"Registration number?"

Shit.

"Um-" Shirong stutters, "D-352."

The gate guard, a stocky man with a skin tone of copper with the dark eyes to match his uniform of drab brown and forest black, fixes Shirong with an appraising, familiar glare from atop his perch in the wooden watchtower that surveys the eastern edge of Command. All of them, each of them, have parts to play for the war, Shirong knows, but the fact that the gate guards feel the need to act like they're suspicious at this point in his service has really gotten irritating. The amount of times Shirong has come through these front gates have probably superseded the amount of fingers on both of his hands combined by now, and it's not as if they have anything other to do than watch the horizon and memorize the faces of the shinobi that walk in and out of their gate every day.

(nothing to do but avert their eyes from every lump of meat that gets dragged back to Command on a dirty cloth stretcher, if at all. Maybe that's why they don't know his face.)

A pair of heavy footsteps, each in lumbering rhythm with one another, creeps up from behind Shirong at a leisurely pace, settling beside him with only the crunch of gravel beneath their heels to signal their arrival as the gate guard looks away from Shirong and towards where Chūnin Aslani stands tall at his side. He stares at them for a moment longer, raising one dark eyebrow in what looks like confusion before looking over his shoulder to shout down for the gate to be opened.

A few seconds later, the harsh and relieving sound of the Command's heavy, rickety front gate creaking open fills Shirong's ears, and a sigh he didn't even know he was holding escapes from his nose. It's only been... what, a day and a half, maybe, since he left Command on another delivery assignment, one of the shorter ones he's been on, but every time these gates open, it feels like Shirong can finally breathe again. The moment that it is wide enough for the two of them to enter, Shirong needs no prodding from behind to step forward and make his way through the gap; his mud-caked boots are already doing it for him.

Command, like every other time Shirong comes back from a mission, is thankfully the same as it always is. Unchanged. The wooden walls surrounding the camp still stand tall as they always have, and the rows upon rows of holey, weather-worn tents still stand like the soldiers they house. The Mess is still filled with hungry shinobi chowing down on their breakfast of rice porridge and biscuits of muslin, Logistics still has trios of soldiers gingerly moving crates of munitions and small blades to and fro parts unknown and the distant yelps of fresh recruits having basic discipline whipped into them still echoes throughout the camp.

(maybe that's the one thing that Shirong could do without, but it's just another fact of life now that he's not one of them anymore.)

Yes, nothing has changed. Not at all. To say otherwise would mean that whoever was saying that it was lying, or only had a moment's notice before they were burnt to ash by the great bombardment of flame that always preceded one of Konoha's feared mass assaults. Nothing ever changes around here unless the war came and changed it with its own two bloody hands, and that meant that Shirong knew exactly where everything was supposed to be.

The feeling of knowing that, of knowing that he knows that, is the relief. Everything is still where Shirong left it, even the small things like his musty bedroll and his fringe-bitten scrolls, and as long as Shirong has this small shred of control, they'll remain where they always have been.

A heavy, gloved hand claps on Shirong's shoulder from behind, and his eyes dart to stare at where Chūnin Aslani looms next to him. The man heaves a sigh, his eyes opening wide from their previous droopy, half-mast position as he looks down at Shirong.

"Well, best get to it. The brass isn't getting any younger waiting for us."

And with that, Chūnin Aslani steps forward, into the organized chaos that has always been Command, and Shirong is nary a step behind the man as they make their way down the rows of tents and through the throngs of soldiers milling about. They weave around one another like fish in the flow of the ocean, past their dirt-stained and blood-spattered fellows going about their duties with exhausted precision and towards the center of camp, where Command's beating heart lurks. The other shinobi pay the two of them no mind; nothing has changed at all, not only for Shirong, but for no one as well. Everyone knows their duty, what to do and when to do it, and one hardly recognizes the smell of gunpowder and raw steel under the spring rain showers once they've spent any long amount of time here.

The supplies flow through the front gate, and so do the bodies, and so do the soldiers and the messages they carry to the comparatively luxurious set of neat, imposing tents that house the nerve center of the Fourth Western Brigade. That's why the guards posted outside either side of the entrance to the command tent don't startle as they approach, their eyes merely settling on them as neutrally as they always do when Shirong or any of the other runners deliver messages. Once you're through the front gate, you might as well be in the depths of Amegakure itself; here, in an encampment only a couple day's journey away from the smog and destruction of the front, a crimson-tinted haze of something resembling peaceful silence somehow hangs over them all, and none of them ever pay any mind to how quickly the light of cloud-speckled days turn into lightning-scorched nights before the cycle repeats again.

"State your purpose for visiting." The guard standing to the right of the entrance flaps intones, his dark eyes sweeping the two of them, and Chūnin Aslani gives a half-nod bow from the shoulders as he begins to speak.

"Message delivery from Captain Suyin of the Fourth Blocker Squadron by Genin Meng Shirong," He points to Shirong using a gloved thumb, "Who is at this time escorted by myself, Chūnin Saeed Aslani."

The guard gives them one more dissecting glance before holding out and opening an expectant hand, and Shirong reaches into one of his pouches and retrieves the purple-threaded scroll with a steady hand before depositing it in the guard's waiting hand. A wave of dull, rusty-orange chakra sweeps along the length of the parchment in the blink of an eye in search of any sealed explosives, and the guard clutches in in the palm of his hand while casting Shirong a stony look. Shirong's hand moves on its own, reaching down to his side and unclasping the kunai holster wrapped around his thigh with a soft click before trading it with the guard for the scroll.

Chūnin Aslani, on the other hand, merely unlatches the clips fastening his flak jacket to his body and doffs it from his back, revealing the stark black jumpsuit hidden underneath his cloak for a moment as he hands his armor over to the waiting hands of the other guard. Any Ame-nin worth their salt knows how cagey the chiefs are about protection, especially after the horror stories that came from the southern front about infiltrators carving up entire camps in the dead of night, but Shirong still feels... exposed without the familiar weight of steel and leather at his side as he steps forward and steps through the flaps of the canopy.

The early morning sunlight disappears behind a literal curtain of darkness, and the fear is already there, whispering into his ear the cold words of anxiety that always comes with meeting someone above Chūnin rank. Shirong always feels like some sort of exotic specimen pinned to a plate for someone's amusement when he's forced to speak with any of the commanders, regardless of their attitude to a bottom feeder like him. If there was some way that Shirong could melt into the blobs of deep shadow cast by the low, dim lantern light on the canvas walls, he would immediately whenever he visits the Command tent, but when they ask him to jump, Shirong will always have to ask how high they want him to for the sake of escaping a whipping.

(it's always the first lesson any greenhorn conscript learns here)

It's never bright enough to see much of anything in the command tent on a good day, but Shirong supposes that the rumors about the fuel shortages must be true after all because of how the singular rusty lantern positioned near the center of the rickety oaken table can hardly provide anything but a sickly tangerine glow to the inside of the tent, casting it's singular occupant in washed out shades of filmy orange and unbreakable black. Commander Guozhi, as is usual for the morning hours, is hunched over the desk like an old crone, the glass veneer of his left eye sparkling in the dim lamplight while the green of his right one flits erratically as he scans a veritable sea of messages and maps like a hawk.

And then, as if he was the animal instead of a man, Commander Guozhi's right eye darts up, glaring at the intruder into his domain before his gaze softens into something more professional at the sight of Shirong standing at the entrance to the tent. If there's one thing that Shirong can say about Commander Guozhi beyond the usual fear-induced respect for someone of such a high ranking, it's that out of all of the Fourth Western Brigade's brass, he's the one with the most pep in his step as he strides through the roiling blood mist... and despite everything Shirong feels about all of this, he can't help the traitorous inkling of admiration that needles at Shirong's heart when he hears the man speak.

"Genin Shirong," Commander Guozhi rasps, his voice like the sound of dead leaves scraping across concrete, "What news do you bring from Kanepa?"

Before Shirong can even think of a response, the tent flaps open, allowing a blade of sunlight to flood the room and illuminate it's interior as Chūnin Aslani enters the command tent. Commander Guozhi lets out a hiss as he turns away, his one good eye slamming shut and allowing Shirong to see the sloughing flesh that is his upper eyelid and the scars that cover a good portion of the left side of Commander Guozhi's face.

"Warn me next time someone decides to come in here unannounced," He snaps, cracking open his eye to glare at both of them a few seconds later once the voluminous shadows have eaten them all once more, "Or I'll have you reassigned to digging latrines, boy!"

The thought of digging ditches is indeed appealing, and for a moment Shirong allows himself the pleasant image of doing nothing but shoveling dirt day in and day out before strangling those traitorous notions as his mouth opens and delivers the same neutral script it always does when interacting with people.

"I'm sorry, sir," Shirong states, "It won't happen again."

"I should certainly hope not," Commander Guozhi grumbles, before his gaze turns to fall on Chūnin Aslani, "You're one of Suyin's squad, yes? What's she got you running all the way back here for?"

"Escort duty," Chūnin Aslani replies almost instantaneously, "Captain thought the message was important enough to send me off with him."

"Better hand it over then," Commander Guozhi snorts, turning back to stare at Shirong while raising an eyebrow, "It might be only the morn, but Konoha's war machine never rests, so neither can we."

He holds out his weathered hand over the table expectantly like he always does, and it takes Shirong no time at all to gently toss the scroll into his waiting grasp underhandedly like a baseball. Commander Guozhi undoes the length of lilac rope binding the scroll together and unfurls it to it's fullest length, the sound of rustling paper snapping across the backdrop of the crackling lantern like a whip, and his eye scrabbles across the page with deliberate precision before Commander Guozhi lets out a derisive, frustrated sigh.

"Well. I'm not sure what else I expected, really. Konoha is predictable to their tactics as they are dedicated to destruction," Commander Guozhi starts through grit teeth, turning his gaze up to pin Shirong in place, "Disregard Captain Suyin's previous orders; there is little chance there will be much left of Kanepa left for you to run back to by the time the two of you arrive there anyway."

Shirong can hear Chūnin Aslani take in a sharp breath mere seconds after Commander Guozhi says those words, and for the first time since Shirong has met Chūnin Aslani he can hear palpable concern in his voice.

"But sir-!"

"Did I give you permission to speak?" Commander Guozhi cuts in immediately, his jade eye swiveling up and away from Shirong to glare at Chūnin Aslani, who suddenly has nothing to say, "No? Then don't speak."

Out of the usual fog of dust and oil inherent to the tent comes a smell like thick ozone, and then the scent of dust under a rain shower as the hairs on the back of Shirong's neck begin to rise up. Commander Guozhi raises an eyebrow, his eye becoming more visible as he raises the warped flesh in challenge, and although Shirong can't see him fully, the sight of Chūnin Aslani standing stock still at his side is an unsettling one.

"...Of course, sir." Chūnin Aslani finally growls, breaking the silence, and Commander Guozhi nods his head in acceptance.

"Good," The older man concedes, shuffling back around the table and positioning himself at the other side in a way that casts a shadow across the sheaf's of paper lining the table, "Genin Shirong, Chūnin Aslani, you are both hereby removed from the command of the Fourth Blocker Squadron and transferred to the command of the First Heavy Defense Brigade."

"...His Excellency is coming here?" Chūnin Aslani breathes, his fury from just a moment prior seemingly forgotten, and from the corner of his eye Shirong can make out that he's paled even in the thin light of the lantern.

"If Konoha is making a play for Kanepa, there's no doubt that their finest will be the tip of the spear," Commander Guozhi explains with all the passion of a sandstorm, "Without our own acting as a shield, there is... little chance that Kanepa and her garrison will survive beyond a mere week."

The implication of that is, if Kanepa survives at all goes unsaid, but Commander Guozhi needn't say it anyway. The smell of copper and soot doesn't tickle their noses anymore, but their eyes still see the blood and ash all the same.

"His Excellency is taking direct control of the situation; you two arrived just in time to be swept into the muster," Commander Guozhi continues, "Once he arrives, it'll be time to march to Kanepa and defend what is rightfully ours from the mongrel dogs of the Land of Fire."

"...So... how long until reinforcements arrive?" Chūnin Aslani asks quietly, just loud enough for Shirong to hear, and if Shirong can hear what he just said then Commander Guozhi definitely can. He shoots Chūnin Aslani a look, an unimpressed one since Commander Guozhi knows full well what Chūnin Aslani is really asking, and for the first time Shirong can remember since he remembered, he's grateful that he hasn't fallen for the trap of getting particularly attached to any of the faces surrounding him.

"Soon. Soon enough. His Excellency is gathering every shinobi Amegakure can spare for this defense," Commander Guozhi states, his expression softening into one of mere stoniness with the raise of his eyelid, "But we needn't worry about the trivialities of such a process; it's our duty to fight, not worry about the numbers. Isn't that correct, Chūnin Aslani?"

"...Of course, sir." And with that, Chūnin Aslani's voice smooths over, as if the challenge was never there at all, and Shirong finds himself irritated that there was even a need to draw this conversation this far along in the first place.

"Then I'd suggest you both ready yourself for the battle to come..." Commander Guozhi intones, already turning his attention back to the mass of information sitting in front of his gaze, but his scarred lips move one last time regardless of focus.

"... For Konoha does not forgive weakness."

-

"For a Genin, you're taking all of this surprisingly well."

Chūnin Aslani's voice cuts in through the low din of noise that is native to the area around the canteen, and Shirong looks up from the piece of bread muslin he'd been observing float around in his bowl of runny rice porridge for the past few minutes. Chūnin Aslani raises his spoon and takes a bite from his own container of slurry, allowing for the silence to steal the place where Shirong's answer would be until he actually decides to take a venture and answer honestly.

"...Is there another way I'm supposed to be taking it, sir?" Shirong asks, just before Chūnin Aslani slurps up another bite of his porridge, and it takes him a minute to respond.

"No. I wouldn't think so," Chūnin Aslani finally responds with a sigh, setting his spoon down to languish in the bowl with a clink, "But fresh faces like you usually have a harder time with keeping calm when doing their job around here."

Ironic, coming from him.

"...Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Yes," Chūnin Aslani snaps, before rolling his eyes, "In fact, permission to speak freely is granted going forward until it's revoked; you've earned it for now."

Thank Sage. Shirong doesn't know what he'd do if he had to keep asking for permission to say things beyond the usual vocabulary through the entire course of this conversation.

(of course, the fact that this is another first, the first real conversation he's had with anyone in what feels like forever, makes him think that maybe he doesn't know what he'll end up saying here anyway.)

"...I don't see much point in being frightened about my duties," Is what eventually comes out of Shirong's mouth, rolling off of his tongue deliberately with his permission after a moment, "They need to be done, and won't get done if I don't do them. Shedding tears over what I do every day won't get the job finished any faster."

(he's nothing but a good little worker ant, just hoping to avoid the boot.)

Chūnin Aslani levels a dissecting stare at Shirong once he says those words, and he can feel the back of his neck heating up under the weight of his gold eyes before Chūnin Aslani finally speaks again.

"...Fair enough," He huffs, "That's a good quality for a runner like you to have; I've seen men twice your age turn tail and cower at nothing but the notion of facing the enemy in battle."

"...Well, I suppose that makes me useful, at least." Shirong finally mumbles, and a wan smirk stretches across Chūnin Aslani's face, the sight of something resembling a smile utterly foreign to Shirong's eyes.

"Good answer." Chūnin Aslani says as he picks up his bowl and spoon to slurp up whatever remains of his porridge with reckless abandon, before thumping it down on the table and making direct eye contact with Shirong, "You are correct about your use; I don't think that the commander would have pulled you from regular duty, out of all the other genin, if he thought otherwise..."

"...But there's a difference between uses," Chūnin Aslani's bright-shaded eyes darken, and he fixes Shirong with a harsh stare, "You are useful as a runner, and useless as a soldier. I find that to be a spectacular waste of your potential, especially considering how Guozhi likes to talk about molding those dreadful idiots he calls conscripts into proper shinobi."

"...I agree, sir." What else is there to say to that? What else can Shirong say to that? He's nothing but another cog in the machine, after all, not some Shōnen Protagonist grand warrior capable of striking down entire armies in his wake. That's Shirong's lot in life, plain and simple; to be a brick in a road that has already been built for his betters.

(but you don't have to be~)

These traitorous thoughts. They like to pop up at moments when Shirong needs them most like a scream yourself awake nightmare, and it's hard enough to crush them beneath the weight of his mind's solitude without people like Chūnin Aslani saying horrifying things like:

"Which is why I'm going to be drilling you in the techniques of a proper shinobi going forward."