Shimura Ryota watched with a hidden smirk as the samurai he stood next to clenched his fingers against the edge of the railcar.
"Won't you need to use your hands if we spot someone?" Ryota asked, turning to look at both the samurai—the one sitting next to him, facing south, and the other one sitting next to Ryota's partner, facing north.
"We can't aim for shit while this thing is moving!" the other samurai snapped. Ryota liked it when they sent teenagers—not nearly as formal, and more willing to let down their guard than the old guard.
His samurai was starting to look a little queasy, though, and that was the downside.
Ryota glanced at his partner, but the Hyuuga was busy keeping watch—no small talk there.
He grimaced, then glanced back at the long row of railcars behind them, long enough that the expressions of the other four lookouts on the caboose couldn't be made out.
This wasn't exactly an ideal job for Ryota—he had neither the chakra sense nor the long-range capabilities typically looked for—but he was in good health and he was being sent home anyway, so lookout duty it was.
Even as he thought it his heart twinged.
Both of his parents had now died.
Both had drawn their last breath while he'd been on the front, unable to care for them himself.
It had been hard enough when his father had died while he was fighting against Kumo in the last war.
His tou-san had been fighting himself. His last actions had protected his genin team from the infiltrators by killing the Kumo invaders, giving the tweens time to run for help.
It had hurt, but it hadn't felt like there was anything Ryota could do.
But his kaa-san—
She'd been doing poorly for ages, for his entire life.
It was a side effect of her poison expertise, she said.
A few missions gone wrong.
A few times she'd had to ingest her own creations.
So he'd grown up caring for her, bringing her tea and folding her clothes. Tou-san did most of it, did all that he could—but he'd often have to leave for weeks-long missions, and the caretaker was only paid to come eight hours a day.
Ryota had done all he could.
And when his father died, he'd taken over managing his kaa-san's care directly full-time.
He'd hired an additional caretaker, paid for new books, new food, even the wheelchair his father had never bothered with so his mother could be taken for walks.
And when Kumo had finally surrendered,
And when the war was over,
Ryota had come home.
And his mother had hugged him, and cried, and they ate dinner together almost every day and she teased him as he went on dates and stroked his hair when he had his heart broken.
He took her to art galleries, and to parks, and—
He made sure she was happy.
And she was happy.
And then Kiri had attacked.
Ryota hadn't wanted to leave, not really, but his skills were ideal for the frontline so he hadn't really been given an option.
He set up his mother's care—his second-cousin, a sixteen-year-old who hadn't been cut out to be a kunoichi, had agreed to be a live-in caretaker—and he wrote as often as he could.
His cousin would write back, tell him everything his kaa-san wanted to say and then everything she thought he might like to know.
It killed him, when she started writing about kaa-san deteriorating.
About the doctors telling her, telling kaa-san to prepare for the worst.
He considered asking for leave, but it wasn't even being granted for new parents.
He considered asking for it anyway, hoping just this once they would make an exception.
With the samurai finally helping with the offense, the first leaves were finally granted.
Most were for physical injury, the kind that before then they'd just been told to fight through.
Ryota was lucky; he was one of the very few who was given leave for family matters.
It was just two days, but he'd be able to attend his kaa-san's funeral.
He'd be able to thank his cousin, be able to arrange for his family house to be returned to the Shimura for another family's use.
He'd have time to cry.
But for now he was still working.
Doing a job he in no way had the skills or training to do, but that's what happened sometimes.
The samurai beside him still looked queasy.
"You going to puke?"
The samurai nodded.
Well, at least he knew himself.
.
Sakura glared at Hotaru as he entered, his notes from her absence in her hands.
"You're sending me to Iron?!"
"I'm not doing anything. We're Co-Heads. It is, however, my suggestion."
Sakura did not want to go to Iron—there was too much to do here.
But most of that work would fall on Hotaru—had fallen on Hotaru, for the past thirty-six hours while she was out of office—and if he thought it was still necessary…
She glanced down, looking at the attached summaries—diplomatic mission after mission failed, to the point that every current diplomat could say they had done all they could.
Sakura wasn't a diplomat.
"I'm very… ninja," Sakura said: a kinder way of referring to her brashness.
"Yes," Hotaru said. "But I am very Uchiha."
And the Uchiha, historically, had rather a reputation for raiding in Iron.
The Yamanaka had no such reputation—had never made their money from raiding, and usually did their work without revealing their identities, so felt no actual animosity from any minor nation.
(There was still a lot of fear, though. The broad strokes of Yamanaka's bloodline were well-known.)
"We'll need a man," Sakura argued. "Iron is basically—completely—male-ruled. Samurai-ruled."
"Konoha has sent men. And more men. And even more men. Such pandering has not worked."
Sakura squinted at him. "And what do we offer?"
Hotaru seemed to think he was convincing her; he sat, leaning forward as he did. "Expertise. That's what Diplomacy can't do—directly, that is."
"Shinobi research isn't exactly popular among samurai."
"I was considering—" Hotaru stopped. Coughed.
Sakura stared at him.
A knock at the door—more papers brought in, taken out. A few verbal updates on various projects. A few promises to meet various Researchers later in the day.
They were alone again.
"I did not write it," Hotaru said, "but you are not my only suggestion for who should be part of the diplomatic mission."
"Chinmoku?" she suggested. It was possible—Shin's attempt was one of the shortest. Of course, that was because it was one of the most recent—only three months before, as a tag-along to a larger samurai inter-regional wedding. (He'd reported no success, but no failure. He did make it clear that the Land of Iron's government weren't necessarily anti-Konoha, only very wary of all shinobi.)
"No," Hotaru said. "Tsunade and her team."
Sakura blinked.
The door opened.
Signatures were needed, by them both, and then even more paperwork was left at Sakura's desk—Hotaru's had become full, apparently, and Hotaru gave his assistant permission to move another table into his office.
They were alone again.
"Why Tsunade's team?"
"You'll be more willing to leave Konoha if you can remain with your godson," Hotaru started. It was what Sakura was already thinking of, and he wanted it out of the way. Then, he continued, "Children are, as a whole, less… threatening. Children your godson and his teammate's age are the youngest I could imagine the Hokage agreeing to send on such a mission. The biggest reason, however, is Tsunade herself."
"Ah," Sakura said.
Because that was not a function Akimichi Juro could do.
Juro could provide shinobi-style healthcare, of course, but his work was standard—excellent, but standard.
What Tsunade was capable of—and more importantly, what Tsunade had a reputation for being capable of—
That was on another level.
Civilians, samurai, whoever—people who might not be okay with a ninja treating them, they'd be okay with Tsunade doing it.
That—that was something that Konoha had to bargain with.
That was also something Konoha could afford to bargain with; Tsuande wasn't about to be sent to the front.
But—
"It's Tsunade," Sakura said.
"Yes," Hotaru said.
Because that was the problem, wasn't it?
Sakura wasn't male enough to fit with the Land of Iron's decision-makers, but there were benefits to that.
Tsunade—
The issue wasn't her gender.
The issue was her mental health.
Here, in Konoha, when Tsunade had a bad day she could just disappear, send her team off on D-ranks they could complete themselves.
If she had a bad day in the Land of Iron—
Not only was Iron unlikely to be particularly understanding, but rumors would begin anew over Tsunade's sanity or lack thereof, rumors which had only begun to die down following her time gambling across the country.
"You really think it would be worth it?" Sakura asked.
Hotaru, who had fallen into perfect posture with their first interruption, did not visibly adjust his frame or countenance at all.
It still seemed as if he'd aged a decade.
"You know the same as I do," Hotaru said. "We are running out of resources too fast—this needs to work. There is no other option."
Sakura swallowed.
Glanced at her notebook, whose closed cover hid pages and pages of crossed-out ideas, solutions once thought possible but now known to be feasible.
"Have you brought this to the Hokage?"
"No. I wanted you to—he gets along with you better."
"Only because you decided to position yourself as devil's advocate at every opportunity."
"I only did so because the two of you were already often in agreement."
"Well."
Hotaru smiled. "Well."
The door opened, and once more they were swept into the daily work of the Research Department.
