Nimble, leap. Land, a crunch of dried leaves. Soles of her feet, above blue-rubber sandals, above the pine-needled floor of the forest. Smell of pine, smell of gunpowder, smell of fox droppings.
Crown of trees, like their trunks are towers, like the forest is an abandoned city.
How many meters, the radio buzzes in his ear. The volume's too high. An adept shinobi could hear it, a Hidden Sound Jonin, or any of those ANBU Hunter-nin of the Mist.
A twist of the dial, a hum of the tiny speaker.
"Twenty, twenty-three."
Roger.
Roger.
Roger.
He's made three mistakes so far.
1) When he landed, she landed on dried leaves. His enemy, knowing he is an ANBU, would never believe he'd land like that. Not only does that alert them enemy to the possibility of ambush, the leaves also act as good combustion for a potential fire-based attack. He is vulnerable. Vulnerability is not a bad thing, necessarily, if it is controlled. This time, it's not. An opening, a pinhole - it's not audacious, it's just weak.
2) When he landed, something broke in his satchel. Gunpowder leaked into the lining of the bag. He can smell it. If he can smell it, then anyone can smell it. Inuzuka can smell it. The Copy Ninja could smell it. This is not a problem if his enemy cannot ascertain why he carries gunpowder. Surely not for the explosions…
3) The -
A kunai, a whip of air. Dodge, dodge, 180 degree turn. Metal sparking against metal. Wind, zipping. Chakra broiling, brooding, coming to fruition. A leap, a dash, a cracked cervical bone. A drop of quiet as the body falls, snapping against a branch, leaves tousled into the air like confetti, and then a plomp as it hits the ground, the pine needles, the helicopter seeds twirling as they fall.
He stands on a branch above the scene of death. Observing, waiting. Will they retrieve his body so soon?
No. No, of course not. They want him to move, first. They have the advantage, still concealed, while he is out in the open.
Report.
"One dead. Chunin. It's not him. He's not here."
Roger. Do it.
Roger. Roger. Now is not the time for that. No, now is not the time for that.
Now - now is the time to leave. To go home. To kill everything and go home.
In the bushes, in all the shadowy bushes of the grove, the alcove, he senses them tense, rustle, leap as his hands weave the signs. Like threading, like knitting, his fingers are lucid and cannot be interrupted as they grope and change and create and the chakra surges, inhales, exhales, and they leap from their shadows, the air full of bodies, then - blinding light, howling flames, searing heat, as the pine needles of the forest snap and crackle into soot, and the bark curls, peeling away from the inner wood, and the inner wood sizzles and combusts - then the world, the forest, is shiny and black, smelling of gunpowder, of ash, of smoke and the burnt flesh of enemy Shinobi. She stands amidst the falling soot, like snow, and feels the heat brooding all around him, and the bodies are blackened already, their limbs contorted, their mouths agape, their cheeks burnt away revealing just the teeth and the bone beneath gums.
Through the smoke and the blaze he flees, while the forest burns. Leaping form branch to branch, from knot to knot, the heat and the smoke behind him, becoming smaller, then nothing, and she doesn't smell it anymore - only his clothing smells like soot - and there is the elbow of the river. His companion waiting at it's vex. The water moving like a diluted mirror. Wind tricking off it's surface.
She lands in front of his comrade.
"Well done. Do something about your smell, then we'll go," the man says. The mask painted like a wolf. The gray arm-guards. The beige cloak with the hood.
She can tell it's a doppleganger. A clone of himself. He'd never approach with his real body.
"Roger," she says, almost a whisper, weaving the hand signs - a burst of chakra, swirling around her like a cloud, seeping into the fabric of her clothing - and then she is odorless.
"Let's go," he commands. And they disappear, leaving behind not even footprints, just a cloud of dust that settles a moment or two later, concealing where they'd just been standing. Then, the river is quiet. Then, the river is calm.