Yasuo was used to patrolling; it had been his main job, in its various forms, since he'd graduated all those years ago.
He'd enjoyed his role; it brought him back to Konoha regularly, something that many others were not nearly so lucky to do. It allowed him to create, build, maintain a relationship with Utatane Aiko; allowed him to drop by Office 40 on occasion, feel a part of it despite his non-intellectual career.
He supposed that was over now.
He supposed he should at least be happy that he wasn't being sent to Kumo; that's where the most injuries occurred.
The most deaths.
Iwa was the easy option, really—just keep gassing them, keep watching the horrifying effects, and make sure the defenses were shored up for when Iwa inevitably found a solution, continue training up the Land of Mushroom's new shinobi.
Really, he had little to complain about.
Aiko hadn't spoken to him the day they found out, had left the apartment they now shared and worked long into the night. He was sure her coworkers were appreciative; she must have made quite the dent in her paperwork.
"I've been selfish." She muttered when she came back. He hugged her. She cried, feeling foolish all the while—when others were suffering more it was hard to validate one's own feelings, but that didn't make them any less real.
He left the next morning.
.
Aiko yawned. She was the youngest judge on her panel, and therefore the one in charge of most of the day-to-day paperwork, and it was already dark when she finally got outside.
Not too surprising, considering the time of year, but still unfortunate.
Konoha was beautiful at night.
She loved the rustle of the leaves, the stars just visible between all the foliage. She loved the dichotomy between the increasingly tall buildings and the nature that still surrounded them.
She made her way back to the Utatane compound slowly. With no one waiting for her at home, not even the chance of a quick pop-in between missions, it wasn't necessarily a place she wanted to be.
She turned, instead, made her way to the Aburame.
They were used to her by now; she didn't even have to stop at the gates.
No one was in Office 40, but the room was still packed. The agriculture work dominated most of it—something about changing the rice rations, but the project had never caught her interest—and what was left was a mélange of other projects, Sakura's scatterbrain never quite settling down to one topic and no one else dropping in often enough to carve out their portion.
Aiko decided it was time to change that.
She flipped through some of the notes, paged the introductions to a couple books, and in a matter of minutes realized that having a major project was harder than it seemed.
Not that that would stop her, mind.
Elder Utatane already had a reputation for just going along with whatever Elder Danzo said—Aiko was not about to be a reason for the 'follower' reputation to spread to the rest of the Utatane too.
She left just before midnight, a handful of concepts floating through her head and her eyes throbbing in an effort to stay open.
It was worth it, though, because when she finally got home she was asleep before she even had time to miss Yasuo's presence.
.
Bokuso frowned, rubbing his neck as he and the rest of his team finished their fourth walkthrough of the most recent of Kumo's BINGO Books.
It wasn't good.
Saito Takashi might not have been much of a shinobi himself, but he'd been fine. Passable. And it was increasingly clear that he'd been planning to betray Konoha for some time, that he'd planned ahead, studied his then-comrades as he made sure he had enough information to be useful for a long, long time.
It was one thing for an enemy to know about your biggest weapons.
Those were supposed to be known, that was half their point.
It was another for them to know about your Researchers, your intelligencers, your teachers and interrogators and police force.
It also strongly, strongly suggested—so strongly that it wasn't really a suggestion, more a given—that he'd given them a lot of information that wouldn't appear in a BINGO book.
Clan relations.
Technological secrets.
Medical practices.
So far, despite the traitor, despite the division of their forces to three fronts, they were doing fine.
Were even preparing for the next major push, to send all their most powerful shinobi to the front again, to raise havoc again.
So far, everything was going to plan.
But…
It had been hard.
The radio wasn't a secret anymore, but it could still be used.
They'd had to dedicate an entire team to testing for interference, though, and so nearly every message was restricted to telegram—at least those lines were easily visible, any intrusion easily discernable.
Most infiltration missions had to be canceled too, but really they should have been proactive about that—they'd already known Kumo had some way to sniff out spies, some way more successful than their previous attempts, but Jiraiyra had convinced the Hokage that it was probably just luck, one concerted effort to try to imply new technology where there was none.
It was a reasonable theory.
Bokuso had believed it himself for a time.
He'd been wrong.
Jiraiya had been wrong.
He stopped himself, as usual, from continuing down that path to the number of deaths caused because of it.
They were—
They were doing fine.
They were holding off Kumo, had Kumo on the back foot.
But each BINGO book came out with more information, and for all that Kumo was technically losing territory they didn't seem worried, didn't seem on the brink of defeat.
They'd finished analyzing the book, would do so over and over again in the weeks to come, but today there were no answers, no solutions to the question in everyone's mind:
Why wasn't Kumo scared?
.
Shin hated parties.
They were grand information-gathering opportunities, of course, but they always stretched on a bit too long, lasted until he was dead on his feet and still forced to go back to his quarters and note down everything he'd learned.
Today's—the Daimyo's birthday—was exceptionally long, with events spaced throughout the month and the party itself lasting the full day.
Shin was well-liked in the Capital, charismatic and powerful and perfectly in step with social graces.
He would be expected to attend the whole thing.
He'd had pills to keep him awake in his pocket, but he'd taken them hours ago—fourteen, and then seventeen hours into the party.
There were still four to go.
He was flagging, but he couldn't let anyone know it.
He laughed at something a courtier said.
It wasn't funny, was in fact relying on a deep misunderstanding of how military logistics worked and the general idea that people who fought were smelly, but the others found it humorous so he did too.
Another nobody butted in, trying to increase his standing through charisma, but it had been twenty hours and what edge over the competition the man had at the beginning of the night was gone—he fumbled, put his foot in his mouth. At least the man realized it, quickly took his leave before he could deal any more damage; Shin had seen entire families ruined by loose lips and failed jokes.
The courtesan who had made the joke about smelliness made another one, this one targeting the fleeing man, and everyone—Shin included—laughed again.
By the kami, he was done with this madness.
After another minute he found an excuse to slip away, flee the conversation for new torturers.
He found a group of Samurai rather quickly, who welcomed him to their table with open arms. They were, as a rule, rather distrusting of Shinobi, but for now their mutual distaste of the non-military upper crust of Fire united them.
One of the Samurai mentioned the Minister of Agriculture, how he'd been caught asleep an hour ago. The Minister was a Samurai, but one who had not served in decades and a man of great gluttony besides—it was no surprise that he'd fallen asleep, but there would likely be repercussions.
In exchange for that helpful information, Shin offered a piece of his own: he'd caught the sister of the Daimyo's oldest son-in-law with the Daimyo's youngest, a man so young he hadn't yet completed his military service.
The line between gossip and information was paper thin, sometimes.
The information was deemed useful enough—would likely be passed to the man's tutor in short order—and the trade continued.
It was in the fourth round, by which point they'd broken open a deck of cards and invited one of the Daimyo's personal guards to the table, that Shin got his most vital piece of information yet.
So many hours in, it wasn't surprising that most were drunk. Shin wasn't—didn't drink, at least not while working—but he was certainly the minority. About half the samurai he sat with were similarly abstinent, but the others were very intoxicated indeed.
That included the Daimyo's Guard, one of the many Samurai specifically dispatched to protecting the Daimyo' and his family's life.
He'd just lost that round—wasn't feeling that badly about it, had a bad hand anyway—and the oldest of the samurai was collecting his earnings while Shin dealt; he was playing the role of the dealer for the game, because none trusted him enough to play against him.
The Guard wasn't paying attention to his words, was trying to count out the money he had left, see how much he might want to bet the next round.
"It's funny isn't it?" He said, and then, before anyone could ask, "here we are, betting freely, and the Lord Daimyo's eldest can't do the same."
The Lord Daimyo's eldest—a man slightly older than fifty, now—was not particularly well-liked. He was the heir, so any bad feelings were only ever alluded to, worded in such loose terms they slipped through fingers before their contours could be felt. That it was known that he wasn't well-liked, then, said very much indeed.
He was fickle, malleable, the sort who changed his mind based on the wind, on the time of day, on whose honeyed words were whispered in his ear last.
And now, apparently, he was a gambler.
Shin didn't even have to ask for more information; the eldest of his tablemates did that for him. "No gambling at all?" He asked, pushing a cup towards the mumbling man.
He took it happily.
"Yeah, well—he has to hide it, usually, wouldn't be a good look, you know, so mostly he gambles with other Daimyos, their families… the Daimyo cares less when its outside Fire. He thought he was getting a game back with Frost, at least, but all those shinobi are still there, watching Frost's coinpurse…"
The man trailed off.
His brain had finally caught up with his mouth, even slowed as it was through liquor, and he raised his head to take in those listening.
Shin finished shuffling and began dealing.
The man swallowed.
It was no doubt that his career was over.
Shin wouldn't tell, he wasn't really the one expected to, but the Samurai would, would let their Daimyo know exactly who was speaking ill of his eldest son.
Some rumors could be traded. Others couldn't.
Rumors about the Daimyo were absolutely forbidden.
Rumors about the future Daimyo were treated much the same.
The man disappeared into the crowd, perhaps hoping to fade into anonymity, but it was too late. Shin pursed his lips; he'd have to tell the Hokage, of course, but the man would also expect an analysis of the effects of a gambler.
He wouldn't be getting any sleep at all, then.
He kept dealing, finished. If he was to stay up for hours yet, then he was done mingling. He'd sit at this table as long as possible, take what little break he could, and savor the lack of mental taxation while it lasted.
.
Juro was in the middle of surgery when everything went wrong.
It was a tricky surgery to begin with; anything to do with the heart was never easy. He hadn't even been leading the surgery—Medic Uchiha was, the Hospital's best cardiologist. Juro was there as their pediatrics expert.
It had started okay, started fine, and then—
Sometimes, in surgery, there would be an eruption of bad things that happened all at once. A burst appendix, a nicked vessel.
This wasn't that.
This was just four medics, five nurses, all of them quietly staring at the girl's gaping wound.
The cardiomyopathy was too great; nothing could be done.
They'd been relatively optimistic based on a Hyuuga's description, felt somewhat confident about at least being able to extend her life.
Not everything could be properly seen by anything but eyes, however.
"Let's close her up." The cardiologist said, voice quiet.
The next half hour passed in silence.
Based on her heart she'd have only a couple months left; one of the most severe progressions possible in a child so young.
There were positives, many positives, to working on children instead of obstinate, insane shinobi.
There were negatives too.
.
Sakura arrived at Office 40 one day to find Aiko in the middle of a treatise on the need for a simplified version of the laws to be freely available to the public, with long lists of what was illegal and how those actions were determined.
She wanted to do this part herself, Aiko had explained. She'd ask when it came time to proofread.
Sakura agreed, had left to give her privacy.
The Research division was busy as usual, but she'd just finished her day of work (of meetings, now, constantly sitting to the left of the Head, constantly listening in) and didn't want to deal with Orochimaru.
She went home instead.
Ibiki was with his friends, Kohana was on a date, Himari was helping with the laundry.
She decided to draw.
She drew what she could see, first. Her house, the trees (bare, but still beautiful.) She moved, next, to other things—flowers, rivers, ships.
Then she began to draw Arden's memories.
Jet planes, computers, motorcycles…
High schools, dances, grocery stores…
She'd been told she had a wild imagination before.
She supposed that was true.
Most times, though, she was trying to use, or comprehend, or ignore the information in her head.
It was nice, sometimes, to do nothing all with it.
To just draw.