Chapter Two
Shikamaru was pretty sure that it wasn't a dream.
In all the other dreams he'd had before, for instance, he hadn't once questioned, while having them, whether they were dreams or not. And as he was questioning plenty now, he had to rule out that possibility. Which made sense, in some obscure, hypocritical way.
Then he turned to wondering whether he might really have become Hokage, and then for some reason lost all his memories starting from the time he'd laid down to sleep on the grass. Might it have been, as the ANBU had suspected at first, he had been attacked and knocked out?
Surely not. There were no signs of battle of him; his white attire was clean but for grass stains and didn't have even the slightest tear in them. And if he was someone powerful enough to fight and not even mess up his clothes, then he couldn't imagine how strong an opponent it would take to make him black out.
Make him black out and just leave him there, to all appearances unharmed.
It just didn't seem logical.
Still, it was a more probable theory than, say, having been transported to an alternate universe, for example. Therefore, after losing the garrison of ANBU members--who had very helpfully made up their minds that he was confused from the exhaustion of overwork and just needed rest--he'd headed up to 'his' office in the Hokage building. 'His' Chuunin guards didn't suspect anything unusual and nodded respectfully as he passed--though as far as he knew, he was their equal, only stuck in a troublesome white smock--and a key was very conveniently found when he reached into his pockets.
As far as anyone else was concerned, he was supposedly perfectly entitled to entering 'his' office at any time he wanted. It did feel strange, though, just barging in. Shikamaru's reason, however, told him that he knew better than to knock first.
After lighting a few candles here and there, Shikamaru hesistated, then slowly lowered himself into the high-backed chair behind the solitary desk. It was the same set of desk and chair he thought he was familiar with, but actually using the furniture put them--heck, the whole room--into a new perspective. He'd never noticed before how the chair was directly facing the door, giving him the edgy feeling that at any moment, someone was going to burst in and ask what he was doing there.
The trick, he found, was to just look away from the door. He focused his attention onto the stacks of documents on the tabletop and around it. He needed something with a date, for starters…
Ah, a sheet of requested missions. Shikamaru picked it up--and nearly dropped it again.
The date, right down to the day, was exactly the same as the one in which he'd just been an average Chuunin, tired out after a day's work.
Evidently, on the same day, he'd become Hokage.
No, no that couldn't be right. No one just went from Chuunin to Hokage. No one. He doubted that even the Sandaime or Tsunade could have--
Tsunade. If he was Hokage, where was she? There had to be some kind of record around. A--a history or Konoha, or something similar. Shikamaru looked around the room. He could ignore the piles of paper lying around; no one really needed historical volumes on a daily basis, so he wouldn't find it lying around.
The dusty cabinets across the room looked promising. Striding over to them, he had just yanked out a drawer when a cardboard box placed inconspicuously beside the cabinets caught his eye.
Newspapers. And believe it or not, on the very top of the old issues was a yellowing paper bearing the headlines--Nara Shikamaru Named Fifth Hokage.
Shikamaru frowned. It was too easy. The newspaper was right there, stacked neatly as though it expected to be read.
Or someone expected him to read it.
The fact that his actions were so predictable to someone else who wouldn't show himself or herself made Shikamaru uneasy.
Nevertheless, the person--if such a character in fact existed; he didn't have any proof, Shikamaru reminded himself--had at least made sure that he wouldn't miss it, and that made things a lot less troublesome, if anything. Picking it up, Shikamaru returned to 'his' desk and unfolded it.
NARA SHIKAMARU NAMED FIFTHE HOKAGE
One month succeeding the death of Konoha's previous Hokage, Sarutobi, the elders of Konoha's council announced Nara Shikamaru was his successor.
Nara, born into a clan traditionally well adept in the art of shadow usage in combat, graduated from the Ninja Academy of Konoha at the age of eight. Reaching the statuses of Chuunin and Jounin at the ages of ten and eleven respectively, the current Hokage joined the ANBU six months after his promotion to Jounin, rising to the position of Head of the ANBU within another half year.
Known for his diligence and intelligence, Nara's newest promotion is met with little resistance from the residents of Konoha. "It doesn't even matter that he'd young," Shimazaki Tori, Jounin, says. "He has proved, time and time again in numerous missions that…"
The rest of the article consisted mainly of comments on him by various ninjas and civilians, and a more detailed description of his history, as well as a few comparisons with the deceased Sandaime.
Shikamaru cast the newspaper aside; reading more about how great everyone thought he was wasn't going to help him understand what was going on.
Nothing could possibly explain anything that was going on.
"Known for his diligence"?
Now he was floored.
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Expertly slotting the last few shuriken into the pouches strapped to her thighs, the ANBU member turned to the bag of weapons attached to her belt. She would need to buy some more kunais before she set off on her mission; a few more of the knives were lost in every scuffle she had with an enemy, and it wasn't like she could just approach the bodies and pull the weapons out again for recycling. She normally allowed others from the ANBU to dispose of any corpses if she could help it, anyway. It was a gory, messy, disgusting affair, and it unnerved her.
Maybe Anko was right. Maybe she really was too young for the ANBU.
But that kind of thinking, she told herself sternly, wasn't going to get her anywhere. Hers wasn't a job she could back out of at her slightest whim. She had already been entrusted with too many secrets, and sometimes, people who left the ANBU after being told so much had been known to die mysteriously.
Anyhow, jobs needed to be done and secrets needed to be kept. Someone had to do those things, and so while she'd already seen more than she'd ever wanted too, the ANBU member knew she couldn't turn back now.
Stuffing her black cloak and her mask into her closet, she dispensed even of her Jounin vest, with only her hitai-ite to identify her as a ninja. Grabbing some money off her bedside table, the ANBU member left her house, trotting lightly down the street. For an hour or two, she would just be the average kunoichi, going out to replenish her supply of kunais.
Maybe she would drop by at Anko's. If her friend was home, the ANBU member was going to force the purple-haired woman to share her dumplings.
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Shikamaru started awake. He grumbled, lifting himself off the heavy book he'd fallen asleep on top of. He couldn't imagine how he'd actually managed to pull off the feat--falling asleep and staying asleep, despite his uncomfortable pillow. It had been quite galling, reading about all the heroic deeds he had apparently done. This made him even more apprehensive of the situation--not that he knew that exactly 'the situation' was yet.
But he did know that if he were ever called upon again to hold off half a dozen dragons and an army of fire-spitting, half-griffon, half-unidentifiable monster creatures while enemy ninja poured in from another side of the village after a good few months of drought and minor famine, he would probably just pass out.
Shutting the troublesome book, Shikamaru thought about going--at last--to bed. It occurred to him that he had no idea where he 'lived'.
Which was troublesome.
Too tired and sleepy to think of a solution, he figured he would just find another patch of grass to rest upon. And the ANBU could think whatever they liked as long as they let him sleep.
Heaving himself out of his chair, he groaned. Everything was just so troublesome.