Transmission #2-0-6-4 Designate: Training Day
North Side the Wall, Tokyo Urban; Hidden Village: "Leaf"
Suburb just beyond Konoha wire, Quadrant 3, "Hero District"; the Haruno household
5:30 hrs; November 29th, 1963
A shinobi team consists of four members.
There were the three underclassmen - chunin, genin, or a mixture of both. And the comrade-captain, a jonin.
A member of Konoha's elite fire patrols, these shinobi were the best at their craft. Comprising a select few who'd surpassed qualifications from the lower tiers, logging over five hundred hours of field work, and passing a strenuous government sponsored training program meant to weed out the weak.
Normally, ninja from well-stablished families received preferential treatment; the State ever prioritized promoting those of strong bloodlines to higher ranks. Those of lesser families had the opportunity to rise in rank, though. If one possessed the talent, funding, or favor backing them, it was wholly possible to earn a spot into upper establishment. Affording them the benefits of greater monthly allowances, better access to medical treatment, clout among Committee circles.
And special dispensations for marriage certificates.
Seldomly do marriages occur between members of lesser families and nobler ones. Grounds being the State can ensure kekkai genkai traits remain pure, uncontaminated, and more importantly, monitored. The normal way for non-clan shinobi to earn the right of marrying into one, is only if they achieve a higher rank. Doing so increases eligibility, barring no problems pending a review: no physical defects, outwardly terrible habits, also if their own jutsu capabilities augmented those of whom they're coupling with, etc.
Sakura made no qualms where her family stood among the Sapporo brain-trust. Which is to say not at all. Her family is considered "middle-class", composed of only three members, and possesses no discernibly great traits. She and hers brought little to the table, and were expected to be grateful for whatever did come their way. But she wasn't, and hadn't for quite some time. Yet today that was going to change.
She considers her rail-thin body in the mirror; no matter how many different poses she tried, more "feminine" qualities eluded her. Ripped with muscle, it made her hips narrow and sharp. Breasts, small and pert, were no bigger than mosquito bites. Her scrunched up face ever looked centered about her button-like nose - something her mother called cute, but that Sakura hated with a passion. Much like her dry, flaxen hair which hung limp down to her shoulders.
Throwing on her combat PT gear - the battle skirt complete with her kunai, shuriken, extra batteries and radio wire, and medical supplies, she readies herself as the dawn's light creeps over a slumbering village. Her long-sleeved, black shirt was padded for the cold. The Khaki vest with the Haruno symbol of the three circles on the back adds another layer of warmth. Yes, she was not as overtly pretty. She was not Ino, full-bodied and curvy in all the right places. Nor was her hair as striking as Ami's purple locks. Or even had the benefit of being "cute" and soft like Matsuri.
She wasn't going to let that stop her, though: Sasuke was going to be hers. Not because of what she could receive from him, but in what she could hope to give him in return. A no-nonsense, strong, honest type of girl; she was what he was, and hoped that it could be enough. Comrade-Sensei Kakashi told her it was, that love didn't need a reason if hers was strong enough.
"The best thing you can do for him, Sakura, is simply be there when he needs you," her sensei told her, in one of those few moments she let her eyes linger a bit too long. "You've got a good heart. I'm sure one day he'll see that. I do. And, so does Naruto..."
Ugh, of course, Naruto.
Tying up her bangs away from her face, the chunin headband she wears feels heavy with purpose when she trods down to her family's kitchen. Mebuki, her ever implacable mother, is already up prepping breakfast. Dishes of miso soup and grilled fish are displayed about their table, where her father Kizashi sits, smiling ear-to-ear, and banging his crutch on the floor; he's just told Naruto one of his terrible jokes, and the idiot was snorting rice all over the place.
"Sakura-chan, Sakura-chan! You need to hear this one!" His smile is infectious, yet she's in no mood, and they have no time.
"Naruto, we need to leave." She says sternly.
"Aw, c'mon this one's good."
"No." Grabbing a napkin from the table, she goes over and roughly wipes at his face. "I've got no time for this today, Naruto. And why are you two allowing him in here?"
"You're not the one to tell me who I can and can't invite into this house. This poor boy was waiting outside all morning for YOU to finally wake up, and you keep him waiting? I'm telling you now, that bed of yours better be made, young lady. And you," Mebuki points the spatula in Naruto's direction. "No 'chans' at the end of a name unless you mean it; you're not children anymore."
Didn't matter if it was the crack of dawn or the final chime before midnight, Mebuki hairdo was ever a woman who had a quick comment for everything. People always say to Sakura took right after mother, but that's impossible: no way was she this annoying.
At least her father always had her back. Even if his limp grew worse as the days went, and his jokes followed in turn.
"Yes, Sakura, I understand. But there's no need to be so rough with Naruto here. After all..." Kizashi says with a mischievous smile.
Sakura knew exactly where this was going, and asks for her father to stop before it's too late.
"He's only a genin, in the end.
Her palms get sweaty, heart is racing, and Sakura face contorts with a embarrassment. "Dad, don't you dare. Stop it."
"And not a 'chew'-nin...AHAHAHAHA!"
Naruto would probably be dead now if he hadn't downed the water to keep himself from choking on white rice lodged in his throat. Didn't stop Sakura's hands clasping about his collar to shake him senseless, but by then the damage was done. Her father had done it again, and summarily broke her teammate before their morning even began. Thank The Noble One, Sasuke wasn't here to see this. Sakura didn't think she'd be able to handle it if-
"Oi," Sasuke's cloaked figured pulls back the screen door leading to their backyard. Forgoing his usual ANBu attire, he wears the customary green combat vest and black wrap about his head to keep off the morning mist. Sasuke's glum look is expectant as he stares after his teammates within. "Would you two idiots quit dicking around, or should I come back after the examination?"
"Ah, Sasuke-kun! Happy to see you've arrived!" Kizashi greets warmly his dour looking guest. Knowing just the thing to brighten the boy's mood, he asks Sasuke if he knew how to make a tissue dance.
Without even the benefit of chopsticks, Sakura scoops a handful of rice into her mouth, throws it down her throat, grabs Naruto by the ear, and throws him out the door as she bids her parents a hasty goodbye. Sasuke is nearly run through as she does this. To which she apologizes for most sincerely, that she know they were all supposed to meet at her house, but the time escaped 's not all her fault, though. Naruto, also, came in unexpectedly. Even though she told him to wait by her gate, knowing her mother would make him sit and have something before they all went off.
"Hey, I was at your house twenty minutes before daybreak, like you said, Sakura-chan!" Naruto pouts, throwing both arms up behind his head in the process. "What was I supposed to do, sit outside and freeze my butt-off while you got ready."
"Ready, you barely brought anything! What the hell are you even wearing?" Sakura notes, seeing Naruto in nothing but black PT cargo pants and a hideous black and orange jumper meant for "civil" workers. Doubtless, from one of his many stints cleaning up after his messes. But did he seriously think that was appropriate shinobi-wear? "You're lucky you don't written up for dress-code violation."
Naruto looks incredulous waving his arms about. "It's the only rain jacket I got!"
"It's not regulation." She snaps, but is quickly shut up.
"It's fine," Sasuke says, voice cutting sharp like the sword leaning horizontal-wise across the small of his back. "Not the worst thing if he stands out. Considering where we're headed, that might be a good thing."
A small pause hits the group as both Naruto and Sakura take the weight of Sasuke's words. Of all three, he was the only one who had firm knowledge of where they were going. The potholed and chipped cobbled road runs out from Konoha's 12th sector, where the rock of the mountain and the treeline made a suburb - albeit, a homely, mediocre one - out of the Fuji stronghold. It faced the northern quadrant of the wood surrounded the volcano, and was the quickest way to get to where Comrade-Sensei Kakashi called everyone to meet.
"Oi, Sasuke..." Naruto nudges his friend's shoulder, pointing out the movement around them; as they walk, along the terraced and angled rooftops Naruto notices a hustled beat slapping against the ceramic tiles. Sasuke, though, had already clocked the other teams making their way to The Forest.
"We need to hurry," Sakura says before crunching on a soldier pill. The other in her hand she hands to Sasuke has another in her hand
"Agreed," he goes, before the sharp release of ammonia and wasabi opens his nostrils and chest as he crunches on the rice-ball. "We move. Now!"
"Hey, what about me?" Naruto cries out after Sakura and Sasuke leap forward in a great bound.
Naruto pushes a sharp intake of air down his lungs, letting his mind at ease before channeling chakra into his legs. His thighs tighten, his calves bulge, and a small cloud of dust is left in his wake as he takes off like a bullet train.
Sakura keeps pace just a few steps behind Sasuke, with Naruto bringing up the rear. To her left and right she can see her other classmates not far off, as they all fly down the road in a blinding rush, jumping along rooftops, speeding along arched walls and winding turns. It looked as if a small army looked was rushing forth out of Konoha, a combined force of some of the most highly adept personnel in all Japan. It baffled her to think the North would ever consider teaming with the South - let alone those American imperialist dogs.
What could they possibly bring to the table, they couldn't handle themselves?
The pines, hemlock firs, and oaks loom just ahead; their dark canopies hiding the sun, and blanketing the path forward in a black pall. Everyone seems to coalesce and mesh with each other as the teams go forward. At a glance, it might be assumed this advance was a haphazard pellmell of reckless abandon. In reality, Sakura recognized it as the typical "Raijin" Spear: the fastest team would take the vanguard point of the formation, with all others fanning the flanks. A basic maneuver, but the easiest to grasp; the spear's "tip" was expected to take first, full contact. Afterwards, depending on the situation, the the left and right wings would either envelop the point, or push through and exploit the gap.
Team 7 was naturally ahead - Sasuke wouldn't have it any other way. Many others agreed, too; the last Uchiha was veritably the best and most skilled they had. A descendent of a storied shinobi clan, famed for its combat prowess, designed and honed as the finest warriors in all Japan - North and South. Sasuke gleamed like a mountain diamond culled from black rock, a beacon all looked to, even Naruto (though he was loath to admit it). The youngest ANBU admitted their own Comrade-Sensei Kakashi was inducted at a mere twelve years old, who else would be better fit to lead the way?
That isn't to say Naruto and Sakura were chopped liver, either.
Naruto had grown a reputation for being a rabble-rouser and a blowhard - something he worked hard to maintain. Wily, agile, clever; ever-encompassing, yet never within hands-reach. There were many things Uzumaki Naruto could be, which made him an all-around wild-card the Village couldn't rule out. Especially, considering the perverse lucky streak ever attached to his well-toned ass (which Sakura was equally loath to admit - both about his fortune, and his behind). But he also loyal, good-natured, and easily likable, despite many villagers still seeing him as an alien force.
And then there was Sakura.
Hard training and a strict regimen proved she was no longer the little girl who needed validation. No one here outworked her: that was a fact. Sakura earned her way into the junior commissar program at thirteen, became a highly adept intelligence and genjutsu mark at fourteen, was awarded special recommendations by Sapporo for advanced installment in a potential ROOT position just this year. Earning her genin band was difficult, becoming a chunin a hard task, but achieving jonin status was so close she could almost taste it.
Because of all the kunoichi here, spinning through the trees, cajoling one another on trying to get a better look at Sasuke, Sakura knew none of the other girls had the stones to stand by her teammates's sides. Only her. She saw it. Comrade-Sensei Kakashi and Naruto did, too. And once Konoha will name her jonin, perhaps then she'd feel vindicated from all the doubt and worry which afflicted her in the past. Vindicated from her looks that never matched the way she felt. From her unmade bed which, frankly, was more a nuisance than anything - it was only going to get messy at the end of day, who cares? And from her dad's nagging war-wound, the bone never healing properly after the surgery, and needing a special note from the State to approve another.
Perhaps, today she will finally make good on being the kunoichi she intended to be. For herself, and for those she loved the most.
"Hey, Sakura-chan, wait up!" Naruto calls out.
One more soldier pills opens her airways, and a sudden burst of energy propels her ahead. Sakura surges forth, overtaking Sasuke as the point. Ever amused by her antics, Sasuke gives an amused "hmph" while he tries to match pace with his longer gait. He tells Naruto to hurry up or they're gonna leave him. Naruto laughs, knowing they like him too much for that to happen.
They're Team 7 after all, he reminds them. "And we know what Comrade-Sensei says about leaving comrades behind."
It's true, they did; a lesson well-learned the first time the Copycat Ninja hit them with the bell test. And one which will serve them well as Team 7 once again heads toward Konoha's infamous training course.
North Side the Wall, Tokyo Urban; Hidden Village: "Leaf"
Training Course Delta; "Bell Test"; Formal review by CopyCat
7:30 hrs; November 29th, 1963
Local hunters in the surrounding area call it the Sea of Trees.
"Jukai".
For outsiders in the South, and those foolish enough to get lost within its thick canopy, formally it known as the Blue Tree Meadow
"Aokigahara".
But for the ninja of Konoha it has held a special place in their hearts dating back to the end of the Moromachi period. Ancient doesn't even begin to describe these dimpled firs, the slumbering maples grown to twice their normal size, the intertwining broadleafs and cypresses conjoined like lovers caught in a meaningful embrace. This domain has an old, almost inhuman aura to it. Where all manner of myths, legends, secrets, and "unnatural" happenings have called it home.
When he first gazed at this expansive woodland - with both good eyes at the time, his own Comrade-Sensei revealed its true name to he and his squadmates.
死の森.
"The Forest of Death".
Kakashi pulls at his collar, this damned buttoned down ensemble feeling more like a gallows noose than anything. Regrettably, he was told to put aside his ensemble of unassuming fatigues and ruddy combat boots. Instead, today he wears the formal officer's flair common among the upper elite. A dark gray uniform trimmed with red, silver leaves emblazoned along the epaulets, spit-shined riding boots that come up to his knees. A large, luxurious trench coat wafts about his shoulders, making him appear bigger than he usually is. The get-up instills a level of seriousness most unparticular to his normal character.
Asuma was the one who put him up to it.
Said he needed to look the part today considering who was showing up. The ROOT intelligence officer lurks in the background, her swift hand scribbling notes in its cool, meticulous manner she'd become known for. The woman never smiles, doesn't say nary a word, there were times even Kakashi had a hard time picking her out. Even amongst this array of party hacks and stately sycophants.
Utatane Koharu of the Ministry of Information and Domestic Policy fidgeted in her heavy winter hakama, weasel lined collar around her neck looking to nearly choke her out. You and me both, Kakashi huffs, pulling at his tie again. Beside her, Homura is in his usual prim, stately attire: grey suede coat, black fedora, and coke-bottle glasses. The Defense Minister looks so clenched up you could shove a lump of coal between his cheeks and the man would shit a diamond.
Heads of the great families were present. The majority leader of the Sapporo Politburo Nara Shikaku chummed it up with his erstwhile compatriots, organizer of General Agriculture Akmichi Choza, and servant of the Secretariat Yamanaka Inoichi. Positions - in theory - which held some form of weight, but in Kakashi's humble opinion were mere formalities: Ino-Shika-Cho were a potent combination, but power concentrated in one place ever made Hokkaido tense.
Which is why ROOT tripled its presence these last few days.
Kakashi tries not to mind Yakushiji Tenzen's damning figure. Black uniform starched and clean, flawless gold and silver medals dangling along his chest, miniature war trophies mean to intimidate those beneath him. He stands behind Kaneko, a hovering shadow meant to monitor the Daimyo's safety. Along with the Southern Japan's Defense Minister, Shimura Danzo; ever wily, and always vigilant.
Around this trio were posted a heavily armed guard, their snubbed AK-56 "Hachi" rifles dangling by their hips, "ibara" blades tucked neatly behind their red and white waistcloth
"Don't worry about a thing," Kakashi says, averting his team's gaze away from just four the "Twelve Guardians" around Kaneko. Draping his arms around Naruto and Sakura, he draws them in close. He tells them to be vigilant, be careful, and most importantly:"Remember your training, and stick together. All of you. If anything else, trust in each other. You know this forest..."
They did, but this place was ever Team 7's bugaboo.
It was never a matter of skill: each time Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura proved themselves more than capable of handling Konoha's Forty-Fourth Training Ground. It was simply a matter of direction. Sasuke ever needed to push himself, ever seeking the hardest hurdle to overcome; there was a fine line between arrogance and confidence Sasuke toed, much to Kakashi's chagrin. Sakura was intelligent - more so, perhaps, than her two squamates. But that also proved a liability: how many times did she hesitate because too many thing flitted about her head. Naruto, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Boundless energy like bull in a china shop, but as jumpy as a fox; one loud noise and who knows which way he'd scamper off too.
Noble One knows Kakashi did his best to insure their best qualities masked their worst habits. He did his best to guide them along this road of life, so that they won't wind up lost like him. However, each were different in so many ways. Made Kakashi fear he may have done them a disservice, setting them all on very different paths by catering his judgements to each student.
"I know you're not able to tell us specifics, but what should we expect heading in?" Sasuke's voice sounds all the more high-handed when he speaks; he may not say he wants to lead, but tone, the way he carries himself, even the way he looks at you screams otherwise. "Doubt you got enough bells in your pockets for everyone here."
"Very observant, Sasuke. I do not," Kakashi smiles past his mask. With the matter of twelve teams gathered at the edge of the forest, perish the thought of being chased about by thirty-six teenagers hellbent on shivving his behind. "No, I can't tell you anything specific. Yet. But I will say this: think positive-like, and don't die. Please, for me? Wouldn't look good if my only team decides to up and perish before they do anything cool."
"Sooooo...potential chance of death is...?" Naruto questions his comrade-sensei past a slight chuckle.
"Well, in the likeliest unlikelihood of your unlikely demise, I look to you to prove me wrong, Naruto. Which you have no problem doing half the time anyways." Kakashi winks, knowing well Naruto's ability to cheat harsher punishment on many an occasion. Just last night he was able to paint over the Founder's Mount, and get away with nary a slap on the wrist.
Utatane-san had a field day trying to cover that up; her staff worked overtime all morning to spin it was an open-air, "urban art" exposition. Meant to showcase the itinerant talent of Konoha's local, "indigenous" artistry. The artist has been summarily brought information questioning.
Kakashi slaps both Sakura and Naruto on the shoulders, playfully punches Sasuke in the shoulders and gives him a knowing look, and then moves - smoothly, though a bit hesitant - over to the front of the gathered company before him. Team 7 moves to take their places in the line, and the jonin captains move about instilling order. Along the sides the Sapporo press line the roped boundaries, with photographers and state pundits looking on as Comrade Morino's booming voice calls for attention. Today was the day they would prove themselves shinobi, he says. None doubted his words, for Morino Ibiki does not raise his voice for show.
"Comrades...!" With a quick swish of his hand, Kakashi draws everyone's attention. Positioned near a burning fire pit, he casts an intimidating, almost ethereal figure in the morning damp. Mist coalesces about like some sort of mythical warrior struck from the notes of a long-lost poem, and firelight dances across his masked face. The fire pit in question is cast in the image of a spitting dragon, tendrils of flame leaping from its mouth, its eyes, and atop its head. Smell of woodsmoke fills the area.
"I'm sure you'd all like to know why I've gathered you here? I have, too. It hasn't been easy these past days and nights determining how your skills and assets would best serve the Democratic People's Republic of Japan. After careful consideration, though, I believe I've come to a serviceable solution. To see if you are worthy of the great task set before you."
With a snap of his fingers, a small jingle appears in his hand. Dangling on a small, dainty red string of fate, Kakashi conjures a bell. Small, shiny, something akin to what Santa might have on his reindeer - if the State allowed for such a fat, selfish, unkempt, slovenly figure to be depicted here. If there was ever an exemplary showcase for all that is wrong with the imperialist capitalist agenda, it was a morbidly obese man, sneaking his way into your homes, and eating your food and drinking your milk.
"The Noble One requires a great task to be undertaken, and you will show if you are indeed worth the headbands you wear. Whether you have what it takes to stand shoulder to shoulder with your comrades when it matters most. To see if you truly know what it means to endure. This you will prove to me, and for all those in attendance." Kakashi motions towards the onlookers bristling with anticipation; Koharu stands at the ready, microphone in hand, moving next to Daimyo Kaneko while her camera crew rolls.
Kaneko, however, takes no note; the man is bundled up heavy, and has a hazy look on his face.
Kakashi reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a large roll-call scroll from within. The green, seaweed covering and gold edging shows its worth, along with the important red tassle holding it together. The Scroll of Names was Konoha's method of tracking all the teams in or out of the field. This was a personal copy Kakashi held - Asuma wouldn't allow for the real one to be utilized today, yet the image strikes a notable chord among all present.
A hushed silence falls over the young, expectant faces. They are confused, and a little hesitant; questions burn them up on the inside. About the only thing, though, keeping them warm in this unseasonably cooler than normal November morning.
Standing before the bright flame of the dragon pot, Kakashi's is alighted by its orange and yellow glow. His shadow paints the soupy grew as he undoes the ebony knot holding the scroll together. Opening it, he reads out the names like Chiron on the River Styx.
"Nara Shikamaru, Yamanaka Ino, Akimichi Choji - Team 10; Fujita Matsuri, Kobashi Mikoshi, Ito Shibire - Team 8; Urasawa Shira, Edogawa Yome, Urasawa Sen - Team 13..."
On and on Kakashi goes down the lists, and every respective name responds with an affirmative "Hai!". Sasuke, even, and Naruto, too, do well to heed the command when their names are mentioned. When Kakashi finishes, for added effect he regards them all with his lone, deep, witch's eye. A small pause, and then unceremoniously he throws the scroll into the fire.
Like he'd knocked the wind out of a giant, an astonished gasp resonates throughout.
"From the first day you graduated, you've all been grouped into teams. From that point, those whom you'd call comrades became in-effect your new family. You ate with them, trained with them, lived with them; struggled in the same fight every waking moment of your life with them. Today that changes." With a swift kick, Kakashi topples over the dragon cauldron, embers and ash spilling from its mouth onto the ground. His boot digs into the wet earth, grinding what's left into dust. Emphasizing whatever was left of their names are no more. Everyone holds their breath, ignorant and nervous of the gravity falling upon them. What is expected, what is wanted, is that they go forward now. Till the next day...
And the next one...
And the next...
As ever was the decree of the Noble One: Tomorrow, together.
"Consider this a hard reset. For all of you. The teams you have been a part of your entire careers are now officially disbanded. As of right now you are squadless. Homeless. 'Team 0'. But from these ashes a new one will arise." Kakashi paces the ranks, looking down each of the sectors as a hungry dog. "Sapporo expects you will act accordingly to the standards set by Nosaka-Sempai's teachings. In this joint operation, you will behave yourselves, and uphold the honor and dignity of the State. This is important...To an extent."
Embers of fire flicker on the ground, illuminating the faces of the students in the harsh light of change, signifying they were now bound together in a new, daunting challenge. Kakashi sees their apprehension on their faces, and no doubt the cameras pick them up as well. Familiar feelings wash over him, as he remembers what it was like to stand on the brink of the unknown, too. Like yesterday's dreams, many of his closest comrades were gone, and their absence ever lingers.
Yet, he knew if these children were going to believe, they needed more than just the substandard prop-puff given to him from Utatane's note cards.
"Abide and obey; this the Committee expects. It is true those who break the rules are scum. But for those who know me, know of my ways, what is equally true is those who abandon their friends are lower. All of you call each other comrades, but how many of you know what that word means? All these years we've pitted you against one another to gauge your qualities and competencies. Fire forges steel, we say. But I say if you fail each other here, 'comrades', you won't leave Konoha. Yet if you succeed," Kakashi holds up the bell. The small bauble hangs like a little star, guiding the way for all to see. "You will have earned my trust...And theirs."
From beyond the fog, shadows and forms move among the branches and shadows of the trees. Many of the teams gathered don't notice them at first - perhaps, these things were simply tricks of the wind. Or fancies of their imagination. It was early, many of them thought. There was nothing there.
But Kakashi sees Sasuke's eyes perk up, and his hand gripping a little more tightly the hilt of his blade. A few others were keen to pick up the sight, too: Shikamaru stifles a yawn, an expression of austere concentration on his face, Sakura looks determined, her warm, consistent strength coaxing a fire within. And Naruto...
Naruto's eyes grew wide - with trepidation or excitement, Kakashi ever had a hard time deciphering. Partly, because he looked so much like her. It was all too uncanny for Kakashi to see his former Sensei in his student's face. Made him wonder what Kushina would've thought if she could see them all now, and how she would've thwacked Kakashi over the head for not being a better teacher.
Coming through the trees, six figures emerge. They are expressionless, formless, cloaked and faces hidden. Only difference between the State Security Services of a ROOT agent and Konoha's ANBU being the mark of concentric lines running down their faces. Many know this symbol, but only a select few understood the dastardly truth hidden behind each mask.
Kakashi hoped that wouldn't become a factor today.
"Those you see behind me are your ROOT liaisons for the upcoming expedition, and your proctors for today." Each come in various shapes and sizes, the only discernible traits one could figure. Most of their files were blackened out, even after they'd been released to Asuma's possession;Tenzan was never complacent in protecting his own. It was fine, Kakashi marked their chakra signatures long before they'd come. Though, did little to ease the tension building in his shoulders.
"On each of their persons is a bell. They are to protect that bell," Kakashi continues, a strong gust rushing along the valley and causing the air to moan. "Your task is to retrieve them - ALL of them. By ANY means necessary."
The gathering around the outskirts of the entrance teems with greater fanfare. Families from the village had traveled the hour long trek, starting early from Konoha, to see off their youth and give them heart. Cameras clicked, and suited up Party-goers chatted amongst themselves. A small ground a ways away was allocated for parked cars, haphazard market stalls, and quickly strewn together eating areas.
The atmosphere could've been mistaken for one of their many "fall festivals", and not for a pugilistic display of combat prowess.
"To assist in this endeavor, caches and supply dumps will be marked on these maps handed to you now." Jonin proctors were already on the move, passing maps to four randomly selected "radiomen" among the assembly. Each ninja squad had a designated communications officer; Team 7's was Sakura. Though, she was not handed a map. "Weapons, radios, scrolls - what have you. Anything you need will be at your disposal."
"However, where do you go upon retrieving said bells? Simple - as you know there many watchtowers located throughout the forest..." Kakashi relays the numerous lookouts, bunkers, and towers split between the sixty kilometers from Konoha to Aokigahara. During the war defense in depth was a key focus in design. When the Allies invaded Kanto, each bastion was meant to form a bulwark of obstacles which would hinder any large troop movement in the area. It proved beneficial; when new borders were drawn, despite Fuji's more southerly position, Allied Command believed it better to cede territory in favor of waging a further campaign to flush hostile remnants.
"Each bell upon capture will have a part of a coordinate. Once they are all retrieved and put together, you'll be able to map out specifically where you are expected to rendezvous. Where, upon arrival, a jonin will greet you. There they will assess your performance, promptly dismiss you afterwards." Kakashi paces up and down the lines, an air of authority tempered by reassurance. His sharp eye examines the front ranks, expressions of both determination and dread marking him as he goes.
"All this will require greater coordination and communication then you have ever needed before. However, you're not just fighting for yourselves. You're fighting for each other. Trust your instincts, and work together. Remember: you are not alone, and together you can overcome them. One for the many." Kakashi calls out.
A murmur of response ripples through the assembled teams, hesitant at first. This did not sit well with Comrade Morino. "ONE FOR THE MANY!"
"Many for all!" The students hurriedly echo back - Kakashi reminded himself to thank the man later for the assist.
"The Will of Fire." Kakashi continued, his tone unwavering.
"We obey its call!" The young ninja respond, voices rising in unison, and carrying a newfound sense of purpose. The chant reverberated through the air, dispelling some of the darkness which had clung to them moments before.
Kakashi watches as fear in their eyes is replaced by a glimmer of action. He could see their postures straightening, tension in their shoulders easing. They were still nervous, but now united in facing the ominous forest and what lay within. Kaksahi felt a swell of pride seeing them, stepping into the unknown together, which made all the difference. With a final encouraging nod, he signals for them to move forward, their collective heartbeats resonating as one as they go forth.
Quick as death, the ROOT agents retreat back into the confines of the wood; they didn't need the benefit of a head-start. Kakashi knew many of those selected personally, and why he lined the area with enough jonin to monitor the fights. On the off-chance things became a too...excited. It wasn't fool-proof; obviously, incidents will happen. Tenzen most certainly encouraged this, too, upon his people. Kakashi made no qualms about the ROOT director's habits, as it was his own father Sakumo who taught the man everything he knew.
But as the sunlight fights past the eerie mist, thirty-six shinobi descend into the depths of whispering leaves and pinching needles. As all run past the flickering of camera flashes, and the sing-song tune of the DPRJ national anthem being played by a tinker-tape band, Kakashi marks Naruto's determination, Sauske's focus, and Sakura's solid resolve. They were not just his students anymore, but warriors in the making, bound by friendship and the desire too overcome.
A good thing, too, Kakashi muses.
He absently twirled the small bell around his finger, the soft chime echoing faintly against the silence of the trees. This simple object represented not only the challenge they faced, but also the innocence he felt they were losing. Kakashi couldn't shake the memory of his own initiation into teh shinobi ranks at a similar age. Back then, the world felt different - easily discernible, readily defined, "good guys, and bad guys". Yet, s he observed his students leaving him, a familiar sense of foreboding begins to burden him yet again.
Sigh.
"They will learn as I have learned," he sighed, the words escaping him like a bitter truth. Kakashi knew all too well the unforgiving nature of the ROOT agents they would soon face. Trained to eliminate threats without hesitation, they embodied the cold efficient that was a stark contract to the budding friendships and dreams of his team. He felt a familiar knot of worry tighten in his chest, not just about the immediate dangers, but about eh larger designs at play - forces he couldn't quite see or understand.
Which was troubling, because Kakashi prided himself on being able to see everything.
He gazes down at the bell; something was off, different. Shadows were lurking the corner of his vision, and he couldn't shake a feeling something was brewing - an unseen storm threatening to engulf them all. Most notably, Sasuke himself. For the Curse Mark to appear again after so many years...
Kakashi made a point of taking Sasuke away from Konoha whenever these flare ups occurred, but till now the mark had always dissipated. Now, it seems to be spreading.
A line of reporters and camera crew await Kakashi as he resigns himself to the sidelines. Microphones waving in front of his face, and flashing lights blind him. He does the dutiful thing of shaking hands, chatting it up with a few higher-up members of the Party. Kaneko dotes his head and nods, saying Kakashi what a fine job he did with his speech. "There might be a Party position for you yet," he laughs. If there was, though, Kakashi would promptly reject it.
He wasn't one for airs, didn't need such problems in his life. Alls Kakashi wanted was a nice, quiet space where he could read his books in peace. That certainly wasn't in the passenger side of his GAZ-69 Soviet-articulated Jeep; a guzzling, sputtering beast with an exhaust which sounded like a shotgun going off. Or at observation tower 22 - one of the few operable posts in the area, and the only one outfitted with the latest State monitoring security equipment per Defense Regulations Habits, Article #83.
And all of it being funded by ROOT.
North Side the Wall, Tokyo Urban; Hidden Village: "Leaf"
Hokage Tower; Lord Third is on the move
7:30 hrs; November 29th, 1963
Asuma stood in front of the mirror, his Hokage robes draping over his broad frame. These ceremonial garments were a relic from a bygone era, intricate and grand, yet feeling utterly foreign against his skin. He tugged at the sleeves, adjusting the fabric which seemed to swallow him whole, the silk sliding uncomfortably against his belly. "Tch, 糞", he curses. When the hell did this happen, he thinks. Every time he tried on a new pair of pants it was a new adventure, reminding him of his own body's stubbornness: his chest was too big, his stomach too round, with every step his clumsy feet threatened to trip over the hem, adding to his discomfort.
He sighs, glancing at his reflection, half-expecting to see a dignified leader back at him. Instead, he sees a man caught in a costume that felt more like a straightjacket than a symbol of authority.
Yet, despite it all, there was a small part of him - very small, very tiny - which always got a kick seeing himself when the ensemble all came together.
"That small part not being your stomach, right?" Kotetsu chided.
Asuma's shoulders slump as whatever pride in him suddenly becomes deflated.
"Everyone's got a fucking comment now." Asuma huffed, exhaling the last remnants of his cigarette into the ashtray. The act felt like a small rebellion against the formality surrounding him. He'd run through the last three of his lat pack, and now would be forced to go sober throughout the day. First world problems, he thinks. "Why do these things have to be so damn impractical."
"Stay still, and they won't be," Izumo says, tying the last bit of wrapping about his midsection; Asuma had to take in a deep breath because of it. "After all, you got to look your best today, don't you."
"Better idea," Asuma steps off the pedestal and gives himself once-over; he looks like a gorilla in a bed sheet, but at least the white and red patten slims him down some. "How about I take over gate duty for the next three months, and you be Hokage."
Izumo laughs and shakes his head. "No way," he goes. "I don't even know how to tie my shoes."
"Then remind me why I have you do this for me?" Asuma points out
Kotetsu smooths out the creases along Asuma's shoulders. "Because it's funny, which is why we let him do it in the first place. And also good luck finding decent tailor on short notice."
Asuma couldn't help but let out a small chuckle, the tension in his shoulder lessening slightly. Kotetsu and Izumo were a few of his closest confidantes. Anyone else taking these comments, and Asuma would've turned their faces into ashtrays. They weren't his best - no, definitely not that, but they certainly made the burden a little lighter. They knew when to tease and when to provide support, a balance making even the most mundane of duties bearable.
Yet a Hokage's role is ever bound to his duty.
To the people, the Village, and for putting on a rendition of hospitality.
Last evening before he could escape into the brisk air of a quiet, solemn midnight, Asuma was forced to prepare his meager holdings for a private dinner hosted in the Daimyo's honor. Kaneko apologized ad nauseam for the trouble, to which propriety dictated Asuma tell him it wasn't a problem at all. Technically, it wasn't; the meal consisted of caramelized potatoes in a sweet, savory sauce, candied carrots, okonomiyaki with the cabbage and lobster toppings, and miso ramen surrounding a sweltering plate of lamb bbq.
The perks of being Hokage were the private stores ever available when such occasions call for them; and Asuma wonders how he'd gained inches. Though, to be fair he rarely sups with such gusto. It wasn't his style for lavish dinner parties when the majority of almost everyone was eating shrimp paste over seaweed wraps and old ration boxes.
"Eat, Asuma, eat," Kaneko quipped at the end of the able. "As the Noble One says: 'The Revolution' is fought with the heart, but won by the stomach."
"And how is Nosaka-sempai these days?" Asuma fought the urge to rip another cigarette from his pocket; Koharu had been peckish about it since sitting down for dinner, and Asuma didn't feel like hearing anymore of it. "I have not had the opportunity to visit him in Otaru. When I get a chance, perhaps I shall pay him a visit?"
Kaneko's face suddenly twists in confusion. A far-away glaze hovers about his eyes, and his lips begin to whimper. "H-How is who now?"
Asuma shook his head; he'd been like this ever since Asuma greeted the Daimyo and his entourage at Hokage Tower. Most of them included Kaneko's walking medical staff: nurses, bed maids, a butler who's sole job apparently was to make sure his patron never fell out of his seat. Asuma refrained from making comments, respecting the title of the man, while at the same time pitying the creature. Tenzen's presence, however, offset much commiseration.
"The Noble One is recovering well in his villa." Of course, Tenzen would know; the man sits in front of a half-touched plate of food, yet an empty cup of sake. Asuma shifts uncomfortably. What a waste. "The sea air and the fresh winter wind calm him. Regrettable he isn't here to join us. But I've ensured he will be kept fully aware of the goings on here in Konoha."
"Good, I'm glad, then." Asuma lies, nodding his head as he pours more of the plum wine into his cup.
"Failure is in the details, Asuma." Tenzen's medals in his chest jangle as the man leans forward offers up his own cup to be refilled. Naturally, Asuma obliges. "As long as we keep abreast of all the facts, we can help Nosaka-sempai rest easy knowing the State is in good hands."
"Hear hear," Koharu notes in agreement, rapping her knuckles on the table.
"Here where?" Kaneko asks, before being hushed with a spoon from his butler.
Ever since a bout of illness had sidelined the man, Sanzo had become more a figment than an actual head of an entire government. The fever had been a longtime coming, the years of hard campaigning finally catching up to his weathered body. More of a philopsher than an actual fighter, truth was it had been surprising to many he hadn't succumbed earlier considering his poor health. Since, he's scuttled himself away to the the seaside town of Otaru facing Ishikari Harbor; the man was won't to look out at the bay where he'd made his first step on the mainland near seventeen years ago.
"What The Noble One requires of us is no different than what was expected during the Great March South." Homura reminds, swirling his sake about. "Diligence and resolve. The pursuit for the benefit of the State requires foresight, that we may make the right choices when they matter most." Homura says, swirling his cup of sake about; he may have thought it unnoticeable, yet Asuma surely saw the man mark Kaneko when he spoke.
"Right choices are made whenever possible, regardless of timing. Correct, Mitokado-san?" Asuma likes to see Homura bristle, but of course that doesn't shut Koharu up.
"Do I sense a bit of aversion to the way we're dealing with things, Lord Hokage. Would you have done any different if you were in our positions?" Koharu says, shooing away one of the waiters come to burden her for more dessert. "Honestly, you of all people knows the precarious position we face; the edge of a knife point is being balanced on our jugulars. And you two bandy over "'right' and 'wrong'. Please...Managing, maintaining, and mandating the information circulating about is of the upmost importance. You know how the Proletariat are: fickle. We need to safeguard are censors to make sure they are NOT compromised. Lest the Noble One be bothered by the noises of the nonce."
"People can become a ornery when they're hungry, I suppose. But I don't think they like being lied to either."
Koharu's eyes become arrow slits once more. "You think we're spreading lies, comrade?"
"Not at all." Asuma responds, avoiding deftly the hole Koharu dug for him. "Humans are temperamental, emotional, and easily confused; truth can be as much a poison for this, as opposed to a remedy. You're doing what you can to protect the people in this regard. All I mean to say is whenever a citizenry is well-informed, they can be trusted by their own government."
The comment draws a smile on Tenzen's face. "You know your Jefferson, Comrade Hokage?"
"As do you, it appears?"
"Naturally, to better counteract Imperialist devils and their propaganda." Temzen chuckles, brushing away some manner of lint or crumbs off his shoulders with his long, black ponytail. "I find learning about my enemies keeps me honest.
"Heh, enemies, eh? Sure." Asuma laughs slightly, the rush of warmth taking him as the sake makes its presence known. He raises up his cup. "To the devils we know, then. Who'll ever make us honest."
Tenzen nods his head, and raises his glass in agreement. "The devils we know"
Asuma left the dinner last night needing something to cheer him up; thankfully, Naruto arrived exactly where Kakashi said he'd be. Good thing, because he wouldn't know what to do with all that paint if he hadn't.
They walk through the familiar streets of his home, the Village, looking up at the Founder's Mount to see Naruto's handiwork on display. Izumo and Kotetsu snigger to themselves, telling Asuma it was an improvement. Asuma couldn't help but agree; the swirled mustachioed tips seemed a nice addition. Even if they conflicted a little with the overly dramatized glasses, or the bold kanji splattered there. "Monkey Man", it reads.
Geez, could've been a little nicer, Asuma snorts.
The road leading towards the gates were alive and well, the people greeting their Hokage as is customary whenever he makes a show to leave. His statue sets himself apart from the customary olive, dark reds, and navy blue winter clothing the citizens wear. Many of them don scarves and home spun mittens to ward off this biting most, coating everything as if a dream. Upon reaching the boundaries, Asuma is lead to a long, angular-looking Cadillac limousine. All sharp edges and black shine, it sits surrounded by Genma leaning upon its hood.
Aoba is there, as well. Along with Radio, Iwashi, and a slew of others Asuma trusted. ROOT had offered a detachment, but the less of Tenzen's people Asuma had to contend with the better. Genma had even warned him against it, more so when the Hokage mentioned perhaps hoofing the trail all the way to Aokigahara on foot. "Not a chance," his second astutely warned. "You're a made guy now. No way are we gonna leave you to your own devices. No, security detail will take it from here."
The '59 Fleetwood Series Seventy-Five model Cadillac was one of the few Western bits of glam allowed in the North. A gift from Sanzo after being awarded two himself from Chairman Kim in Seoul. Titanium rimmed tires, with bullet-proof shielding on the undercarriage and windows, a double hardened steel frame, and a blast catch in the back seat for any IED's. Asuma never enjoyed riding around in the thing; too big, and too flashy. Clearly, if people were gunning for him, this would be a dead give-away.
But once Genma got it in his mind, there was no talking him out of it. Nor the rest of them.
"Your carriage, your Majesty," Izumo opens the door, making a scene as he bows. "The tower awaits its princess."
"I could turn your face into an ashtray, ya know."
"Already got you covered, Boss" Izumo smiles as he moves the large bang covering his right eye away; an empty socket is there, scarred and whited over.
Asuma leans back in the plush seat of the limousine, engine humming softly beneath as they begin to glide through the winding roads heading off to highway 21. The suburbs of the outer perimeters fly past him, his gaze drifting out to take in the myriad families of the villagers who look to him. They were neighbors to him, friends, whatever left of his family. Each one a reminder of the bonds he cherished, the lives he vowed to protect.
Yet, a heavy weight settled on his chest which had nothing to do with his gut.
He sways with the motion of a few bumps the limo hits along the way. Asuma glances at the trees which race by - maples, pines, and oaks - some stripped of their foliage as the cold fingers of winter take hold. A reminder of change, the ebb and flow of a world unmoved by the machinations of man and his works. Nature's relentless cycle mirrors that of history, of states rising and falling as the leaves from the branch.
"Is this a failure?", he wonders, reflecting on the shifting landscape around him. His thoughts spiral back to the beginning, when hope and unity fueled their fight against imperialism. It hadn't always felt this way; the foundations had once been strong.
Asuma clenches his jaw, not seeing his detail veer right off an exit, the Hokage protection squad leaping through the trees to keep cover; the small little towns and villages dotting the landscape between the environs of Konoha and the rest of prefecture are small, slight and have a barren look to them all. Barebones shops and gas stations go by. Food marts and weight stations with little to show and nothing to do.
Hadn't always been like this, he thinks.
Was a time once long ago where The Democratic People's Republic of Japan was once defined by a pure purpose. But it's become increasingly obvious "the people" haven't had a say here for some time. Moreso, at their expense.
No, somewhere along the way a corrosive additive had seeped into their struggle, a vile element that gnawed at the core of power. He could feel the disillusionment settling in, threatening to consume everything they had built. "The people" had become mere shadows in their own narrative, their voices drowned out by the buureeacratic machinery of a leadership that had long forgotten its purpose. It wasn't just about victory anymore, but preserving their dignity for the next generation.
What would it triumph matter if they only became what they had fought against in the end?
What would victory look like with no on there to carry on afterward?
The limo turns a corner, and the imposing structure of his appointed tower stretches out from the confines of green and dark, damp wood. There is where he will soon take his place, awaiting for his students who'd brave the confines of Aokigahara to greet him. Odd he'd be the last person they'd see before he gives them his blessing for going off to war. Asuma takes a deep breath, steadying himself against a wave of uncertainty threatening to overwhelm him. He wouldn't allow it, nor Genma either.
A hard knock against his window - are they already here?
"Rides over, sunshine," Genma smirks beyond the window. "Time to assume the position."
"Face down, ass up, right?" Asuma opens the door with a hard click.
The tower is tall, and much like Konoha, is built on the bones of an old Snegoku watchtower converted to a castle from some up jumped when the country was tarring itself apart, this entire area was once a battlefield; the valley was an important stronghold to corral in times of hardship. Controlling this piece of territory blocked access east, west, and even north if you could play your cards right. The ninja of Konoha had known of this for quite a long time, way before their Iga and Senju forebears were exiled from their previous domains.
Asuma feels the cold seep its way into his robes, his skin, and work its way straight into his bones. He's careful to mind his steps along the slick surface of the rocky forming a path of the old watchtower. Genma was already taking charge, ordering the patrol to set up a perimeter guard, twelve deep, inside and outside the premises. Aoba and Raido were ordered to follow him inside to scope out the interior, even though Asuma told him to take it easy.
"Genma, this isn't necessary," Asuma says shaking his head, a mix of exasperation and amusement in his head. "I can protect myself."
"Doesn't mean I can't still do my job, Lord Third...with respect, of course," Genma replied, kunai and automatic Nambu pistol in hand.
The large, metal doors are unbolted and opened, the wooden hinges it's supported crying out as they do. Everything is just as Asuma had left it the last time he was here - which isn't to say much, because majority of all things within were of a simple, Spartan affair; drab and propped up by other Hokage of the past, who accentuated it as well they could. Tobirama was the only one to truly utilize these towers. Provisioning them with all manner of means to hold out in case of some military reprisal, Hashirama's brother was ever untrusting of many who'd take advantage of his brother's goodwill.
Asuma ascends the worn wooden stairs of the old Sengoku relic, the scent of aged wood and varnish filling eh air as he climbed. The structure still retained much of its rustic charm, with ewalls adorned in rich history, yet beneath the surface lay the trappings of the modern age. IN the basement, a gleaming steel kitchen awaited, a stark contrast to the ancient aura permeating throughout this place. Posters of the Red Star and Nosaka's smiling face plaster the walls, while fake ferns and flowers are placed about here and there, a feeble attempt at bringing life to an otherwise austere environment.
Every floor they passed, Genma told Asuma to wait as he cleared each and every floor. Asuma watched as his friend checked about methodically, tension palpable in his movements, making Asuma roll his eyes; the towers isolation and out-of-the-way location meant only the most persistent of followers could make it through. Not to mention all the other things hiding about the Shi no Mori, which made traveling without an armed guard a foolish endeavor.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Asuma pushes his way past Genma to open a gilded shoji screen; it was the only room located at the topmost part of the outlook, and ASuma was confident no was within. The room he peers into is like many of the others - sparsely furnished, wood clean, yet a fine layer of dust hinting at its lack of care. Old carvings and painting populated the walls, remnants of legends long forgotten, stifled by State censors. IN the center of the room, resting on a formal plush purple pillow, was a jewel. A faded pink crystal the size of a soccer ball, its surface nearly flawless.
Aoba and Raido followed him in, but were quickly dismissed. "Sorry, fellas," Asuma says, gesturing for them to leave. "Alone time now." Aoba hesitated, concern etched beyond his glasses. "It'd be better if one of us stays with you, Lord Third."
"No one is to disturb me until students are moving in close by. Understand? Oh, and if uh, my sausage and tororo soba from the kitchens are done, then yes, disturb me." Asuma says, smirking."
Both of his jonin share unsure glances, but Asuma's eyes left little room for argument. They retreated, relaying their Hokage's wishes to Genma as they do, and leave him alone with the crystal ball. Asuma was never a master of the Tomegane no Jutsu technique, but whenever he sought the jewel's power, it was always under the most secure of circumstances. The secrecy surrounding its use was paramount; as far as Asuma knew, the existence of such a tool was only known by he and a select few he trusted without question.
It wasn't perfect - the jewel had its limits to where and whom it could contact. Its channel worked solely with another who possessed another orb of similar make, and only after a chakra link is connected. Asuma was able to hook up most of the security cameras throughout Aokigahara with the same chakra setting as the jewel, giving him unequal view of the entire valley floor. Not the most complex of jutsu, but damn near untraceable from any prying eyes.
Settling in front of the milky orb, Asuma took a moment to concentrate. His reflection stared back, marred only by a small sliver missing from the ball - a detail he'd carefully intended when he broke off the piece himself. He combs his hair, pinched his cheeks to add some color, and checked the time on his watch. With a steady breath, he placed his fingers on the smooth surface, channeling his chakra into the crystal.
Every flowed through him as he sends out the message. There were no words, or anything concrete - that's not quite how the technique works. Sweat slightly forms on his brow as he concentrates a little harder, pushes a little more, feelings and emotions going through in a jumble. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he lets out an exasperated breath when a familiar voice breaks the silence.
"...Outo-san?", it goes.
Asuma is relieved, his shoulders relaxing as if fifty pounds of extra weight was finally let go.
Even if he cannot make out the other reflection present on the jewel's surface, staring over his shoulder at him from a shadowed corner in the room.
Location: ?
Subject Matter: ?
November 29th, 1963
The hallway was dark, desolate and had the musty stink of mold and rusted iron as he made his way to Generator 4. The lights above flickered forlornly as they died, one by one while he trekked ever further into the bowels of his bunker. Years came to chip away at the confines of this place, time its greatest enemy now that the bombs have stopped, and the bullets no longer flew past.
Heavy boot-steps echo off lonesome walls, fingers tracing along thick wires leading to the breaker system. Using this haven for years, he'd memorized the blueprints left in what remained of the main office. Before the place had been torched, that is. Back in 1937 everything here was considered "state-of-the-art" - the Parisian flair rugs with the hassled edges, the lounge and conference rooms complete with puffed couches and leather chairs which swiveled, a medical area which once housed all manner of clean, shined utensils. Now, like him, all of it was kept in the dark.
Yet, one could still feel the bullet holes and burn marks if you knew where to look.
Finally, as he makes the bend in the hallway, a sharp left leads to a door with bright yellow kanji. Upon it reads, "発電機室"
A loud creak is heard when the door slides open, its bottom half dragging across the warped and bent linoleum. Inside there's a the healthy coating of dust hanging over each of the generators. Five in total, but each being in various states of disrepair; some he'd already used for spare parts, while others had seen more desperate figures trying to make. go and pillage the place for whatever was valuable. Two, though, were still workable: one which was nearly intact, save for the space in the center where its power cell was removed, and another which was untouched.
A loud snap is heard when he flips its switch. Lights pop in and out, and suddenly a slight whirring begins to hum. Walking over to a desk rife with old orders and chewed up folders, he settles into his older leather chair while a wall of monitors come to life. Beside him is an old Sang-jun radio. It lights up, and there's a tell-tale sound of crackling coming through its headset. He grabs it and settles them around his neck. The receiver knob is a bit tough to work with, and at first he doesn't here much to play with the receiver knob. Pressing down a few switches, he moves a coaxial cable from one adjoining transmission to the next, and taps a fastener off to surge in more juice.
After doing this for years, to work such an antique isn't hard at all to him. Oddly, it was all the new stuff coming out which he finds too finicky.
Unfastening the clasps of his satchel, he pulls out a thin, silver square. Opening it were keys and buttons - all of which whose lettering were in a language completely coded by him personally, and a small little black screen. There a green cursor blips on and off when he plugs its wire into the console of the Sang-jun. In a flash a slew of symbols begin to fill out the blank screen.
Leaning back, he gets comfortable; the crackling dissipates, the white noise atop the monitors start to clear, and soon he's picking up chatter along the lines. With care, he places his sidearm off to the side. Protocol dictates it not leave his person, but comfort tells him its cheap pleather strap is too damn unforgiving while sitting.
Beside, he didn't plan on needing it anyway.
No one else knew he was here.
All except for one person.
The CCTV security cameras scattered throughout Shi no Mori come into focus, giving an almost perfect view of the entirety of the wood. Figures are seen dashing about in sectors 2,5 and 6 - the 'candidates" he means to study for today, and their "proctors" in sectors 1,3,6 and 14. Each ROOT agent hunkers down like Venus fly traps waiting patiently for their prey to unwittingly waltz in.
A part of him feels bad; not every day you see lambs enter the slaughterhouse on their own volition. Goodness, they were so precocious, so young; so full of life it's a shame nearly half won't make it out of Aokigahara alive. Yet, as was the case with many great minds of their time: Giordano Bruno, Lisa Meitner, even Oppenheimer. Each and all knew the price they'd pay for their discoveries.
So, too, will he, he supposed. Some day, but not today. No, today was strictly for research, and the files he'd compiled on each and every one of the participants will be scrutinized to the umpteenth degree. He will spare no expense in the pursuit of discovery, for science advances one sacrifice at a time.