Wakame had inhaled his breakfast like it was the only food offered to him in months. That might have been a mistake, since now his stomach was full, and gurgling in protest of his hunched position as he crouched in the scrubby bushes just to the left of the Corvid Couriers truck. He'd announced just after breakfast that he was headed into the city. Well, shortly after his breakfast. He admitted that he scarfed down the meal in record time. The others were still probably finishing up.
That meant it was time to make his move. The weight of his backpack balanced well with the weight of Geta in his arms. The cool, leather like skin moved with the creature as she shifted impatiently. She was otherwise calm, though, which made him feel better. They were in this together, he and his gator. And he was ready. The coast was clear. Wakame popped up from the bushes and moved-- very sneakily-- over to the back of the truck. He promptly realized the hitch in his plan.
The truck's large sliding door had a keyhole next to the handle. If the door was locked, then things got way more complicated. He'd have to restructure the entire travel situation, possibly postpone the adventure entirely. That was something he really didn't want to have to do. He steeled himself, saying a silent prayer to all the biggest alligators that had come before him, his ancestors, and the ghost of Kisame Hoshigaki, for good measure. He lifted up on the handle. It was a heavy door, but no lock caught its weight as it shifted upward a few inches.
"Yes!" Wakame hissed and patted Geta excitedly with his free hand. She swept her thick tail past his legs and made a very low sound in contentment. He set her at his feet to get better purchase on the door with both hands, and with a slightly embarrassing amount of effort, he got the door to scoot up just far enough to slide under. He shoved his backpack through the gap first, then Geta, who had already begun clawing her way up his pant leg to get into the truck. He took one last look at the shady corner of the family compound. When he returned, he'd be a changed man, that was certain. He hitched one leg up on the edge of the truck bed, and half crawled, half shimmied his way into the the vehicle on his stomach. Once inside, he blinked to gauge his surroundings.
In addition to their pointed teeth, the Shimizu clan held other shared physical traits with their reptilian counterparts. These characteristics usually manifested differently from person to person, but in general the cross-generational ties that the clan held to the animals allowed them to see extremely well in the dark. Wakame blinked again, allowing his vision to adjust, and ascertained that he and Geta were indeed alone for this ride. All looked clear; the truck had several rows of metal shelving bolted to the ceiling and floor, all empty. There were some large canvas bins towards the front of the cargo hold as well. Perfect hiding place. He turned towards the still-ajar door, and pushed his foot down on an interior lip, forcing it down to meet the floor. When it did, Wakame heard the sharp metallic click of a latch sliding into place. He paused for a moment, and tried to gain some purchase on the door with the tips of his fingers, but it was flush with the floor. Okay, so he was locked in now. And that was okay, because he wanted to do this in the first place and he wasn't going to back out! Not that he could now anyways, something nagged at him.
Wakame was locked in the back of a cargo truck going to who-knows-where, with almost no money, and no one expecting him home until later that evening. He may not have planned this out quite as perfectly as he'd thought, and the urge to nervously jump around and pound at the walls of the truck until someone heard him rattled in his chest with every heartbeat.
Too late now, too late now.
He wanted to prove himself. He'd gotten this far, and the fact that he was trapped in the truck should only encourage him! He looked down at Geta, who was sniffing at the dried meat pocket of Wakame's bag, and felt himself grow calmer. He wasn't alone in this, he reminded himself. Geta would be there through all of this, his best friend! Squaring his jaw and shoulders, he faced the inside of the cargo hold with renewed energy and determination.
It was unfortunate, for the boy's nerves, to be locked within a truck in the middle of his own clan's walls as he tried to make a great escape to adventures unknown. However it was fortunate, for his plan, that the truck itself was located in a less-frequented section of the compound, sheltered by the greenhouse, where empty feed sacks were kept to be reused or composted. Fortunate, because Wakame, in his excitement, could not hardly contain himself. And if a Shimizu clan member-- or an unassuming pair of truckers, for that matter-- had been walking past at that particular moment, they would have sensed an unmistakable, if muffled, flare of chakra, accompanied by a resounding, "Bring it!"
Nameko scrubbed the plate in her hands, banishing the residual chill from her joints with hot water. When she'd married into the clan, she was a young woman on the coast of the Land of Rivers, and never fully grasped the intricacies of international clan politics. Coming of age as a civilian in a village with only one or two clan families had simply not necessitated it. But how things had changed since then. Sometimes the ebb and flow of her life's pattern gave her pause, but she was not one for overly reminiscing in bygone years. All told, she'd rushed into clan life and had received a crash course, including the many political quirks and familial traits of the large clans, whether for her late husband's purposes or for her own ability to remember faces, she never could determine.
Though she firmly embraced the idea of an open mind, certain families came with certain reputations. For instance, the Shimizu of River Country had long been seen as a feral and unpredictable group, toting or riding around on alligators through the rivers, as silent as death and twice as deadly. They inspired fear and mystery in her younger years, but once she had gotten to know the Shimizu family growing up she'd realized that the rumors left out the fact that the clan was dedicated to familial respect, conservation of an ancient species, and bred its children with a hearty goofiness that warmed her heart to this day. Needless to say, appearances were often deceiving. While nearly all reputations came with only the smallest grains of truth, rumors surrounding physical traits especially held on. Clans who took on more unconventional traits were often feared on that basis. Looking like a slightly more like an alligator, or shark, or even dog left certain impressions upon the public.
It was partly for that reason that Nameko was so tickled to be washing dishes alongside what she assumed to be two individuals on the run from their respective clans. Same-san and Nezumi-san stood to either side of her at the sink, the latter handing her plates and silverware to wash from breakfast's aftermath, the former taking each piece from her to dry and place in neat stacks.
The first thing that alerted her to suspicion were the names Same and Nezumi, with no surnames ever offered. It seemed odd to her that that family names had never come up in the several years she'd known them. Secondly, the big one was quite obviously of some relation to the Hoshigaki. Nameko was not as up to date on clan practices as she once had been, but she knew that the Hoshigaki were not ones to frivolously have bastard sons-- or at the very least, allow them to roam around doing civilian work. Personally, she regarded merchant and transportation workers to be braver and serve a nobler purpose than many ninja she knew, and regarded the profession as vital to both her own and every city's livelihood. But she knew the Hoshigaki, and civilian labor just didn't seem to be something that they'd be thrilled about. So that probably meant that he was either a rare case that, for some reason, had not become a source of gossip-- unlikely, given the Kiri clan circles she was familiar with-- or he was experienced in much more than he let on. He was younger than her, but not by much, and she guessed that he would have lived through the clan slaughters that occured in Kiri back in the day.
All considered, that probably meant he'd seen some pretty awful events, and she wasn't prying, only wildly speculating. But she imagined that had she been a heavily traumatized Hoshigaki that had survived the most violent era of known history-- especially if she was in some way disgraced-- the guise of a trucker might be preferable for staying hidden but not secluded.
As for his partner, She suspected he knew as much, if not far more than herself. Nezumi seemed to be a bright man, but of his own ties to the Hoshigaki, Nameko was uncertain. He didn't look quite old enough or rough enough to have come from the the Bloody Mist, so it was likely that he'd caught up with Same between then and the last decade. She supposed he could be telling the truth about his family. For a civilian uninvolved with the world of shinobi it was common to start having children quite early. Clan-wise, though, there were also many possibilities of his lineage. His complexion and coloring reminded her of those 'classic beauty' families: The Yuki, the Uchiha, the Hyuga. Her mind rested once more on the bastard son theory. A secret kid floating around, even as a civilian, would be a juicy scandal waiting to happen for any one of those clans, especially the two that were all but extinct. Nezumi was a benign enough presence that he may be unfamiliar with his own heritage, but Nameko knew there was something about the two of them as a pair. Not that she was into snooping. Really.
"Thank you again for the meals and lodging, Nameko-san." Nezumi handed her a small platter to scrub, "I will insist on asking again, though I feel I know the answer--"
She cut him off, "If it's gonna be about how you feel like you gotta repay me, I don't want to hear it sweetheart." She made her tone softer, "I very rarely collect debt on kindness, darlin'."
Same laughed softly through his nose, "This is a fight we aren't going to win, but thank you for at least letting us help with this." He nodded at the bowl in his hands.
"Exactly, I don't take payment for being nice, cause I should be doing that anyways. But if we're both doing things to help each other, its an equal exchange. I've known y'all long enough for you to know that, I hope."
Nezumi stared at the plate Nameko was was scouring with near-violence and nodded absentmindedly as though he only agreed with part of her logic. She considered the men at either side of her to be ones she'd been charged with protecting, in some way. The reasoning behind that didn't make any more than a little sense, she knew. After all, they were closer in age to her than any of her grandchildren, and if her suspicions were correct and they had clan ties, they were surely capable of minding after themselves. Nameko wanted to protect them though, just like she did anyone thrust into situations beyond their control, and given the history of the Great Nations, that likelihood increased exponentially with age. Nameko might not have known Same and Nezumi's exact circumstances, but she'd seen enough second-hand destruction caused by the difficulty of a life lived on guard, and so she didn't need to know the specifics. The men would receive her protection as long as they accepted it. That was the way she did her work.
Itachi made sure to thank the hostess one-to-three more times before they left. Kisame kept it to a classy, "We are indebted to you, ma'am," on his way out the door.The two had different methods of presenting their chosen personas, but one given requirement for relatively simple, especially when it came to their interactions with ninja: Don't make any enemies.
Well, any more, Itachi though wryly, amused at the notion that he had become so close to a ninja clan. The graciousness he was careful to show the Shimizus had its roots in keeping the ruse of his identity alive, but he supposed there were more genuine feelings as well. He still found it pertinent to remind himself when leaving the compound, especially after such kindness, of the dangers that came alongside foolish trust. He may have slept in the guest beds of government agents, he may be contractually obligated to deliver supplies to them, but he could not allow himself to be fully known-- not by the clan, and not by Nameko.
As the two men made their way down the the gradual, rocky slope to near the greenhouse where the truck was parked, however, there was a very small unsettling feeling. A phantom vestige of a memory associated with leaving on a mission, and the words of another woman who always used to wish him well and safe travels before he set foot out the door…
It was gone, though. Nezumi did not have parents. Or a grandmother.
Itachi felt beady eyes upon him and glanced up at Kisame, who seemed uncharacteristically smug as he peered down at the shorter man.
"Yes?" Itachi stared at the ground as they rounded the corner of the greenhouse.
Kisame heaved a dramatic sigh, "You know, friend, you really ought to to ask for a pay raise. Maybe some time off."
Itachi's eyes were on his partner again, "Mm. And why is that?"
A slightly too-sincere shrug, "Well, I mean you're a loyal employee of course, and you never ask for anything extra. You work so hard, and it must be so taxing to be away from your wife and three children." The large sharkish man burst into hearty laughter in spite of himself, "I mean-- you did good in there-- but three daughters?"
Itachi rolled his eyes and unlocked the cab of the truck so his buffoon of a coworker could get in, "Well they are the light of my life, after all. I miss them terribly, really, so if you could stop implying my little angels don't exist-- which they do--" He chastised in a sarcastic deadpan, "Excuse me for trying to formulate a strategic bond with some ninjas who would for sure have our skins if they thought otherwise." He turned the key in the ignition and the truck sputtered to life. Gas tank mostly full, nice.
"As long as we don't oversell it." Kisame added.
Shrugging, Itachi fixed his vision on the dashboard, checking the truck's vitals, "Someone's got to. We cannot all engage in evasive snack time maneuvers with the grandmother."
Itachi's eyes were not his original pair. Nor were they the secondary pair. These he'd received a few months after the last war as a gift from a shady and ill-trained medi-nin who'd offered him a chance to alleviate the incessant pain of living with a ruined pair of secondhand Sharingan. His current eyes were from some civilian; a nameless and willing--he hoped-- donor. Without the use of his formidable kekkei genkai, he'd lost a considerable amount of his recall, particularly when it came to close quarters combat and sensory jutsu. He simply did not have as strong an ability anymore-- which, considering all the difficulty it posed, did make it easier for him to remain hidden and undetected. Itachi could still detect significant shifts in chakra however, and after so many years of experience, one just develops a sixth sense for those sorts of things. That was most likely part of the reason Itachi felt the palpable mood shift that rolled off Kisame in response to his last joke. Another part of it might have been that the man was his friend and knew him better than any other living being. Nevertheless, Itachi had hit a nerve.
"Yeah," Kisame gazed fixedly out the windshield at some point in between the truck and the back wall of the greenhouse, "Well, we can't all be automatically trusted on the basis that we look non-threatening, or that we don't appear to be from a well-known clan." He paused.
"I can't hide from how half the folks I run into are disgusted with me looking like this. Before… I mean, before I could at least own it."
Itachi grimaced internally, "You're right, I shouldn't have been so thoughtless."
The other man shook his head, "It's alright. I know we should be used to it by now, but Nameko and her clan are strangely hospitable. I'm still not accustomed to that being the default when meeting people. Also, you blend in better than I do, and Wakame's parents were asking too many questions for my taste."
"Guess the kid takes after them." Itachi said, "Still, he wouldn't have reason to be suspicious. Do you believe the parents are a danger to us, though?"
Kisame glanced sideways, "Just as much as any other shinobi, probably more so since they can place our faces, and we're in close proximity to the clan. They didn't seem to be searching for information from you though, just making small talk."
Itachi looked at the steering wheel for a brief moment before throwing the truck into reverse. He hooked an arm out the open window to see as he backed up, "Yeah. Well let's hope they don't get too familiar, or too into the idea of being our friends. I don't have the resources to hire a fake family."
"Ugh, the only thing worse than real familial obligation is falsified familial obligation."
Itachi laughed at his partner's remark and shifted the vehicle into drive, "Let's get out of here."
Kisame slapped a large hand on the dashboard in front of him, "I'm up for that. Keep that window open though, this truck reeks of lizard.
The Corvid Couriers truck pulled around the side of the greenhouse and up to the gate of the compound. It was a large, bleached wood structure, heavy with motifs of large-toothed and scaley beasts, and laden with thick kudzu vines. The guard on duty nodden to the truck as it passed slowly through the gate and onto the dirt road that led onto the larger highways of Kiri. Motor vehicles were still most commonly used for transit and transportation, so some of the larger trade cities like Kiri had developed considerable infrastructure to support their booming trade and populations. It made the job of a merchant far more efficient when there were paved roads around a city. The truck swerved onto the Kirigakure Bypass, kicking up a cloud of dust as its tires left the dirt for grey concrete. The skyline of Kiri moved past, and one would have hardly imagined that the same city had once nearly destroyed itself from the inside out. The past no longer suited the thriving metropolis. Tall spires and glass windows choked out the remnants of the squat, cracked stone of just two generations before. The air still held a familiar chill in the early mornings, but it did not carry the the oppressive gloom of the Bloody Mist. Wet breeze misted through the open windows of the cab and blew the two men's hair around, stinging their eyes. As improved as Kiri was, and as successful as it had become, though the men had found a --mostly-- trusted place to stay in the Shimizu compound, it never felt half a good to enter the city as it did to leave.