The first thing that registers on Nara Shikamaru's mind as he stands in line with the other hapless males of his generation, is, surprisingly, not the fact that he may most likely die in the next upcoming months. Well, that was stretching it a little far; he had briefly thought about his doom the weeks prior to coming here with his small satchel of worldly belongings, but he'd preferred to think about other things. Like the coolness of the tatami mat under his cheek as he dozed away the afternoon hours in his room, basking in the sunlight, or the last few games of shogi he played with his father, before the man himself left to complete his own duties. Or the different cloud formations in the blue skies. Today's, he absently notes, is the usual thin, wispy ones that hang in the air like the heat emanating from a perfect, freshly brewed cup of tea.
It's a beautiful day for cloud-gazing, but he's too busy staring at the absurdly colored hair of the boy a few heads in front of him to really pay close attention to the heavens above.
It's…pink.
It's a pretty shade of pink, he grudgingly notes, like the soft hue of cherry blossoms, but all he can muster is a vague sort of pity for the boy. Nobody could pass it off as strawberry-blonde, or red or any other shade of color that sounded remotely manly. It poofs out like a gigantic pink monstrosity of a dandelion clock, and Shikamaru winces internally. It's not as badly styled as the childish bowl-cut the kid with the big, shiny eyes sports, but still. The boy might as well put a target on his back…which he seemed to have already done, the pea-brained fool—a big, white ensō on the back of the red tunic he is currently wearing.
What a fucking idiot.
Shikamaru has no idea what would happen to himself in the next few months; all enlisted men started off as foot soldiers, regardless of their socioeconomic status. Even if it were possible, he knows that Shikaku would never use his influence as Chief Advisor to pull his son out of harm's way.
What he did know with relative certainty, however, glancing at the boy's trembling shoulders and rail-thin arms and legs, is the fact that Pinkie is screwed.