dared to raise his head just enough to see the sandals of the dragon. Except, there were no sandals.

In fact, there was no one in front of the stand at all. Picking himself up from the ground, Genjiro noted a perfectly clean bowl set upon his counter beside a neat pair of chopsticks. Without changing his facial expression, Genjiro gathered his equipment and closed the stand. It was hard work toting the rolling eatery, but his expression still did not change. A wind blew from the east as he lifted the yatai onto its wheels, and Genjiro made his way home.


Several blocks away, Yamamoto continued his journey toward his long-awaited meeting, chuckling to himself. Being the Captain-Commander of the Soul Society, he found so little time to play tricks, however much he may enjoy it. Retsu was the only Captain that caught onto his small jokes. Everyone else was either too serious, too young, or too strange.

People were still slinking away from him, huddling against the edges of the street that he'd chosen to walk the middle of. It wasn't that he was actively exerting pressure. He wouldn't need to. His mere presence was enough to exert a slight pressure.

Oh yes, he still had it.


Yoruichi noticed three things as a sluggish awareness returned to her world. The first was that she couldn't move but to turn her head a few inches to either side. The second was that the target had resumed his previous position facing away from her and toward the pond, the bobbing tip of a fishing pool and a thin trail of smoke drifting over his head as though nothing had happened. The third was that the severed heads of her compatriots were lined up in immaculate rows to either side of her. A scream bubbled its way up her throat before the more logical side of her supplied the fact that, given the way she had viewed them, her own head was on a level with the rest. Looking down only served to dig a furrow into the dirt with her chin, clicking her jaw shut. Squirming around so that she might see toward the left and right of her confirmed her fear, they were breathing but wholly trapped.

Yoruichi and her squad were buried neck deep in the earth. How the hell had he managed that? A hiss of breath and her own whispered name from behind had her tossing her head backward in a futile attempt to see who it was.

"No, don't move too much," the whispered voice sounded on the verge of panic, "Kiba woke up and started shouting, and then the target kicked him in the temple. He hasn't moved since." Dead, then? Hopefully not, their target had shown no signs of attempting lethal action before they'd acquired the mission. She didn't know him very well, but her subordinate Kiba was an accomplished member of her team and would be incredibly hard to replace. She was also loathe to admit that she might miss his crassly humorous interjections and innate ability to raise morale with his own brand of foolishness.

Taking a moment to gather her scattered (panicked) wits and, keeping her own voice as hushed as possible, Yoruichi asked, "how long have I been out?" Surely someone would have noticed when she hadn't reported within her estimated time frame.

"Unknown. I came to about two hours ago so at least that long. Yoruichi-sama, what do we do?" The concern within that hushed voice was growing, but even if her underling demanded instructions from her Yoruichi was, for once, without a plan. They'd spent months studying him. They'd cornered him. They had, all twenty of them, attempted to subdue him. They had failed. And now, all twenty of them, were buried to the throat in the earth. And he had simply resumed fishing. She could escape from three different knots, but compacted earth was not something she'd ever trained to escape from. Physical strength was an obvious no-go, there weren't any Hado chants that she could think of to aid in an escape from something like this, except to send a flare from their position. However, they were deep within this District. Deep enough that she would only be able to count on a passing patrol to notice it. Being so close to the Wall had suddenly become a hindrance, Shinigami patrols focused largely on the later numbers due to their higher crime rates. That left an option she'd prefer not to consider, but she couldn't even feel her zankpakuto…

"You awake, Neko-san?" The cheerful voice of their captor rang out over her frantic thoughts, though the man himself hadn't bothered to turn around. He hadn't turned around and his posture was relaxed, lackadaisical even; one hand was keeping him upright while he leaned back while the other held a firm grasp on his fishing pole. While she watched she saw the end of the rod bob once, twice, and then a quick jerk removed a fish with a broad face and scales the color of a mud bank, squirming on its hook. The thrashing pond-dweller was pulled closer to the blonde who was murmuring something to himself. Gripping the line with one hand and leaning forward to snag the fish with the other, he carefully removed the hook from the still-fighting aquatic creature; a quick spin had the man facing Yoruichi and proffering the catch face-first to her scowling features.

A cheeky grin that didn't match the thousand-yard-vacant blue eyes, a voice failing spectacularly from holding back the childish giggling despite the tall and compact form of a grown man, a voice that was half of a laugh and another half of a sob, "dinner is ready." The fish loomed, its mouth opening and closing, its eyes glassy and vacant and set forward like a predator animal staring at her. She flinched back as far as her submerged form possibly could when the target - Naruto, his name is Naruto - pushed it close enough to brush against her cheek. Her higher reasoning deferred to her baser instinct when she noticed the tiny teeth that lined its gaping mouth and the realization that he hadn't mentioned whose dinner was ready and she began to struggle despite the futility of the action.

Naruto snorted, standing and turning in one fluid motion, returning to the pond to release his catch. Slapping his hands together, the man returned to the defeated Onmitsukido and planted his feet shoulder-width apart with his fists resting on his hips. A clearly disappointed look surveyed the crowd from left to right. Yoruichi, attempting to recover her abandoned dignity, stared defiantly back when his gaze swept past her, and though she could see his mouth moving she couldn't make any words out of the low, grumbling sound of it, despite his near proximity.

Then he stopped and heaved a great breath in, the mumbling giving way to shouted words. Incredibly abrasive and loud shouted words. She'd have sworn that he'd winked at her before he did it, too.

"Rise and shine you thrice-damned, worm motherfuckers! You had best wake up before I cave your soft little skulls in; if I don't see twenty pairs of eyes on my person within the next ten seconds I will personally break every bone in your fragile bodies one by fucking one until the lot of you are begging for the mothers that cursed the day they shit you out!" The tar- Naruto stomped near the heads of the slowly awakening members of the Onmistukido to enunciate his own harsh words, moving up and down the lines. To her teams' credit (the ones that she could see), most had snapped to awareness the moment he'd started yelling. Yoruichi could see a reflection of her own flabbergasted countenance on the faces to her left and right, but the cursing continued.

"Wake the fuck up, you gutless turds! It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and you worthless shits are wasting it away playing cabbage patch with the motherfucking mudskippers." She heard the stomping feet stop abruptly some ways behind her and remembered Tomoe's mention of Kiba. Fury gripped her due to her inability to prevent whatever fate befell her subordinate.

"Look at this sleeping beauty!" The sharp sound of a slap echoed to the response of a startled and indignant cry.

"Wake-y wake-y, you stupid son of a whore; nap time ended ten seconds ago, you pre-Academy, senseless bitch. Do you need a little more time with your blanky? Sleepy baby wanna rattle? No? Because I will gladly drag you back to your idiot mother for a spanking you limp-dick, slack-jawed, three-toothed motherfucker if that's what it takes to get you to wake the fuck up!"

"The fuck you sa- ow!" It was indeed Kiba's voice that had begun to speak before another slapping noise rang out, two more following in quick succession.

"Shut up, shit-for-brains, and buy an alarm clock! I don't like wasting my time and any green Genin thinks that they're able to waste it will get wasted by my foot in their ass! I'd feed you to the frontlines tomorrow if it meant a minute more at breakfast, and if you think I'd lose a wink of sleep for doin' it then you're even stupider than I thought!"

At this point, there was real fear coiling in her gut and the faces of those around her. Yoruichi had never before in her life heard someone swearing and promising pain like this. This man had beaten them all brutally and without remorse when they'd had the element of surprise on their side. Now they were buried in the earth and unable to escape. Yoruichi threw caution to the wind and began to chant a spell under her breath that would send a flare to alert any nearby patrols when, very suddenly, a foot was pushing her face into the soil.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you raise your hand? Did I say you could speak? Class is in session, maggot! You will speak when I tell you to, you will think when I tell you to, you will breathe when I tell you to, you will take a shit when I tell you to, and you will thank me when I do. Because I'm the only glorious bastard on this god-forsaken planet that thought to learn your little worm language and give you the permission to do so!" The foot twisted left and then right before lifting, allowing her to suck in a grateful breath of air.

Naruto, the ingrate monster who didn't know what Noble Clan he was messing with, stepped backward from her baleful glare and flashed her a feral grin. Really it was more a baring of his teeth, like some animals did to assert dominance. Yoruichi chose not to dwell on the possible difference. It was during that contemplation that the blonde's head twitched to one side, face going blank. He immediately straightened his shoulders and puffed his chest out, shouting, "Officer on deck!"

And that was when Yamamoto-sotaicho walked onto the scene of her greatest humiliation.


He'd heard the prodigious volume of the subject some minutes ago, but he hadn't been able to make out the words until he'd rounded the bend in the park. The words had not been kind. Yamamoto didn't know the man's game, even flinched at some of the insults levied on his subordinates. But the voice had continued, even when Yamamoto knew that he'd been made. Knew that the subject, Naruto, knew he was there.

Indeed there he stood, arms crossed behind his back, at rigid attention before a score of the Onmitsukido's best. Had he been any less able to sense their spiritual signatures, he'd have thought they were dead. Had he any remaining questions regarding his own impending request, he'd have shelved them permanently.

"Yamamoto-taicho," his being addressed by name and title was surprising but not overtly so, considering what he believed to be true of the man in front of him. Information was the lifeblood of any general, after all; doubly so for those that dwelled in shadow.

"Naruto-san. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"I could say the same myself, sir. Are you here to inspect the troops?" Yamamoto held himself back from grinning at the venomous looks that the Onmitsukido were shooting at the blonde; Yoruichi especially could have peeled the paint from a wall with the acid in her gaze.

"As a matter of fact, I am not. I was hoping I could speak with you in private," the blonde menace was smiling before he'd even finished his sentence, giving an affirmative in the form of a salute not native to the Seireitei before flipping back to face the buried personnel.

"Break time is over, kiddies! Dig yourselves out and get cleaned up, tomorrow is going to be one hell of a day!" Yamamoto raised his eyebrows at the implications of that statement before reminding himself of what he was dealing with. Of course Naruto would know of or at least suspect his reason for wanting to meet, the reason for meeting in person. Turning on his heel, Naruto followed behind him toward a bench.

"How did you avoid our notice for as long as you did?" Yamamoto wasn't planning on mincing words, he had an entire day among the Districts to himself. Better to find answers to his most pressing questions first, a deal would be struck regardless, if he weren't misreading Naruto's move.

"To be honest with you, Yamamoto-taicho, it had little to do with active avoidance," Naruto's voice was hushed, conspiratorial even, and Yamamoto realized belatedly that they were still within earshot of the buried members of the Onmitsukido. Naruto held his silence until they reached the bench and then let out a loud sigh as he collapsed into it, crossing one of his legs over the opposite knee. Yamamoto sat upon the other end of the bench, seating himself with an air of dignity, his hands planting his cane in front of him so that he might lean upon it. It helped that it left his zanpakuto within reach of the man to his left.

The blonde had leaned his head all the way back with half-lidded eyes gazing blankly at the sky, arms spread across the back of the bench. His posture was lazy, his voice was anything but.

"Avoidance wasn't ever necessary," Naruto's tone was clinical, instructive, a superior relating a technique to a student so that they might learn from the endeavor, "dissemination of information was my method. If you know that your neighbor is spreading a rumor concerning your habits, you simply control the rumor. Spend a few weeks doing one thing, perhaps a month, two months if it doesn't feel cemented. Call it 'smoking on the porch'," Yamamoto quirked an eyebrow but didn't say anything, recognizing that the man beside him was cluing him in on how he'd avoided him, specifically, a century ago.

"Sit on your porch and smoke every night. Catalogue every face that passes by, put a name to them, it doesn't matter if it's theirs, so long as you recognize them. You can ignore those who pass on occasion, they don't feed the tale you're crafting. You can do something else if you're expecting the 'passerby'. Making your schedule requires the 'witness', it requires the person whom will always see you at that specific time, doing that exact thing. Wave at them. Maybe engage that person in conversation a few times, make yourself memorable. Let them see you go inside and turn off that light in the house, snuff the lantern and wait by the door until you hear their footsteps fade away," the blonde kept his head back but his foot was bobbing to a rythym upon his knee, sometimes bouncing forcefully on certain words. One of his hands clenched and unclenched.

"Eventually their waving at you becomes a rote motion. You're always there when they pass, they know to wave, they don't think about it. And that is the first step of being ahead. If they know you're there to smoke a pipe on your porch they have little inclination to know or otherwise notice anything else. I guarantee you I could have been sharpening a blade and that logger wouldn't have noticed, because I'd have had my pipe in my mouth and one hand in the air the moment he passed, just as he'd have expected" uncrossing his leg, Naruto settled his elbows on his knees and glanced sideways at Yamamoto.

"When you can put your ear to the ground and hear three strangers tell five more what your exact daily habits are, you've done well, so long as they are those you'd planned. If a township knows your exact schedule, you can move without reproof. No activity lasts forever, but if a… let's say 'crime' occurs and every person in the town would say 'it wouldn't be Naruto, he would have been smoking a pipe on the porch', you have succeeded. You are a fixture; a drunk, a smoker, a fisher, it doesn't matter. You are defined, but only as far as you have allowed yourself to be defined," Naruto crossed his arms and uncrossed his legs, still facing toward Yamamoto.

The elder Soul took a few moments to digest what he'd heard; it was a form of thought that held opposite of his own doctrine, an approach not natural to him, but he couldn't discount it. He hadn't been able to track the man down a century beforehand due to this exact lockdown of information on Naruto's part. A story had been crafted, he now realized, that Yamamoto himself had accepted as truth because those that had lived around him knew it as truth, they had been fully confident in leading him to that home at the edge of a stream. Furthermore, Yamamoto felt that Naruto was relating another lesson, a dangerous thing relating the potential lethality of assumptions. He'd thought Naruto to be a creature of habit, then thought him to be rude, and had approached what had been a scarecrow (a fucking scarecrow) without caution. What if it hadn't been paint within that paper contraption? He'd looked up out of curiosity, he'd not felt any spiritual pressure or anything else that might have suggested a threat, but what if that paper contraption had been full of poison? Or a blinding powder, with a recruited Plus hiding nearby, low enough in power to be invisible to his senses but deadly enough with a sharpened object to be a danger to his person? Not that Yamamoto would have been unskilled enough to accept a stab to the abdomen from any Plus, he could fight blind or deaf or dumb and suffer no consequence. But the "what if" remained.

Yamamoto thought of all of these things, these avenues of attack, his own failure to react to what he'd thought to be foolishness, and he clenched his fists upon his cane.

"You could have killed me and none would be the wiser. I gleaned a physical description and a façade of a schedule when I visited District 24. No one would have had a lead to follow up on," a single eye cracked open and looked upon the blonde. He'd thought him to be clever at hiding, now he was forced to reevaluate the man next to him as a potential threat. Naruto, for his part, seemed taken aback, but a smile slowly spread across his face and, before long, the blonde had thrown his head back in laughter.

"Old man, you are the first within this place to get it. To understand the lesson that I shall teach those tadpoles still buried in the ground, and I didn't even have to lead you to it!" He crossed his other leg and leant his elbow upon it, a fist meeting a whiskered cheek to prop it up right, "always seek to look underneath the underneath. It was one of the first lessons I was taught by one of my earliest teachers, by one of my closest of friends."

The blue eyes that were boring into him were not vacant, as so many had reported, neither were they a thousand yards distant. They were calculating, picking him apart even as he was forced once again to reconsider the Soul before him. Uzumaki Naruto smirked at Genryusai Shigekuni Yamamoto and, before he knew it, Yamamoto was smirking back. He didn't feel that he had to phrase the question, but he did desire for Naruto to make definite his answer:

"Your first lesson, you say?"

"The first of many."

And if the smirk had become a full, fang-filled grin, Yamamoto chose not to notice it.