Transmission #4-4-8-1 Designate: Hunter Killer
Cao Lãnh, Kiến Phong province; Republic of South Vietnam
Mekong Recon, Base Fluviale; Omega Team furthers insurgency operations: 10°28′2″N 105°37′49″E / 10.46722°N 105.63028°E / 10.46722; 105.63028;
12:27 hrs; November 24, 1963
He never respected things so readily willing to get on their knees...
Why he had such a strained understanding of faith.
It hadn't been his insertion into the tepid jungles of Vietnam where he first became curious of humanity's tendency towards occultism. For quite a while he was enamored by man's proclivity for superstition. Born in ignorance and fear, humanity has ever gravitated towards the mystical when their search for answers leaves them wanting. Unhappy on the bliss of ignorance, they would look up into the skies, the seas, the rivers or deep forests; searching for truth in kindred spirits. Bulls, foxes, elk, eagles, deer, lions, and or wolves - Nature is where man first beheld strength, power, and respect.
Yet, when he dove deeper into that numbing void, it shouldn't have been any surprise to him that other things hid within as well.
For himself he didn't quite know what he found. The what and who he was before being a blur of senses.
So much of what is left has long faded, his essence being stripped down to the marrow. The life he had before has become null and inconsequential, as the Village replaced it with only basic primordial urges: he must fight, he must feed, and most importantly he must fornicate.
A slick slapping sound ran through the tent as his hips pulsed back and forth, speed increasing slightly as the friction and tightness encase him. He bit his tongue and tightened his grip; smooth, black strands being nearly torn to bits like silk in his hand. She bucks against him like a doe in heat, her pale and lithe body giving in like so many others who came before. Willingly or not. She wasn't Vietnamese, no, but a fellow believer. The Viet Cong had been growing in popularity with every patrol boat ambush, every government village chief put on ice, and every car-bomb that went off. Media coverage had grown, and with it the appeal of the fight. This one before him was from the People's Republic of North Japan.
Young.
Around his age. Technically.
Her name was...Yukata?
"Sigh..." She takes in a sharp inhale of air while pressing harder into him, quivering in pleasure as a hand steadies itself on the small of her back. Nails drag across her skin, tickling her to moan into her sleeping ruck. Which slightly annoyed him, for he preferred making noise; it drove the Algerian into fits when he'd fuck in the middle of the day. He'd like to think it's because the man thought it the height of sin any could find him attractive. Something about "Allah" looking down on those who lay with "demons" or something.
Whatever.
A prophet of any other religion who could suck the fun out of a room with a garden hose. "Baki" - the name he called the man affectionately - had fought from the outskirts of the Sahara to these delta lowlands of Vietnam. He'd survived contacts with National French legionnaires, fought in the revolutions in Cuba and Venezuela, and even was a cossack for a bit in the Soviet cavalry police in Kursk. Belief in his faith is what Baki believed made him a better warrior, like the berserkers of Norse fame, or those Seediq aborigines from Taiwan. He gave himself up to the struggle, because therein lay truth.
"Sabr - calm perseverance - is the bedrock of our strategy here," Baki preached to him once by the campfire. That day they drew in a French river patrol of two Fluvielle speeders. The rpg teams set at three points where the river winded capsized one boat, and drove off the other. Yet, it incurred a harsh number of dead and wounded - say what you will about French and ARVN morale, but it seldom affected their aim.
It was the longest conversation they'd had with each other up to this point.
"Unfortunately, we don't have the luxury of time fighting in a sand pit like you did back home," firelight glints off his mask as he says this, the glaring teeth bright and pronounced across where he sits. "The Mekong is an area of over six million fully cultivated ha. With oil centers, depots, and an output of rubber, fruit, coffee and rice three times that of anything comparative in Hanoi. 'Calm perseverance' makes the enemy stronger, and yet you want us to be patient?"
"إِنَّ اللَّهَ مَعَ الصَّابِرِينَ" Baki responds, making him want to plunge his sword into his face.
"Allah isn't the one convening the Dragon Court, nor is he one supplying us," turning over to the piled boxes in their base camp, he notes they have only enough provisions for maybe a week haul or a little more. They'll be cutting it close.
"Battles won are sufficient sustenance."
"This was a skirmish, not a battle," He spits through the mask, and nods over to the wrapped figures of eight bodies laying beside the river. "And you're wasting meat, and my time."
"Patience is not merely in the practice of worship to Allah, but a reality in war. Patience dictates our foes movements, patience gives us time to gather strength, and whittle down the enemy's; patience is weathering sacrifice, while never losing sight of victory." Baki glares past the fire, the loose part of his head wrap hanging loose over one half of his face. "Your father understood well the importance of these words."
"And you should know wasting time has consequences," he rises from his seat, the black shadow of his gear and cape cutting a militant phantom in the cricket song of that night. "My father 'persevered' all the way up to his death, you jackass. As the war he fought still raged on, and you all with nothing to show for it in the end. Spare me your patience, and start worrying about results."
Baki spoke the night as if he were still among many of his old FLN comrades in Algiers, veterans who'd been fighting since 1954. Those old heads had suffered through Touissant Rouge, but the revolutions in Southeast Asia were youth movement with little blood on their teeth. Yet. But the more bodies piling up took away steam for more shock-and-awe tactics meant to show the Saigon junta had no control. Many students and other young militants may look at the causality and begin to doubt.
That he couldn't let Baki allow, because the truth of it was he was full of shit. And so was his Allah...
...And Jesus.
...Yahweh.
...Buddha.
Or any other figment of religion presuming to give answers, when in reality all men needed do was simply look into the abyss. And wait, and watch, until you find yourself being stared at right back. Humans try hard to understand the infinity beset about them. To look for clues, virtue, righteousness, reason and wayward notions of morality in an otherwise amoral universe. But the only thing they'll ever find which is true was the feel of vanquishing your enemies, the rush of final victory, and the thrill elicited from a young creature giving in to you.
The excitement is too much as she lets loose a moan, speed and sound picking up when he feels the rush is close. Her body shudders, shivers, before he yanks her hard and brought up to press against his hard, scarred chest. Some of these old wounds were from his father, others from the numerous ops conducted over the years. Tank treads across the right pec in Angola, bullet wounds raking across his shoulder from the Congo, a long crescent scar running across his navel where the surgery was had seven years ago.
"FaStEr, HaRdEr, FaStEr! C'mOn, C'mOn, TaKe iT fRoM hEr! YoU sAw ThE wAy ShE lOoKeD aT uS!" It's voice is practically clawing its way out of his head.
She had been giving him eyes for some time now; he blamed it on the entity's aura. This allurement it gave off pulled in prey close like a coupling mantis. Doubtless she feared him, was plain the way she shirked away when he finally cornered her. Yet like a flame culling moths to its light, he couldn't help but drag her in. And she let him. Effortlessly. Well,...as effortless as the Sharingan made it. She was lucid, though, as she took off her clothes, her mind at ease as he loved her in ways she may never have dreamt before. Konoha he knew could be a lonely place, a village of dead leaves and dew drenched pine needles.
He wondered, as they heaved their last and his long tongue tastes her sweat-stained skin, if she left before or after learning of her Villages future involvement here?
The question lingers on his mind far longer than the feel of her nude form against him did, and as he gathers his things and gear for his recon in the city of Cao Lãnh he knows the time for "calm perseverance" has long passed. Leaving...Yukata? In a panting, satisfied heap in her sack, he bites back the urge to have more of his way with her, before turning off for roll call: he'd picked his team, and they would be waiting for him by the dirt packed road.
Base camp was a shoddy thing in the delta lowlands. Baki ha dit in his mind to move out of the perimeter of Cao Lãnh to best avert the vigilant gaze of the Alouette's flying over. He let the man do as he pleased, but reiterated his orders didn't come directly from Baki's lips; they came from the little transistor stowed away in the base camp's main tent. The radio had one responder and it was a satellite line which could work anywhere and anytime. The charge it gave was a another name: General Nguyễn Khánh.
Braggart had been making claims again in front of news reels and tv cameras, and nominally left himself open. After taking the lead for defense the southern districts, the ARVN general had committed to a 'hearts and minds" campaign showing he was unafraid and unaffected by the VC. "They can never touch me," he claimed one night on a late radio broadcast. "Not so long as I'm on Vietnamese soil."
Challenge accepted, then.
Through the looming haze, they cut stark pillars haunting along the path's edge. Past the soup the city is nigh invisible, causing him to wheeze out a curse; this'll make for a hard go, the Sharingan operating less than optimally in the fading light. Why he opted for a small ensemble to support him, though the demon inside cursed and ranted how they'd just slow them down. He agreed, but knowing separating the group went up Baki's ass gave him a small comfort.
"Well, well, stud; glad to see you're revved and rearing to go." Comes a bright smile, hidden by the black head dress and pajamas he wears. Long, intricate purples lines mar his face, decked as it was in the ceremonial markings of his people's tribe. "Sure you don't wanna take a minute before hittin the dusty trail?"
"No," he says without even stopping. Has half a mind to tell the idiot he looks like a fool with his get-up, but so far he was the only other person he could rely on in this band of amateurs. "You all know the drill, I don't need to explain this to you. In and out. I'll flush the target to give you the opening. Don't miss."
"I never miss." Goes the tall blonde with a wink. She's uniformed in her usual tan and brown khaki dress, shouldering the scoped MAS over her arm. "Just make sure you're watching my back this time, stud."
"Ohhhhhhhohohoho! I like this one. " The voice barks, causing his blood to run a little hotter - sometimes it took a bit for it to calm down after a session or two. Normally, an ice bath would do it, but he wouldn't be caught dead dipping into this river water. "I loooOOOOOooooOOOove the way this one smells. Blood and daddy issues - Love it! Come on, let's give her a go. I wanna taste, and she wants it, too!
The voice goes silent soon as he bites down hard on his lips. A small line of blood falls from his mouth.
Dutifully, they follow. All twelve. With nary a complaint. As all were chosen to be a part of this mission, if not because they believed in the "cause", or feared him enough to obey his word, but out of the belief in the man who set them loose here. He'd been gone since Saigon, but they made sure his presence was felt everywhere they went. Baki was only a "middle-man", the grizzled war vet put to task to get the VC in shape for when the real fighting happened, but he was the surgeon. And they his scalpels, surgically meant to gimp this nation to its knees.
Cao Lãnh is a charming city surrounded by the lush, green crescent of life known in these parts as the Mekong Delta. Civilization grew up from the mud here, and in the mud it stayed. Though many have turned it into a burgeoning trade hub of agricultural splendor, where farmers from all walks of life and status ply their goods at prices more than affordable than what they've seen most places. Wealth wasn't an issue here, even if its rustic charm was on full display in the picturesque rice paddies, colorful markets, and canals criss-crossing like veins running along an arm.
One half of the group he directs to post on the western outskirts of Cao Lãnh, just out of range of the French/ARVN outpost guarding the road. The other half makes contact with their informant. Gangly, middle-aged, with swarthy skin and chapped hands; he was a local farmer, disheartened and dismayed that he hadn't heard from his son in months. In his mind, the Diem brothers had him sequestered in some far-off prison for being a Buddhist. In reality, the boy turned VC and became one of those bodies by the riverbank.
The father didn't need to know.
"Quickly, come quickly," he urges, ushering them into the covered bed of his truck. As he removes the flap a large, circular coffin is found within. Paper seals and bronze baubles dangle off iron pins, keeping the miasma within locked inside. It causes the demon within to screech and howl in horror.
"You into the truck - and quit playing with your makeup," with a flick of his head, he motions for the kabuki warrior to enter the truck.
Stopping from applying more of the purple makeup along the bridge of his nose, the man gives him an annoyed look. "I have a name you know." He says, as if it should matter.
"Get into the truck, Kankuro."
Rolling his eyes, he hops into the back of the bed. "Still not my name, but fine, sure."
Yeah, it wasn't his name. The monicker he gave attributed to his penchant for playing with puppets. Considering that's all he was good at, he thought it sounded particularly clever. Besides, Berber names were hard enough to pronounce on their own name without the Arabic influence. And his tribe had been skulking around teh Sahara long enough where the sounds came together in too many clicks, clucks, and odd sucking in noises he'd rather not waste time spitting out. No, Kankuro was fine enough for him.
Even if the little shit-stain didn't think so.
"Oh my Lord, who the hell let this guy come on in," he almost had to bite his tongue in half to stop the entity from tearing this waif before him in half. Standing there with a stupid look on his face, and his equally stupid red looking hair, the ginger moved to get into the truck beside his brother.
"Actually my brother's real name is-" He begins to say before being cut off.
"Tayhri," Kankuro pops his head out, fixing his little brother with a hard stare. "Enough. Come."
The pale little turd looks hurt before glumly climbing into the back, being shot down once again by his elder brother's word. Respect should be shown to your elders, as it is only proper. That goes double for siblings, and these two morons were by far the most implacable to be around. "Kankuro" was a freedom fighter from the border of Tunisia who'd been guarding Syndicalist French caravans along highway Al-Qut 56. His claim to fame was the astounding expertise in which he gave himself up to the Village hidden in the Wastes of that sun-scorched hellhole. Same went for Tayhri, save for a few examples: he was young, sickly, weak, and utterly unreliable.
How he was chosen to be a part of Team Omega is beyond him. But that he hasn't died yet says something about the bastard's toughness. Though, nothing compared to his bitch-amazon of a sister who kept lording over his back.
"I'll find my way into town on foot." Temari - "hand ball"; not due to anything specific, but because he thought it was funny to call her that - begins to hoof towards town, before a gloved hand grips her elbow. "Let. Me. Fucking go," she warns, only making the blood in him rise higher.
"Don't let her go!"
"Khanh is our target, but not your quarry. We need him alive, so don't get too ahead of yourself." He's shorter than her by a few inches, making her seem all the more imperious looking down at him. Little love is lost between them, even with the tension he knows he gives off; she fights him as much as possible, sickened by the way he treats teh rest of the female cadres in the unit.
"Rich coming form you of all...things." She emphasizes.
Ripping her arm away from his grip, she looks over towards her little brother he pokes his head back out. Again, he is shooed away. "Tayhri, make sure you steer clear of the church until I give the okay."
"He will go where I order him," he says, though she's already turned away from him.
"My brother is my concern. Not yours." She says, her long strides covering the ground toward Cao Lãnh with ease. "Focus on the general only - I'll make sure your path is cleared."
"Mama mia, what a woman!"
What a woman, indeed.
Temari may share blood with the brothers, but her looks define her as something completely different in his eyes. A strong body is clearly noticed through her uniform, muscles honed from years of staving off attacks from National French Legionaries from Algeria to Morocco, her sun touched hair and sand-kissed skin glowing in the high noon. Understandable why the monster within was so hell-bent in wanting to mount her; in her was a domineering fire intent on burning any to the touch, making her all the more attractive.
As he burned others, she burned him, and together he mused about the kind of fire they could enact in each other.
The Sand Siblings separated as the truck left and Temari hunched her way into Cao Lãnh, deftly hiding her rifle in pieces in the large leather carry on she carried. A long shawl hid herself in a fumbling crowd of washing women, and farmer's daughter heading back into the city - she still stood out, but leave it to her to be difficult. Fine, he thought. Oddly enough he trusted her to be at the overlook on time and in position; the church's square was large enough, and French enough, where she may not be noticed.
He on the other hand, minded his steps.
Khanh's routine wasn't hard to figure out. His mendacity and audaciousness - or, perhaps arrogance - compelled him to fasten to a strict adherence to the same, formal line most every day of the week. His morning patrols were conducted in full-view along teh countryside, as he traveled with a sizable company of APC's, jeeps, two armored car, and a limousine brandishing two flags: one of the Southern government, the other of Khanh's personal army detachment.
This long, meandering process would take the better part of the morning, where upon heading into Cao Lãnh he'd stop alongside the road for a quick bite at street vendor serving . He'd take that with his overly strong tea, before then running past Phang Nol street, where cadres from his resource department had already orchestrated citizens to stand on either side and hail him as a conquering savior. They'd throw ribbons and flowers at his feet, as at this point he'd get out of the limo and proceed on foot in front it. Armed guards would circle about him, French gear and weapons primed on the crowds, having no qualms about opening fire if any untoward movements were sighted. Happened already three times, though amazingly no one was killed.
Nguyễn Khanh would continue walking this path, shaking hands and bowing to people he'd never cared for or had seen in his entire life. He'd always brag how being born in the Mekong always gave him an affinity toward the river tribes and Viet peoples living here for centuries. Yet, in actuality Nguyen was born to a higher official in the French bureaucracy and a high-end art performer, who'd barely lived this far south, and was far more in tune to the rigors of city-living than rural centers such as this. Still, he took pride where he was from. Made him somewhat affable, even if he was a practicing Catholic.
Cao Lãnh church and the surrounding courtyard was a another arm of French colonization in the Mekong, reaching out from the traditional vernacular and naturist Vietnamese architecture. The stuccoed walls painted a faded pink and tan which shines in the light, a bell tower of white brick looking down imposingly from its perch, the grandiose yet simple black cross above the mantle of the church's entrance. Pseudo-gothic in its presentation, half ramshackle with its material; it was another half-and-half job sticking out from the majority of its neighbors.
In that, he could relate.
Most of the buildings and shops around the church weren't tall; the highest being one three story apartment complex facing east of the road. His sniper's cloak blended into the weathered tiling of the roof, having seen enough heavy rain and merciless sun to bleach the more vibrant colors of the tile away. He waited and looked to see the gathering crowd getting ready for the final Sunday service. An eclectic mix of finely dressed Viet peoples clothed in Western skins, blend with the more humble look of paddy farmers and tuk-tuk drivers. Khanh and his armed troupe stand out perfectly in their midst, his motorcade stopping just shy from the cobblestone path leading to the church, where priest and his conglomeration stand to meet him.
A short, squat man in Aviators and a black beret extends his hand to go down the line; Nguyen ever liked being the center of attention, and loved pulling people into his sphere if he could. Photographers and a small news crew filmed as he greeted his priestly father, a Frenchman sweltering in his heavy white and green robes. Deacons behind bowed, and the mayor of Cao Lãnh was practically weeping as Khanh gripped his forearm. Annoying little bastard, he thinks; mayor of this place had given them support all up until Khana and the ARVN swept in, and then he cut off all ties.
A frog leaping from one paddy to the next.
"Cut off his legs and feed'em to his masters! Then cut off his balls and feed'em to him! Do it, and make the French see you do it, too!"
Looking across where he lay, through his mask he notices the glint of Temar's scope from a building right of his position; she chose the rooftop of a restaurant/hotel, taller than most, and set at an angle where the bellower from the church would give her cover. He knows she can see him, as she never let let her eyes off him for longer than a moment's notice. It makes the entity shiver thinking she can't keep those sultry blue eyes off them.
"Remember, guards around the square first, stir up the crowd; I'll press into the church." He says through the comms in his mask.
The receiver on the other ends screeches, and Temari's voice comes through. "Don't worry, bubala," she says, and he sees her slowly move the barrel of her rifle over the ledge. "I know what I'm doing."
"Team B in position," Kankuro's voice goes over the comms, followed by Tayhri's. "Team C ready."
For a moment he considers his breathing, timing it in rhythm with the beats of his heart, channeling chakra to the joints in his arms, legs, and chest; he was going to hit the ground running. Literally. Following along the path the Sharingan had mapped for him. Months of dissecting chaotic crowds and riots allowed him to formulate all the intricacies and avenues of escaping through the mob. He will find his way soon as the shot comes, and there press to collect their prey.
Temari takes aim from where she sits, a mindful note in her voice as she calls out her first target. An ARVN guardsman with a white tiger painted on his helmet stands overlooking the crowd of people shuffling forward. His back is turned, and he falls before the bullet can exit through his skull. The second and third shots come, felling more guards who scramble to see where the attack is coming from. Khanh and his delegation stumble to act, and soon the churchgoers rush with panic.
"Gogogogogogogo!"
Taking one more breath, feeling the pulsing chakra expands his lungs and force blood into his muscles, he darts off the roof and onto the road. He is insured and unnoticed as he weaves and bobs through the crowd, uncaring for anything but their won safety. As the ARVN 2nd Division White Tiger Regiment puts fire where the assumed shooter is, Tayhri and his own band of three gunman open fire in the rear. Pulling out their old SA 24's, a line of automatic fire divides the fighting, causing more confusion.
Past his mask, the Sharingan blazes and swirls, leading him effortlessly through the throng as he spies Khanh. The general pushes the priest out of his way to run into the church, seeing this avenue back to his car was cut off. The firefight rages as bullets fly, screams abound, and more blood falls upon the Church's courtyard. He lets fly two kunai just before he hits the steps of the Church. They cut the jugulars of two ARVN who'd gotten in his path. He finishes them off slashing their stomachs as he pulls his sword from its scabbard.
"Tayhri, get back! I can handle the rest of them!" Barks Temari over the comms. Her brother doesn't pay attention, though, clumsily maneuvering to cover as more troops from the caravan enter the courtyard.
"Reinforcements coming down the road!" Tayhri shouts, only for Temari to yell at him to get to cover.
The church smells of incense and burning candles, bright colors of red, blue, yellow, green, and orange of the stained glass windows lighting up the dim interior. A few churchgoers had unfortunately found themselves huddled in the corner; a man hugging two crying children as the reverberation of wracking shots tremble through the church's bones. Khanh turns to see him, blood red eyes and scarlet encrusted sword, and draws his own sidearm.
The coward has no qualms grabbing the scared man and his family, putting them between a would-be killer and his custom Modele revolver.
He has no time for this bullshit.
"Spill his guts, eat his entrails, nail his fucking limbs to the goddamn cross! Do it! Kill him, KILL HIM! He deserves it; WE deserve it!"
Exhaling a deep sigh, he moves fast than light, and his sword flashes like lightning while an eruption of blood spits up to the ceiling, the floor, and over the man's petrified children. They scream blood-curdling cries as tears fall down their cheeks, hands still clutched in the grasp of the respective halves of their father. He walks past undeterred, unbothered, fixed plainly on the man who presumes to claim himself to be a warrior.
But Khanh is no warrior; he's a pig who found himself scrambling for the slop after Diem's death. A presumptive little shit who trusted in his own aura and standing, without even considering this land could go on without him. That South Vietnam didn't need him. But they did, and as he follows in the man's tremulous footsteps, he makes sure to lead him down the halls to back end of the church. There, the only door leading out exits to the street where the priest's residence is located.
And Kankuro.
The trailer of the truck is opened, along with its torn covering. Khanh is slow to react, and stumbles down the stairs. The audible crack of his sunglasses is heard as they fall off his face and crunch into the pavement. His eyes remind of a fattened pig getting ready for slaughter, darting back and forth in speechless terror. The general's so scared, the gun in his hand trembles, hammer still uncocked as he vainly tries pulling the trigger.
"Please, please, don't do this - don't kill me." Khanh pleads in French first, then whatever Vietnamese dialect he knows, and finally a broken English so brought to listen it makes him want to rip the man's tongue out. Stepping forth from the House of God, it gives him pleasure to see this man fall to his knees. Why he never respected religions. Anything that puts a man on his knees jsut never sat well with him.
Khanh is crying as he looks into his swirling eyes, the red pooling while boils as his blood boils beneath. He tries to control his breathing, but he can't fend off the wheezing. Lungs falter as they fail to take in air, and it nearly rocks him off his feet.
"Malheureusement," he says, motion the man to shut his mouth with the tip of his blade. A small trickle of blood falls where the point pokes at the fat gullet neath his neck. "You're worth more to us alive, general."
With a flick of his wrist, the sword removes itself as Kankuro's invisible strings pull forth the coffin. Pieces circle around Khan till he's encased fully like a moon-draped nightmare, crying out forlornly with no one to hear. Kankuro works fast, his chakra cables hard as steel and smooth as quicksilver, tightening the wooden planks and fastening them tight. The seals on the coffin make it nigh impenetrable, only opening when he gives word they be broken.
"We have him," he calls through the comm; hurriedly Kankuro throws the coffin back up into the truck, the shocks buckling under the added weight. Two other members of the group roll the coffin to the back, as Kankuro moves to take the wheel.
"Make sure you tell my girl to get the hell outta here!"
"Temari? We have him - get moving!" Static is all he hears over the comm. That and the crack of rapid shots sounding off the concrete and brick buildings.
"On my way! Tayhri, never mind them! Move!" Temari yells over the radio. More shots ring out in the courtyard behind; they know the drill and their exit. It didn't;'t matter to him if they made it or not, dead bodies always covered their tracks, but Kankuro looks troubled.
As he gets into the cab, the man's sweating profusely so that the paint runs down his face; doubtless, he wants to go back for his brother and sister - he can smell the concern oozing off him, and it's nauseating. Humans ever have a tendency to be so unsure, so myopic, so unreliable. He leans forward, his hand a vice on Kankuro's shoulder, demanding attention. "DrIvE!", he growls through the mask, urgency lacing his command. Blood drips past the eyeholes of his mask, rivulets of crimson flowing down as the Sharingan bleeds him yet again.
Shit, he curses. Not again.
His eyes have been bothering him more lately, most likely due due to overuse. The Sharingan has been taking a heavy toll on his body, and required more than just channeling chakra. Worst concern are that his meds at camp are almost run dry, and he's not a lot of options left. He'll go blind sooner rather than later, and all the sex, killing, and eating won't fix what has become ostensibly broken in him. Baki can go to hell with "calm perseverance"; speed is his priority now.
That, and a doctor.
Above all else, I need a fucking doctor...And as the truck speeds away down the street, a once familiar urge to pray comes across his mind. Like a revery from a past life, wafting off in the distance, teasing him with a little bit humanity retained within.
Transmission #4-4-8-1 Designate: Hunter Killer
Sanya District, Tokyo Metropolitan: Republic of South Japan
Sumida River - Warehouse Sector; The Fangs hold court
16:35 hrs; November 24, 1963
"Are you sure he's okay?" Even though he's asked a hundred times, it wouldn't feel right if he doesn't ask one hundred more; Akamaru looked fine, seemed fine, but he wasn't going to leave anything to chance.
"Kiba," his older sister Hana says, trying to reassure him. "He's fine. He's been fine. And no matter how many times you bring him here, I'm going to keep telling you the same thing."
In the bustling vet clinic, the familiar scent of antiseptic mingles with the comforting aroma of pet shampoo. Some people would gag at the smell, complaining it was too much like wet and sick dogs in here, but for Kiba it felt so much like home. He remembered coming in here when he was just a boy, his mother taking him by the hand, looking at all the stray pups they'd find. She used to tell him how his dad would go out every night to find each and every one, bring them in to give them all a home from the cold, lonesome streets. "That's where we found you," Hana used to tease him, to which Tsume gave her a cuff after making her brother cry.
Crate 4b is where he found Akamaru, sick and tired and if not a little beaten down. He was so small then, and that too made Kiba tear up. How could anyone leave a small puppy like him all alone, he thought. From then one he vowed to never leave his brother's side no matter what.
He leans against the counter, brow furrowed with concern as he watched Akamaru playfully chase a ball in the corner, his tail wagging with unbridled joy. Hana, busy organizing supplies, caught her brother's worried gaze. "Kiba, Akamaru is tough," she tells him, her tone light yet firm. "He's bounced back stronger than ever."
Kiba huffed, crossing his arms defensively, hint of a pout on his lips. "Yeah, but what if-" he began, only to be interrupted by Hana's teasing laugh.
"You're the big softie here, not him! He's all right, trust me." Her playful jab broke through Kiba's worry as she pokes his side. He couldn't help but chuckle, even if his ribs still smarted from that dust-up the other day. Not from the blonde commie piece of shit, but another unfortunate bastard Kiba just wanted to vent some frustration on. Kiba took it on the chin - literally, but you should've seen the other guy. The only reason he was still breathing was because Zabuza pulled him off.
As the evening sky depend into a blanket of twilight, Hana ushered Kiba and Akamaru out of the office, the chill of Tokyo Metro's night air wrapping around them like a whisper of winter's impending arrival. Kiba, with a small grin, guided Akamaru into the sidecar of his motorcycle. The familiar rumble of the engine ignites a joyful bark as Akamaru still chews on the ball in his mouth. "Thanks, sis. For everything." He said.
"Don't mention it, mutt," She chides, tugging on his ear in the process.
Hana was always the smart one. Mom always said so, even if she was a little disappointed her daughter chose a different path from their family's legacy. While she still used the clinic as an impromptu aid station, and she was as good a doctor as any in Tokyo, Hana's riding days are long over. In her younger days she was as mean a bitch as their mother on the road, but as time passed Hana grew tired. Eventually, she came to the conclusion it was far more rewarding being a helping hand, than a clenched fist around the handlebars of a thundering machine.
Putting on his helmet and fixing his goggles, giving Hana one final goodbye, the city opens up to Kiba as he speeds off into the night. The animal hospital was situated in the Sanya section between Arakawa and Taito wards. Dilapidated and blemished buildings in various states of disrepair, some with plastered graffiti, and others with scorch marks where fires had burned, fly past as the few streetlights here light his way. The cold wind helps a little, yet Kiba's nose and always been good, and even still he can catch whiffs of unfinished cement, urine and stale alcohol from the doya lining the streets.
Here is where the lost and found come to live together. Sometimes peacefully, other times not so much. Hard to keep the peace between twenty-thousand "workers" who call this place home, the day laborers who come and go to work at the harbor, the factories, and the warehouses. At night many blow off steam in the "soapland", a district where numerous pink salons, image clubs, and Turkish baths are located. Sex is the normal manner in which people disappear here. There, or at Namidabashi intersection. "The Bridge of Tears" it's called. Where in the days of old samurai big-wigs executed criminals, and or dump the bodies of prostitutes at the local temple.
Here is where The Fangs called home.
And Kiba loved every ounce of it.
Pulling into a street which ran alongside the Sumida River, a myriad of old and asbestos-riddled warehouses make a long chain against a chained fence. Back in the war-days this used to eb a site for ammo-production and shell replacement. Now, The Fangs run roughshod to and fro from here, conducting business out of the shell of the Shogunate's former military complex. Many of the boys were former IJF vets, or the sons of IJF vets. It was odd they took solace in the hewn out husks of their former masters. Maybe it was the familiarity which helped many cope. There were still a slew of old Imperial propaganda floating in these buildings, and even some found old flags bearing the rising sun flag so many died under.
Kiba thought that like any other stray, all of them just wanted a place to call home.
The Japan they believed in no longer existed, and the world presently no longer believed in them., too.
Barking and howls announce Kiba's arrival through the gate as the roar of another rumbling motor and a familiar scent wakes the kennel. Most of the boys keep their animals cozied out in the yard of an adjoining warehouse. The animals pretty much have the run of the place on that side, and get a long a helluva lot better than most of their owners opposite them. Sometimes Kiba would sneak off into the sanctuary some days and chill there for as long as he could afford. No one bothered him there, and it afforded him all the time to work on his bike in peace.
Sometimes, up in the second level, he and Akamaru would post up in front of the chained windows and just stair out across the river. The Sumida was a flowing walkway since time immemorable, boats and ferries going back and forth since the Warring States period up till now. Nothing has changed, save for the grandiose cement wall cutting Tokyo in half on the other side of the water. That's where Adachi, Edogawa, and Katsushika wards live in perpetual darkness. Must suck, he said to himself once, for you to realize how unfortunate you must feel to be born on the wrong side of the river.
Even if Sanya was a bona fide shit hole, least they could turn the lights on and off.
And the boys would make notice of it every night while they pissed their bad attitudes and sorry livelihoods away into the river, sipping their Nanban liquor, and cursing the Ryomen traitors on the other side. "Let them live and suffer," they would say when even the stink of alcohol became too much for their dog companions to stand. "Betrayal is reserved for the lowest circle in hell, and we're going to be there neighbors."
Kiba normally grew up hearing pretty much the same thing song being told over and over again. Unfortunate, because most of these guys could've had a future if they wouldn't be such broken records half the time.
Dropping the cycle off into the cage, he notices the long line of imported Harleys and Roadmasters, Indian Heads and Laconia's - top of the line engines from all over, cobbled and built together with old parts and imported designs. At this point in his life Kiba could name them all by heart and could tell you the owner, too. His mom always minded him to pay attention to the ride a man - or woman; Tsume always told her son to never bullshit with the idea women couldn't ride or be a Fang, either (judging by his mom, that thought never entered Kiba's head), and you could understand his living.
"Here you go, boy," Kiba says, plopping the bowl of kibble before Akamaru. Without missing a beat, his dog gladly crunches down, never minding the well-healed wound on his flank. Running a hand along his fur, Kiba minds the area where the stitches have already dissolved away. That night his heart stopped when he pulled the damned tool out from his brother's side, but when it started again he vowed he was going to make the fucker pay.
Sadly, it was unfortunate his friends showed up when they did.
Because if they hadn't, Kiba had every intention stoving his head in. And then afterwards throw his body into the soup for crabs or whatever unlucky fishing net would have him. Debatable if they would, though, for he was slippery little shit. Could've probably finagled his way out of that, too.
Before he bites another hole in his tongue thinking about him, and the damned broken nose he gave, a voice calls out grabbing his attention. "Yo, kid," it echoes. Not loud enough to make Kiba fully stand to, but enough that it makes him turn his head. For he knew the stepping ladder in this place, and Betas were as deserving of respect as the Alpha himself. Even if he never did like Koga enough in the first place.
'Yo, kid, ya hear me," Koga says as he gnaws on a bent cigarette. A long, greasy ponytail falls to the shoulders of a patchwork jean jacket that has definitely seen better days. And lamentably, not a wash. "Out of the kennel and into the dungeon. Boss called a meeting tonight."
"I didn't hear anything about a meeting," Kiba goes, shutting the door to Akamaru's paddock. "Zabuza hasn't said a word."
"That's because the word aint from him. It's THE Boss. Gato. He's here tonight, along with a bunch of the other Betas, too. They got news." The chains along Yoga's jacket rattle with every step. They go along with the spurs on his Tumbler boots made of the worn down snakeskin leather. A nice pair. Koga said he took'em off a dead GI back in the war, which was bullshit; Koga won them off a hand of poker down in Osaka. "C'mon, your old lady's here, too. You know how she gets when you don't git."
For the life of him Tsume was a stickler for property and respect, ever teaching Kiba the way it was, and how it should be. Today was always another lesson, another beating, another reason to gnash your teeth; being cantankerous had made her a tough old bit of leather well-known to lash out against any stupid enough to run their mouths. This gang - this family - had only one base mode: respect. If you didn't follow it, Tsume would have a word.
Then maybe Zabuza.
But why the hell should they have to give Gato any sort of respect whatsoever.
As Koga and he walked through the dust-ridden and shallow halls, rooms go by where a number of The Fangs took up residence. As said before, this used to be the place where all kinds of munitions were stored for a war which came right up to their doorstep. The glorious last stand so many had suffered was neither glorious, nor had many left standing to partake. Kiba heard the stories aplenty growing up. Every bit of dust here coated a sliver of history, every old rifle bolt or Arisaka cartridge an unwritten page in a story seemingly not finished.
His dad was a soldier in the Imperial Army. Mom showed him the pictures. He looked so much cleaner then. A shaven face, sleek jawbones, dapper uniform; sorta made him proud. Made him want to go out and say "that's my dad the war here." Kinda made Kiba jealous his dad fought in something to believe in, where now they just fought for...Well, Kiba didn't really know. Hana might. She was always the smart one. Mom always told him. He was just some jughead, another one of the nameless lost in Sanya.
Where men like Gato started to make waves and collect strays, soon amassing an army big enough where he's muscled out most of the yakuza competition. Not only by being a mob boss who could make Al Capone blush, but as a legitimate businessman plowing out the trash by bankrolling everything into oblivion. Sooner or later everything here was going to have Gato's name on it, even the colors The Fangs wore.
When Koga pushes past the large double doors, they lead into a large empty space in the warehouse. In the middle, the majority of everyone gathered round, seated on the ground, or leaning against dried brick walls as they huffed and puffed all the smoke away. Kiba's nose hurts, catching all the scents of gasoline, oil, cheap tobacco, and a shitty plum sake too disgustingly sweet to be good. He could vomit, but decides against it as his mom eyeballs them as soon as they enter.
Tsume Inuzuka looked every bit the wild and crazy Amazon widow news stories made her out to be. Kiba wanted to assure them the truth about his mom went far, far deeper than that. She was a woman who cursed the world and wielded the bone she had to pick like a shiv. Never satisfied, ever hungry; a snarl in her eye, and hair as untamed as the wolf-dog by her side, Tsume was veritably made of iron.
Though, if she did have a soft spot, it was assuredly for her children.
"Went to the clinic again, did you?" She says pinching Kiba's cheek. Koga sniggers, before retreating as Kuromaru growls his displeasure. "How many times are you going bother your sister, my sweet little fool."
"Argh, ma! Quit it!" He bats her hand away, smarting as his tender cheek needs a respite. Ma never minced with her affections. In Tsume's eyes if you didn't feel it, then that meant she didn't care. Love leaves marks, is what she always said. And she always made sure Kiba carried his wherever he went. "What's the deal," Kiba asks her. Looking about, he sees the majority of the old clans: Hanza, Yosokawa, Takeda, Ii; Kaido's Beast Men, The Mama's Boys, the Vinsmoke Judges. Most of the lawless of Tokyo gathered. neath their banners, giving the Betas fits keeping the peace. The Gammas and Deltas minded their manners, with some even bringing their own family members to represent. "まじで...?"
"Yeah, seriously," Tsume said, clenching her sneer into a forced smirk; The Fangs held sway, but this many packs gathered all in one place could only be possible because Gato expected it. Tsume never liked being at the beck and call of anyone - even if the man paved them all a yellow brick road. "No matter what's said here, keep your mouth shut, your ears open, but most important your head held high."
"What the hell is going on, Ma," Kiba asks, though Tsume is silent. She leads him over neath the flag of the two red daggers, where most of the old guard await. Though he's still only a Gamma, his seat next to Ma soldiifies the pecking order. So far; Zabuza still holds the reigns. Though the Alpha looks none too happy, standing alone in the center of a blistering spotlight, head down and arms crossed. All in deference to their squat, little lord in the worsted wool Armani suit, blued with the Afghan lining, and hint of a Vermouth smelling cologne which mixes with his aftershave.
Gato wasn't a tall figure - standing roughly shy of five feet, but his own personal army surrounding the south side of the warehouse, eclipsing the gangs with their equally custom styled suits, made him into a modern day warlord. Though he worked the floor like a used car salesman.
"Big picture, baby, big picture," Gato gesticulates, hands held apart to show just how "big" the picture he was talking about was. "How close are you-" the man twirls about addressing all gathered. "And I-" Gato says bringing his hands to point at him. "To running this city? Hm? Anyone wanna take a guess? Anyone at all?"
No one says a word as the boss quirks a thin-line eyebrow above his beady little glasses. He's begging for someone to give him a reason, any one out there to show an iota of an opinion. Only for him to slam'em down, throw the sorry sack to the dogs, and later throw his bones away. Gato loved rhetorical questions, because it made him look to have all the answers.
"I'll tell ya," Boss goes when he's done searching for answers, and then slams his fist against the rickety plywood table set up for him; Kiba wondered if Gato ever only had the shit put there so he could stamp on it like a baby. "NOWHERE FUCKING AT ALL! Nickel and dime-ing street corners and harbor patrols just to make FUCKING PENNIES! Am I the only one here who thinks you've been fucking sitting on your asses for so long, you're giving ME hemorrhoids just by looking at ya. Have you all gone fucking soft on me? The hell am I paying you for then?!"
"You know security's gotten tighter around the city - half the material getting shipped in is under JSDF harbor patrol, and's got US Army insignias all over the crates. You want us to pick a fight now with the US military?" Zabuza keeps his tone measured, though Kiba knows he'd give anything to have his sword by his side; Kubikiribōchō stands against the wall, far enough away from the demon's grasp.
"I want you ALL to start using your brains, and not give me excuses." Gato pours himself a glass of water perched on the table. After gulping it down, he spikes the cups hard onto the floor shattering it to pieces. "Thirty-two million for you, Kaido, and your freaks; twenty-five for you, 'Charlotte', so you can go ahead with your fucking candy land bullshit prostitution ring. And YOU!" He goes over to Zabuza, pointing up at him like he was delivering the world's best uppercut. Zabuza says nothing, but glares a muted fire down at the Boss. "You were facing a death squad when I swooped in and saved your ass. So show a little gratitude..."
"Each and every one of you woulda ended up in prison, or the river, if I hadn't a bankrolled ALL of your prosecuting lawyers hell-bent on nailing you to crosses. I banked on that investment, and so far it's gotten me DICK!...But now I've got a plan that's gonna change all that."
There was a buzz around there room as each of the Beta captains shifted awkwardly, shuffling their feet at Gato's words. He was the only man who could talk to them in such a way. Not because he was anything worth fearing - all here were hardened by the crucible of lean living and small means. But one thing they valued, the thing which many put their faith in the most coming from San'ya, was honesty. No one liked Gato. Not because he was a chauvinist lothario who bought out loyalty, but because he spoke true when it mattered.
And he was always right.
Most of the time.
Gato ushers in a man from out the crowd of his henchman. A big man, nearly as tall as Zabuza himself which was a feat, and clothed in bedraggled overalls and a cold weather fleece. Kiba thought he looked like a bum if it wasn't for his eyes. Deep and misty eyed, they reminded him of the horizon upon the ocean. "A fisherman," Tsume says, her nose picking up the scent of sea salt and chum with her equally keen nose. "What is he on about this time?"
"Ma, why don't you put a stop to this? You're the one in charge here; Gato can't talk to us the way he does. Everything dad did isn't because of-" Kiba's cut off as Tsume marks him.
"You run your mouth in the street talking about his word, because that's what he wants everyone to hear. What I want to hear is this ferkakta plan he's got." Tsume crosses her arms over her chest, frayed leather and faded color of The Fangs insignia wearing thin as she wears dad's old jacket. "We watch, and wait, and listen, Kiba. Like the good dogs we are. Don't bite the hand that feeds...for now."
"Kaiza introduce yourself. Aw fuck it, I'll do it myself." Gato presents the man like he's some sort of bell-cow at auction, bringing him in with surprising strength by the zipper of his jacket. "Kaiza here is a fisherman. But not just any fisherman. He works the Sumida River on The Windrunner. Why is that important? I'll tell ya. It's important, because this son of a bitch isn't from Tokyo Metro. He's from the other side."
A slight wave grows in noise as murmurs abound. A Northerner? Here? How in the world wa she able to make it across without being shot? How could Gato have made contact with a commie without drawing any such attention? Sure, boats and a few certain merchant ships had rights to go from Metro to Urban with no issues. Save they provided a special permit approved by the Municipal Harbor Authority of Tokyo, and then some by the Emperor himself. Even then, only four or five vessels as such were known to be active. And they all came form the South. None whatsoever were allowed the other way.
"So?" Came the boulder of a voice from the only one big enough to rival both Zabuza and the so-called Kaiza put together. Kaido, a bullied up hulk of a freak, sat with his crew of wanton wanna-be tough guys, shillelagh in hand, knocking up and down into the palm of the ham he called a fist. "What's so special about some poor commie net dragger, huh, Gato? Doesn't like like much. And he stinks."
"Enough for me to lose my appetite and my patience," Charlotte Lin-Lin - Big Mom - says, making a scene of moving her girth where she sits. Fucking insane Kiba used to think he ever had a crush on her; years of junk food and bad lays have taken a toll worse than what time does to most corpses. Least they didn't bloat as much as her. "If you're wasting time, Gato, just to piss us off, then I'm leaving."
"Hell you are," Zabuza threatens, turning his mass over to where the Lin-Lin chapter sat. Most of those petulant and scrunched faces comprised her kids, and none took the challenge to their mother kindly. Most got up to meet Zabuza on the floor, Alpha or no, but Tsume's voice barked out to cull the dissent in the pack.
"Enough!" She goes, and Kiba makes sure to keep his chin up when facing down Lin-Lin's lascivious smirk; Charlotte and ma never did get along. Not since those rumors spread of Charlotte getting to his old man before getting to Tsume. The woman even had the audacity to suggest there was one among her brood her looked exactly like Keiji. "Lin-Lin, you pig, even if you could move any faster, doubt it'd matter: Gato would be finished with whatever's he's got to sell before you even made the door."
"Oh, is that so?", Lin-Lin's bulging eyes rest on to Kiba. her large toothy smile, almost cartoonish in size, runs from ear-to-ear as she licks her lips with want. "Well, maybe if I had someone with strong arms to help me, it wouldn't be such a burden. How about your son? He's looking all grown-up. Handsome, too. So much so I could gobble him up."
Jumping out of his seat, Kiba bares his teeth at the pink-haired whale. "I'll give you a hand? A hand right across your fucking mouth, you bitch!"
"Jesus, fuck, are you all SHITTING ME!?" Thankfully for Gato - which is an odd thing to say - the tempest dies as all attention is drawn back to him. Skittish, burning red like a tomato, and sweating profusely on his upper lip. "Will all of you please SHUT the HELL UP! And LISTEN!"
Again, Gato has the floor, as he struts and tuts like a cock in the hen house. Making noise, and annoying everyone.
"Kaiza docks over at Tokyo Urban. Has been that way for years; his work day going from sun-up to sunset. People know him there, people like him, and they don't ask questions on some nights when he doesn't come back in time for Urban's curfew. What does that mean for us? I'll tell ya..."
And so he did.
Gato had apparently gotten word the other night, a certain green-light call which put a little bird in his ear. The Tokyo Metro operation was a case study for the organizing of Souther Japan's crime syndicates. One half of capital of the nation was handily in Gato's hand, but the other half? Well, Urban was a rusty, dark, and dim diamond left too long in the dust. It's shine had faded, and the embargoes hit the northern half of Tokyo hard, yet untapped potential made it a viable venture for a man with the vision - and the money - to stake his claim.
Gato was that man, and Kaiza was his avenue towards that expansion.
"No more of this cloak and dagger stuff," Gato emphasized as he scanned the room, every eye allured and hungry at what he's offering. "Smuggling crates from the harbor is fine, but ladies and gentlemen, what's being offered is uncharted territory. An entire city in our grasp," Gato clenches his fists, the greed and want on his face so palpable Kiba could almost smell it. Smelled like crisp bills flushed through the ass-end of skank's thong. "Kaiza is gonna be the guy to take us to the other side. He'll be our way in. And once we're there, it's free real-estate, people."
You would think going toe-to-toe with the Northern regime's establishment was a problem in of itself, yet the thing was, a fight like that appealed to so many here. Kiba could see how many of these former vets looked and smiled, liking the idea of flushing out their wants and bad habits on those whom they considered traitors to the state, to the Emperor. All for the poisoned words of a so called "Noble One", Sanzo Nosaka, who let in the red cancer and destroyed whatever was left of Japanese pride. Those cowards thought they fought for a revolution, when instead they simply traded one yoke for another. Russian or Chinese, who the hell knew anymore - not that it made a difference.
At least, the Americans died and bled on the same beaches they had. In this, there was honor. But inviting the enemy in and capitalizing when the Emperor needed you most? It sickened them, made them irate, and many here loved nothing more to fight once more and take back their city. If not to change borders on the map, but at least to stake their own claim to say, "Here we are, we've never left."
Gato looked so sure of himself, like a Napoleon planning his steps to victory at Borodino, or Caesar at Alesia. Kaiza, the big man with the similarly impressive arms, was stoic and silent, understanding the risk, but yet shouldering it responsibly. While every one of the Betas, Gammas and Epsilons licked their lips. No doubt, tantalized by the audacious idea. The Vinsmokes looked beside themselves with pleasure, old Judge's children hooting and hollering at the prospect of conquest. Kiba even saw Zabuza look somewhat amused.
Yet Kiba had enough of a brain to know something smelled off, but not enough to stay quiet about it. "The word you got this from?" Kiba asks, his voice echoing loud off the metal beams. Everyone stops to consider him, and it almost makes him blush; it felt like the first time Gato had ever taken notice of him as he spoke. "Who was it from? The Bridgebuilder?"
A poignant question.
Far as everyone knew, the Bridgebuilder was their only contact over The Wall and in the North. They always made secrecy a priority, and such a big move was undoubtedly going to cause waves. But Gato stops and puts his hands into the holes of his pockets, words measured with a terse, focused tone. "Aye, Bridgebuilder is the one calling the shots on this." Gato looks straight into Kiba as he says this, mincing little and hiding even less. "This...is what he was building toward in the first place. A connection between North and South. Uniting this city once again. Believe it."
No one liked Gato, because he spoke true when it mattered. He was always right, and had done more for The Fangs than anyone else in the establishment cared to admit. When Keiji had gone, he'd come down like a fallen angel to build them back up again. But if you asked Kiba, all that cash didn't make the man right. He didn't like him or trust him.
Nor did Akamaru, either.
And as the two brothers both looked over the Sumida River, up on the second level past the large windows, Kiba notes the silent stars shining above the darkened "other half" of Tokyo. Admittedly, he felt bad for what might be coming to those poor saps across the water, and wondered what dad might've thought about all this.
Transmission #4-4-8-1 Designate: Hunter Killer
Tokyo Urban, Fuji Base; People's Democratic Republic of Japan; Hidden Village - Leaf
Ward 5 of Konoha, "Artist Alley", POI visits the home of his grandson
12:27 hrs; November 24, 1963
Another phlegmy cough racks Inari, his small frame convulsing as he tries to either stifle the urge or force it all out. His condition was worsening. Tazuna, his grandfather, puts a weathered hand on the boy's back, rubbing it to softly to get him to calm down. It's been like this for months, and hasn't seemed to lessen. Tsunami, the boy's mother, is beside herself; she's taken him to Tree Leaf countless times but they can only do so much.
"He needs a doctor," Tazuna says to his daughter-in-law, who's sick with worry and devoid of many emotions. The only thing she has now is worry, and that was only going to do so much for Inari. "Can Tsubaki do nothing else?"
Tsunami shakes her head, and cringes as her son gives off another back-breaking cough. There's nothing they can do, she says, nothing considering there's no fever. "Tsubaki has given him anti-inflammatories, but most doctors say he can't be that sick if there's no temperature."
"The chakra therapy?"
"No," goes her trembling voice, trying to contain herself. "It wears off soon as we leave the hospital."
Tazuna looks down at his fourteen year old grandson struggling to take in a breath, forcing air through his windpipe to no avail. He moves the cold washcloth up and down his spine, hoping maybe the feel of something cool could alleviate the pressure. To some extent it helps, Inari's able to control his inhales and exhales, counting softly backward as he was instructed. Yet, Tazuna knew this couldn't continue. For him, for them, and for everyone else.
"I don't know what to do father," Tsunami pleads, fighting back the tears. Life had been hard for this widow: a swift marriage to his son ended by the war, a sick grandson with no reprieve, and a father-in-law with too much time on his hands, and too much cynicism in his heart to be much use. Tazuna knew dealing with devils was a dangerous endeavor, but was it as risky - or foolish - as waiting/hoping things could get better?
Sapporo didn't care.
The State didn't care.
And Konoha definitely didn't care.
They didn't hail from a clan of ninja. Simply, they were a family who strove to work hard and found themselves in a luckier position than most. For a time. Now, though, times have changed. And if they were going to make it through, then they needed to persevere as they've always done: through hard work and their own wits. No crazy kinds of jutsu were going to save them, no great hero was on the horizon; they'd have to write the next chapter for themselves, so to hell with the State Committee and the Hokage.
Inari couldn't rely on them, nor could Tsunami. It was up to Tazuna now to do what was best, and he put his mind to work. For he was a good carpenter, better than most in the Village Hidden in the Leaves. Hell, partly why it was so hidden was due to his expertise in the first place. He had the brains, his tanned bulked arms had the strength, and he had saved up a good amount to make a difference.
Everything he'd done was to make good for his family; to protect them and give them a shot at life. To not simply endure, but to be happy. Fuck the struggle, and fuck the shinobi way; revolution no longer applied to them, only the cost of it. More true as Tazuna leaves the home he'd built for his son and Tsunami way back when. A humble, traditional Japanese hovel, more quaint than useful, but belying a charm under its simple exterior. Yet, it lacked much of what was necessary to be a true home: they had a well, but no plumbing; they had electricity, but syphoned through a generator; their ovens worked, but gas had to be salvaged during the colder months.
Yes, it was beautiful in some way, but Tazuna feels more justified than ever when he leaves the house behind. following along the cobblestoned road to his own wooden abode not far off.
It was a simple affair, simpler than Tsunami's; made in the same style, if not a little more Spartan-ish - Tazuna was a simple man, and his wife didn't ask for much either. They knew how to live hand to mouth and got by with it. Never made them happy, but they managed.
Somewhat.
But one way or another, they were getting out of here. Tazuna accepted the risks, but love drove him to pursue a path that might lead to salvation. It's what he'd been planning since his son, Inari's father, died so long ago. For a cause which didn't believe in him, so much as needed his bones. To be buried in a graveyard he never visited, to have his name carved on a stone, to be lost among so many other "champions" who'd never see tomorrow.
They didn't die for this, Tazuna thought, and nor would he live in it either.
His contact guaranteed change, and Tazuna prayed he'd make good on his promise. Not that he was any good at praying or believed in any one deity in particular. The only thing he put faith in nowadays was the good he hoped to enact. Not only for his sake, but for others who deserved so much more...