16
Naruto feels ill.
From his perch high in the pines, he watched with satisfaction as his shadow-clones made short work of the highwaymen. He was them, after all. He felt every crushed bone and mangled pressure point. Listened to every ragged breath and endured the lewd explosions of the firearms.
And then it all went wrong.
Two shadow clones dispelled. Two men dead. Needlessly, senselessly dead.
Something like hot glass is flowing behind Naruto's forehead and he can see only
MURDER
—and feel only
RIP THEM ALL TO PIECES
—and hear only
BATHE IN THEIR BLOOD
No. He shakes his head. The bright lance of rage dims. No. No no no. Get it together, man. You're better than this.
And yet, the voice of Kurama still echoes through his skull like far-off thunder. They might have to have a chat after this.
As the blood-fog thins and his eyes readjust, he sees that the last of the clones must have dispelled down in the yard. Only Ichikawa—still mewling and insensate—stands in the brushed space.
An unacceptable breach of attention and judgment. Any other nin—at any rank—could call him out on the carpet for such a sloppy job.
Ah, well. I'd say it's pretty clear that I'm the only nin out here. Time to clean this up.
Naruto sweeps his pack back onto his shoulders. He shimmies out onto a sturdy branch, finds an adequate balance point, and then steps away. Even the glorious sense of freefall has a tinge of anxiety. His feet touch the hardpan with the grace of a sprite.
The yard reeks of blood. Sand blows against his boots. In the center of it all sways Ichikawa, left hand still holding onto that odd multi-shot pistol. Naruto's never seen anything like it. The implications fill his gut with nauseous dread.
Raising his voice to a roar, Naruto says, "It didn't have to go down like this, man!"
Ichikawa turns to face him full-on. His eyes spin senselessly in their sockets. "The hell with ya'. G-goddamn ninja scum. Ya' brought this on yourself."
Naruto shrugs. He says, "I had it all planned out. Was just gonna . . . scare ya'. Beat you up a bit."
Ichikawa makes a sound that brings to mind a cornered animal. An angry, sawblade trill. The bandit begins to raise his pistol.
Naruto's entire body tenses. "I don't want to kill you," he says. "Don't make me kill you."
The highwayman breathes through his nostrils with such intensity that he sounds like he might hyperventilate. Sweat pours in rivulets across his face. His lips quiver, as if he's struggling to begin to say something. He never quite gets there.
Ichikawa's finger twitches toward the trigger.
Naruto closes his eyes. "Oh, fuck you," he breathes.
It doesn't take a Rasengan to do the work at hand. A dozen pressure points flare to enthusiastic purpose. All that's needed is a bit of concentrated chakra in the palm of his hand. A small, sable blade of pure intention. A quick, almost casual swipe.
Ichikawa's throat gives way in an explosive burst of red. His eyes roll up into his head and he falls, gun still clutched in his hand.
Naruto can feel cooling patches of blood dotting his forehead and nose. He's fairly certain some of it got in his beard. Gods, but he needs a laundry.
Finding himself alone, Naruto sidesteps and looks back over his shoulder. Dust sweeps upward from the churned yard. Atop the steps, the hideous little shopkeeper stares out as if he has been visited by the Shinju itself.
"My mistake," Naruto says. His voice is flat—nearly mordant. "Looks like you'll need three coffins, after all."