Transmission # 3-7-1-3. Designate: Common Ground
South of The Wall, Tokyo Metropolitan Police Station, Chief's Office
Subject 213 meets POI Police Chief "Yamato"
08:45 hrs; November 27, 1963
As endlessly unforgiving as nights were, the mornings could be just as bad.
At the Academy they said only the best and bravest could handle the responsibility; Yamato never thought himself the best, or particularly brave. But eight months eating dry ramen packets, scarfing down seaweed wraps, stomaching as much egg and white rice his stomach could handle told him he could be. Later, came over four hundred hours of street work, numerous hours in the gym, countless visits to the infirmary for micro-fractures and sprained ankles received climbing through the obstacles courses.
All to earn these four gold rising suns emblazoned on his epaulettes.
The morning sun comes through the windows of his office, painting Metro city and the embazoned medals in a bright hue. It brought to life all the newspaper headlines Yamato still kept hanging in his office. "Largest Gang Bust in Tokyo History"; "Hero Cop Forged in Fire"; "Crime Rate Decreases Under Chief Yamato's Watch". Seeing these gave him heart, made him feel assured in what he was; not the best, but reliable. A protector of Tokyo Metropolitan's citizens, the youngest Superintendent-General, to oversee the nine bureaus. Who kept the likes of Zabuza Momochi, Tsume Inuzuka and her brood, Gato, and all the rest at bay.
Yes, mornings were bad after long, thankless nights. But deep down Yamato knew it all meant for for a better tomorrow. And they could achieve it together. Even including two of his crankiest, crustiest beat detectives: Yusuke Tozawa and Daisuke Fujiwara. These two smelt like three day old ash trays, indicative of the sleepless nights they've committed to tracking the gang's movements. Gato and The Fang's have been somewhat well-behaved lately, which could only mean two things: they were planning something, or what they were planning was already happening.
Made the soothing nature of this good, Neo-Colombian dark roast all the more valuable to Yamato.
"Everything's looking off, Chief. Something isn't right." Tozawa throws down a thick manilla folder in front of him, detailing the newest crime cycle reverberating through the city.
Right? When did it ever look right?Yamato flips through the paperwork, skimming it all past the rim of his coffee mug.
Tozawa's aftershave smells of mint and stale bath water as the man gets close, peeling through Yamato's hands as he turns over an article written in the Metro International two day ago. "'Sumida River Development Sees Upswing as Local Tycoon Seals Deal'; Gato's just bought up another dockyard by the riverfront. He's been buying real estate there for a year straight, and one knows what the hell for. Until now."
"It's a hunch, Tozawa." Yamato reads through Tozawa's notes and underlinings. Banknotes, business deals, deeds to old factories - Yamato pinches the bridge of his nose. "Purchasing abandoned warehouses and paddocks isn't a crime."
"It's all alluding to something, Chief." Says the older Fujiawara. Bags under his eyes, and crow's feet line his face; the man's close to retirement, yet the itch keeps him in the game. Yamato was thankful, knowing experienced hands were hard to come by. Still, even a old bloodhound needs rest every once in a while. "We know The Fangs have operated outta there ever since Keiji's death. A search warrant ain't hard to get - alls we need is a day."
"The smuggling is coming in from the harbor, Fujiwara, not the river," Yamato goes. He closes the folder and hands it back to a dejected Tozawa. "When we had the kid in here two weeks ago he practically told us as much before Gato's lawyer came in."
"Kiba Inuzuka is our way in," Tozawa presses, before Yamato rises from his leather chair; he knew what Tozawa was wanting, and he didn't want to hear it. Not only because he could never get legal preference to handle it, but also he simply didn't want to; Kiba Inuzuka was too much a wild card to be trusted, and right now trust was at a premium for the Metro Police.
The walk to holding was tedious - everyone needed attending today. A missing persons case again by the perimeter of Aokigahara - not their jurisdiction, but enough to warrant attention. Aggravated assault on the tram through Ginza. Multiple call-ins from Urban Keisatsu about domestic disturbances ranging from cross overs over The Wall, to lewd pictorials graffitied along the exterior.
Again, Yamato was the man, the hero of the Keiji Riots, who kept it together as the Wild 88's and the Busaiku's brawled over the bridge in '60. Who out danced Queen in '61. Who hit a bunch of reform children with his patented "fuck around and find out face" in '62, and who now have all joined the Metro Police Academy. Who to turn to when the shit was getting real.
"Inuzuka Kiba literally used us to be put on television so he can tell everyone he's the boss. Yeah, he's our way into a media circus I want no part of." Yamato says as they exit the clean, stainless steel elevator. Turning down the hallway past corrections, over to the right of the cage, the holding area for processing already seemed to be as lively as a zoo.
During his brief incarceration after the harbor incident, the little darling prince Kiba Inuzuka was brought in for questioning. The kid was tight-lipped and hard-assed all throughout, except the morning of his release when he blabbed to the first reporter.
"Yeah, I was out for a ride, when these assholes came and picked me up," Kiba said as he was being lead along by his lawyer.
"Why do you think they detained you for the night?" The reporter asks, his little microphone bobbing up and down like some buzzing bee in front of Kiba's face.
Though his dapper blue-suited defense attorney urged him to stay quiet, Kiba instead smirked a toothy grin. "Isn't it obvious? Only reason they took me was because I'm the Alpha around here. Sure. But I ain't doing nothing; they're just jealous, cuz we do their jobs better than the police can."
"Better than we can?" Yamato said, still irked about the whole affair; Kiba was brought in by an excited rookie who was just happy to nab a member of The Fangs. The man had to be put on watch and a guard was set around his apartment building just to be safe. "I don't like it, Tozawa."
"You shoulda hit him with the face, Chief." Tozawa goes.
"I don't have a face."
"You got a face." Fujiwara opens the door to interrogations. Chairs are set before a large mirror, with a broken water fountain in the corner. Another door leading into the adjacent room sits quiet, where on the other side its denizen awaits patiently in her scantily clad outfit and overly shabby trench coat. She's enjoying a dango stick and leans back in her seat, acting if he can't hear what's on the other side of the two-way, though Yamato knows she can.
She was brought in last night for disorderly conduct and prostitution, or so the anonymous report plopped on Yamato's desk went; it was issued by a trooper "Nanashi", badge number 883610, during a routine check along Hirajuku.
Yamato knew it was a sham; there was no cop by that name, because it was an alias, and the badge number a code. It meant Hiruzen wanted to get his attention, and so sent her. Yamato knew it must be important.
"Listen, sir, the kid's a piss-ant but I gotta agree with Tozawa. Kiba Inuzuka putting on blast he's the Alpha shouldn't have sat well with a number of folks, but he's still riding around. Means even if Gato's pissed, maybe a few higher ups in the pack don't mind he makes a little noise. Could mean there's dissension in the ranks, and it means we can get to Gato..?"
"Or his mom used her pull to smooth things over." With a weary sigh, Yamato turns to face his two best, knowing full well each guy was feeling it after forty-right hours straight. More so considering "court" was held a couple of days ago, bringing every sub-unit of The Fangs organization together in San'ya. Fujiwara and Tozawa were on edge. Which could make them sloppy, and they couldn't afford this right now. "Listen, I get it. I know. And I hear what you both are saying."
"Do you?" Tozawa starts, before he's hit with a part of the "look", and he shuts up quick. It wasn't all of it; Yamato saving the "look" for only special occasions. But even a small taste could curdle your insides to four week old milk.
Fujiwara steps in, reiterating the only reason they're concerned was due to the eerie calm which has settled over the city. Everything feels "controlled", he says. Criminal activities were curtailed to a minimum in some parts of Metro, while in other sectors it felt like a veritable war zone could erupt. Tokyo was a melting pot of possibilities, but that also went for its vices, also. And if there was controlled element to it, could mean what they are dealing with might potentially be huge.
"Double watches at the harbor and the docks. Multiple mobile units on standby between here, Minato, Chiyuda, and Koto. Foot patrols at night doubled, and we make sure the JSDF keeps their eyes peeled along the checkpoints. I know this isn't what you both want to hear, but right now the best we can do is sit, watch, and be patient. Just until something substantial comes in." Yamato note before commenting to Fujiwara he'd get to working on the search warrant. However, only after these two took a day for some much needed rest.
Both the detectives's shoulders sag. If not because they were disappointed, but mayhaps more so because they were relieved; a bed sounded good right about now, and maybe a decent breakfast could fill them out. Both turn to leave, but just before Tozawa asks just who the broad was on the other side.
"Something substantial," Yamato says. He leaves the detectives, and enters into the interrogation room. Where Anko Mitarashi flashes him a sly, satisfied look.
"Awww, you think I'm important?" Anko sparks, eyes aglitter with instant mischief as she picks her teeth.
Yamato hits her with a serious face - not the "look", but if she pushes his buttons, she might get it. "Dango's gonna make you fat."
"No chance of that happening. I'm gonna stay young forever!" She's so sure of herself when she smiles, it makes Yamato almost jealous how positive she can be.
When you're that good at your job, why worry?
"So what seems to be the problem this time, Ms. Mitarashi?" Yamato asks, taking the seat in front of her. He doesn't quite look at her, the slip of her revealing fishnet dress and the spaghetti string straps, leave much toforthe imagination. But he does catch the almost imperceptible nod she makes over towards the mirror. Yamato glances over towards it before shaking his head. "We're alone, it's safe."
"Sure about that?" She asks, balancing the wooden pick between her teeth.
Yamato's expression is serious when he tells her being the Superintendent Chief afforded certain luxuries. He's earned there ight to have the room to himself when expected. "Tell me what Hiruzen wants me to know, and you can be on your way."
"Aw, jeez, really? Not gonna lie, the beds here are kinda nice. Hey, if I sock one of your guys in the mouth, how many nights would that get me here?"
"This isn't a hotel, Anko."
"Ugh, aright, aright. It was a joke, Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass." As Anko leans back, the opening to her trench coat reveals more. The curve of her figure, the sheen of her skin, hell, Yamato even sees there's glitter on her body from whatever escapades she got into last night. Yamato tries to avert his gaze, knowing well she's doing this on purpose.
Anko was always a tease, even back when they were kids.
"Just a note, too," she says, leaning forward there as her tone becomes more mature, serious-like even. Yamato fixes her stare, intrigued now that she's gotten his attention. "This isn't coming from Hiruzen. I mean, yeah, sure he knows I'm here. But this info comes directly from my source on the other side."
Yamato leans to meet her, hands cupped in front of him and shoulders hunched in. A habit of his since he was a kid and he tried to make himself small. "On the other side...? Who is it?"
"Nuh-uh, that kind of intel is gonna cost ya. Or me. I don't know, how hard do you guys go with your interrogating? I've got a bag back in my apartment we can use."
Yamato puts his hands up, admitting "Fine". She doesn't have to tell him. The name isn't important, so long as the information is good. Which, it had to be if Hiruzen knew gave the go-ahead for Anko to meet with him. "If it's got anything to do with my leads along the Sumida, that'd be very helpful."
"Gato's not as big a fish on the other side as he might think." Anko reaches into her blouse and pulls out two more dango sticks. She shrugs as he succinctly turns down the one offered to him. "Least, not compared about whom this concerns. What I'm about to tell you runs deep, about a couple files you've got stowed away in storage. Certain 'missing persons' cases that've gone cold."
"How cold?" Yamato asks, brow crinkling in thought.
"December 15, 1946," Anko takes a bite of the dango stick, and Yamato's eyes go big.
"The Tribunal..." He says absently, until it hits like a hammer across the face. He gives her a look - not "the look", but one hovering between incredulity and almost fear. "No."
"Maybe. Possibly. I don't know. Considering certain developments, my source has... suspicions. Once I got wind of them, I told the old man. Who wished for me to relay to you as quick as possible. *HARROM*" Anko's mouth goes wide as she rips into the last two remaining balls on the stick - there was fine line between Anko acting a part, and her being just herself. Yamato nearly wanted to facepalm, though.
"How long ago did you find out about these suspicions?" Yamato presses, but Anko holds a hand telling him to wait before she stops chewing. She then throws up a finger." A day?" He asks, but she shakes her head. Still chewing, she still throws up one finger, and Yamato nearly wants to slap the dango out of her mouth. "You knew for a whole week before you decided to tell me?!"
"Hey, I got a life. And my missions don't afford me all the free-time in the world. Besides-" before Anko continues she pounds her chest with a fist, and finally swallows the glutinous dumplings down her throat. She asks for water, but Yamato tell her the bubbler is broken. "Besides, had to do some digging of my own to fill in the blanks. Before I came here I needed to crosscheck everything, Yamato."
"And?" Yamato asks expectantly, the weight on his chest growing like someone was pouring wet cement down his throat. "What did you find?"
"How much time you have?" Anko's playfulness hardens to a black coal in her eyes. It re-emphasizes the fact underneath it all - and Yamato wasn't referring to the trench coat - a highly adept kunoichi, well-versed in spy craft, and who got off on the dangers lurking in the shadows she too frequented, stared back at him.
"For you?" Yamato pulls up the sleeve of his uniform, a tight affair of light blue, red and gold; a little flashy, but something of symbol of the Metro police. He looks down at his Swiss Swartzkov watch with the silver hands and crystal gears. "You have an hour."
"Enough time for foreplay then." Anko winks, pulling an arm free from the sleeve of her coat. Resting her chin on the palm of her hand, her sultry gray-purple eyes take Yamato in. Dammit! She knew he hated it when she did that - they weren't in the Academy anymore.
Yamato looks like a fool trying to hide his blush behind the rim of his mug. Looking all the while like a kid in the schoolyard, and not the one who'd been keeping this city together for the past four years.
Entering the conference room, Asuma's immediately struck by it's dismal state. The air is thick with dust and carries a musty smell of neglect, the screens adorning the walls seem to be stuck in a time warp, having last been updated the 1950's. Old propaganda posters featuring a youthful Nosaka, smiling amidst a gaggle of children, all holding flowers against a vibrant scarlet sun. They're a stark contrast to the man now; the Noble One hadn't looked healthy in years, Asuma thought, lighting up another cigarette.
"I detest that habit of yours, comrade. It's unseemly," goes a cranky old voice; rigid as boot leather, and doubly as tough, Koharu Utatane sits rigidly in the TV set before Asuma. The ever-lackadaisical Homura Mitokada exudes a sense of disdainful contempt on the screen next to her. "It's disrespectful in a meeting, Asuma," the man adds. The cigarette hangs between Asuma's lips for a good moment, a small line of smoke rising up over his exasperated eyes.
Asuma stamps his boot heel into the old, green tile, as he tossed the infernal cigarette to his feet. "Honored you can join us today, Kaneko-sama. Considering your schedule, I'd never have thought the daimyo would grace us with his presence."
"I'll always make time for you, Asuma m'boy," comes the response of the mild-mannered Daimyo. Rows of his attendants flank on either side of him, moreso to manage his tuts and quivers, than to aid in his politicking. Kaneko, too, hasn't looked well, either. Which worries Asuma; before people mistook his slow deliberation with senility, but now they may be right. So it makes him uneasy, then, to see the head of ROOT hovering over his shoulder.
Yakushiji Tenzan stands tall, pale, and exhibits an air akin to a newly exhumed corpse. Spiffy in his sleek black uniform, representative of Sapporo's central intelligence; it matched well to the dark circles under the man's eyes. Implacable, calculating, and more than anything a true believer; Tenzan's strong, broad figure cuts a contrast to the frail mail before him.
And the scarred warhorse opposite.
Danzo Shimura is silent, but Asuma knows recognition flashes in his eye. The old iron man of the South looks as stern as a mountain, and as overbearing to boot. He and Tenzan in the same room leaves a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"You understand why the Daimyo has seen fit to meet today, Lord Hokage," Tenzan's voice is smooth and cool as white marble, and near as impervious. "The way forward is... precarious. And security of the State is ever at the forefront of our Daimyo's mind."
A dubious statement; Kaneko has a waxed over look, and seems totally out of it. Asuma had tried to get a hold of the Daimyo personally. Even offering to catch a plane north to meet in person. Yet, up till this point Kaneko was indisposed, and the Hokage could only imagine as to why that was the case.
"As well they should be," Asuma says, drops his head low in a deep nod. "I understand fully the cause for your worry, Kaneko-sama. But I assure you, as the Kage of the Hidden Village of the Leaves, my concern is ever on the safety and protection of the Noble One's State."
"Which is why our 'interactions' with the imperialist slaves to the South, Asuma, calls for our attention. We wouldn't want our brave heroes to be polluted by wayward ideas, and falsities as they strive to do us honor." The barb in Koharu's voice is apparent, along with omission of "Lord Hokage", yet her poison is mostly directed to Danzo. Who at this point, Asuma figured, little could hurt.
"Sigh, Koharu, save the window-dressing for those willing to buy it," Danzo says absently from where he sits to the right of Kaneko. He is all heavy robes and bandages, a ward against the biting chill of Hokkaido and to keep his wounds from falling apart. "Is not part of being a shinobi the capacity to endure? Well then stomach this, and shut your mouth. It'll be better for all in the long run if you do."
Kaneko has the wits about him to install a measure of space between his guest and close adherent. Asuma was no fan of Danzo, but anytime someone told Koharu off, It did put a smile on his face. And a cigarette in his mouth, as well. Koharu eyeballs him as he pulls another from his pocket, and lights it up in front of her.
"I've taken into consideration the security risks of our operatives as they return from the field. To safeguard the fidelity and tactical prowess of our armed forces - both mentally and physically, a suggestion for a small repose in a reeducation center. Ten days, I would say?"
"Tenzan and I believe twenty one days are more appropriate." Koharu retorts, her already narrow eyes growing wire-thin as she frowns.
"Do you now?" Asuma says, puffing out a line of sweet-smelling tobacco at the screen.
"No, Utatane-sempai. Ten days are sufficient." Replies Tenzan. "Sapporo would be a fine place for rest for our comrades returning home. Better to speed up the process for my officers conducting after action reports. Unless, you have any objections, Hokage-sama."
A cage for my people, and yours to watch over them..
Asuma would like to say he's surprised, but he isn't. ROOT went deep into the marrow of the DPRJ. Movements, contacts, conversations, etc.; all were their business to adjudicate if "troubling" elements arise. Had been this way since 1947 when the North held their own war crimes court. Perpetrators and Imperial stooges were the main faire, however, Asuma had seen the others who were tried on the stand: deserters, moderates, those who'd spoken out against some of Nosaka's harsher legislations. It was there ROOT was utilized to it most heinous, and Asuma knew Tenzan needed only a small provocation to conduct a full on inquisition on Konoha.
Or purge it.
Tenzan would love nothing more to position ROOT as the preeminent watchdog for Hokkaido. Not because he was a political climber, but that he despised weakness wherever it hid. That, and above all, doubt. As Hokage, Asuma vowed to never give Tenzan the satisfaction of seeing him fail, doing everything necessary to keep this man unhappy.
"I assume you'll be sending some of yours to babysit, Tenzan?" Asuma shakes his head over to Tenzan, who's soft smile hides nothing but business.
"Protocol, Hokage-sama." The answer is robotic, something no doubt rehearsed many times over to shut down potential disagreement; one can't argue with the State if precedent is involved. However, a change comes over Tenzan's temperament. Subtle at first, as if a shadow is cast over his normally assured visage, but it's soon noticeable enough that all are seemingly affected.
This draws Asuma's attention.
"ROOT agents will be attached to the teams for assistance and moderation. However, another reason calls for our presence. A...complication has surfaced, necessitating further observation."
Asuma didn't appreciate being kept in the dark, as it so evidently looked like he had. If State intelligence suggests there's a cause for concern, he had a right to know sooner than alter. "Complications?" He asks, removing the cigaret to tap out some burned ash. "What complications?"
The question has an adverse affect on all gathered. Koharo purses her lips, and Homura has a sheen of sweat shining on his forehead. Kaneko stiffens like a pillar of salt as the color in his face drains. Danzo, too, seems bothered; the scars and cuts becoming more pronounced as he grumbles under his breath, until he addresses Asuma
"What news of this 'missing ninja' I hear is operating in Vietnam?" He asks, his voice coming out with the same consistency as gasoline; harsh, sour, with a burning tinge attached to it. Danzo asks again when Asuma hesitates to answer, unused and uncomfortable to divulging information to a Southerner. Even if Danzo had once been a citizen of Konoha.
"Have any of the other Villages followed up in regards to the rogue's movements?" Danzo presses, to which Asuma shrugs.
Asuma hesitates to answer. Frankly, because he presumed Danzo already knew the answer. He did reach out to convene a meeting, but so far a fortnight had passed and still there'd been no word. Communication was hard considering the American blockade. And with Kim having his hands tied in Seoul, the closest operating depot for messages to be sent out was now Shanghai. And DPRJ offices were cautious of having their communique read by Chinese middle-men.
Like brothers sharing the same house, nothing was sacred among fellow Fourth International allies.
"No," comes Asuma's brusque reply. "As of now, I've received no word."
"And why do you think that is?"
"Are you asking me as the Defense Minister for the People's Republic of Japan?"
"Lord Hokage, events surrounding the assassination of President Diem this month has put Konoha in the crosshairs." Danzo pulls a folder off-camera and he reads through the list as if he's going to the grocery store. Doubtless, it was provided to him by Tenzan himself. "The unsanctioned use of a Katon jutsu, actions indicative of a skilled chakra user, and the illegal implementation of the Sharingan. Even with an extensive training, no other Village can boast an operative of such a caliber, Asuma."
"My provided statements should be enough to quash anymore questioning in relation to this matter, Shimura-san." Asuma wants to bite off the end of his cigarette. If they still believed offering up the Uchiha on a spit like a scapegoat was going to assuage the other Villages, then Tenzan was sorely mistaken. "As long as this meeting is being held, I will not be privy to any more talks about Uchiha Sasuke."
"Then explain to us how it is possible for the Sharingan to be present in Saigon that night, Hokage-sama?" Homura fires with all the accuracy of a Type 89.
Asuma takes in more smoke into his lungs.
The night Kakashi left with the young Uchiha in tow, he'd sworn his Hokage to secrecy before disappearing for a week. At the time Kakashi looked pensive, troubled even. Asuma recalls there were only two times in his life he'd had ever seen the man so distant: the death of his father, and the other was...well, that was Kakashi's business to tell. Not his. Along with whatever he needed doing with Sasuke that night. as in all the other times members of Team 7 gave him fits, Asuma just needed to trust whatever Kakashi was up to was important.
"In regards to that I...cannot answer," Asuma responds, knowing either this makes him look culpable or a fool. He throws the spent cigarette onto the floor, grinding again his boot heel into it, wishing it was Danzo's smug face as he begins to speak like he had an Ace up his sleeve the entire time.
"You may not, Hokage-sama, but I can." The smile he has is unwelcome, handled awkwardly by a man unused to joy. Save for the satisfaction of seeing his rivals flounder. "At the conclusion of the Great World War Two, Sapporo held a military tribunal to determine the fates of certain criminals of The Empire of Japan."
Including you, correct?,Asuma wants to say, but doesn't. Along with a few others, he was personally assigned to the guards unit meant to track Danzo down before he crossed the parallel. Clearly, the mission failed. And many of his friends didn't return home because of it. Thwarted as they were by the most unlikeliest bit of treachery.
"Yes," Asuma says, trying to hold back back the bile pooling in his throat. "I am aware."
"And you are also aware of those whom were set to stand trial?"
"You know I do," he goes, the threat in his voice barely contained.
Danzo, though, never misses a beat as he lists off names taken during the advancement south. "Shinozuka Yoshio, Fujita Shigeru, Kaneko, Yasuji, Prince Takeda Tsuneyoshi and Prince Higashikuni Norihiko of the Imperial family. These members of the Manchu detachment were detained by Northen authorities, and all were summarily judged by a military court comprising of Soviet, Chinese, and Korean representatives. Their sentence: death. However, not all members of Unit 731 were accounted for throughout this time."
Even the mention of the group's name sends veritable tremors running throughout the room. An eerie silence makes the hum of the hydro-generators downstairs all the more noticeable, and the pumps flushing in as much water and heat through the building as possible. The world abounds with sound beyond this room Asuma is set in, but within now it's silent, death-like, imperceptibly alive save for a flutter which causes the screens to warble. The infamous Unit 731 was the standard designation for the Kamo detachment, of the Manchukou regiment's covert biochemical division. Many had heard the stories, all of them wafting about campfires and dark mess halls. Much of what was told was simply conjecture, rumor and hearsay; so much being red-taped by the Sapporo government, that not all coming out of Harbin could be verified. Till, the Red Army's liberation of the area.
Vivisections, organ harvesting, mounds of dismembered limbs and heads cast off like trash. Asuma recalled seeing the pictures of the "log cabins", housing units not even fit for animals to live, meant to be the holding areas for the poor victims. Formally, operations were under the direct overwatch of a man who's name many still dare not speak in full. The going belief being, like some sort of boogeyman, he'd appear behind you. Take you. Cut up your body and harvest your organs in a hidden base where no one will ever see you again. Where he will see how hot a fire needs burn to see your muscles crackle, or break your bones to have them set the wrong way.
No body had ever been found, nor the copious amounts of research supposedly left behind at the Harbin laboratory
"Dr. Ishii Shiro," Danzo says the name without a hint of fear, pulling out a photo of a bespectacled man in military dress; Shiro sports a tired, affable look. With a full, yet trimmed goatee, and inquisitive, yet dulled eyes. The picture was taken when he first became a Lt. Colonel in Manchuria. "Lead scientist of the Manchu detachment was never captured nor apprehended. Official reporting suggests he died in 1946; I believe otherwise."
"Putting stock in ghost stories, Minister?"
Danzo's expression hardens, but presses on. "The Sharingan is a trait innately attuned to members of the Uchiha clan. Cultivated and facilitated through generations of selective breeding and genetic bio mutations. Yet, the belief that it is a wholly unique, solely attributed to the Uchiha is inaccurate; the Sharingan can be replicated. In other bloodlines, in other people. And there is no biophysicist on this planet with as much knowledge of genetic augmentation as he." Danzo's lone dark eye bore into Asuma, piercing him with a dark intensity which demanded attention. "If you say the assassin isn't Sasuke Uchiha, I believe you. But only because I believe Orochimaru created another with the power to wield one."
"If Dr. Ishi is alive, and these rumors prove true, we would be remiss not to verify them. And to do that, first we needs catch this missing ninja. We must find him, we must stop him, and when we do we will question him."
Asuma's thoughts race as he feels the gravity of Dazno's words - as does everyone else. And though his instincts scream to distrust him, the potential threat of not looms so much larger. "If ishii is out there, you really think we can just waltz into Indochina, capture this missing ninja, and get him to reveal where the doctor is?"
Danzo's lips curl into a smile devoid of warmth. "I have personal experience knowing ROOT agents are good at extracting information. So when you bring in this 'rogue', I expect no stone will be unturned. With eh right approach and resources, even we can catch a snake. And when the truth is revealed, both North and South will rejoice."
Asuma wants to laugh; the man makes it sound so easy, but the Hokage knew time was not on their side, and equally likely Danzo neither. Nor Tenzan. Or any of them for that matter. Not so long as Kaneko sputtered, trying to hang on as long as possible. A hard ask Asuma realized as he walked out of the conference room and back into the interior of the adjoining war room. Yes, time was of the essence; why the prospect of running about jungles hunting a ghost didn't leave him exactly thrilled.
But then again, if this needed to be done, it will be done.
Not because the Third Hokage trusted Danzo, but because ridding the world of Orochimaru was definitely worth fighting for.
Transmission # 3-7-1-3. Designate: Common Ground
South of The Wall, Tokyo Metropolitan, US Army Base "Camp Basilone"
Subject 213 meets with Lt. Colonel Joseph Colton, Coffee status: Terrible
12:45 hrs; Nov. 27, 1963
The coffee wasn't particularly good today. Again. And try as he might to sneak a few more sugars and creamer from the mess, he'd already been told off by Pvt. Morelli to behave himself. "It's not the coffee, sir. It's you," she says swiping the Brunell packets from him. But to hell with that: this coffee sucked, and he couldn't find a decent cup anywhere on base. Jesus, not like he was asking for more jungle camo or rifle cleaning kits. I mean, he was. But was it so hard to get a decent bean over from the land of the giant PX?
He damn near wanted to spew out the sour, brown stuff. Even before hearing this fanciful tale of crazy crackpot doctors, ancient clan bloodlines, and genetic experimentations. A story so wantonly unbelievable no wonder Tokyo's Police Superintendent had her thrown out into the streets, or so she says.
Joseph Colton rounds the table, staring bullets into this "messenger" sitting before him. She was all coat and no trousers. Literally. With an attitude beyond what Colton attributed to the 'conventional' Japanese female. Demure she was not, collected absolutely 'no', and submissive? About as tame as a tornado in a trailer park. Granted, besides his wife, Joe hadn't a lot of experience with women in general. Took him seven dates to finally muster up the courage just to hold Nancy's hand. But when this one appeared at Basilone's northern checkpoint, the last thing she seemed to be looking for was a hand-hold.
Least, that's what Clayton said, smirking at Joe after relaying she specifically asked to meet with him. "Be nice," Clayton says before Joe enter the quint, hastily put together wooden box of their MP holding facility; with most disciplinary action handled at the "drunk tank" in Ginza, Army funding only went so far to develop a proper stockade. The Sixth Army base was tight enough without needing a true guardhouse, though to be fair, he doubted it would be decent enough to hold Miss...?
"Mitarashi, Colonel," Anko tells him playfully. "But you can call me, mommy."
"I won't."
"Tsk, well, damn." She's got no shame as she cranes her neck, revealing more of her chest through the fish net stockings and overcoat. "Guess I'm shit outta luck again."
"Striking out a lot lately?" Colton asks, doing his best Sgt. Shultz as more of her ample chest juts out.
"You wouldn't even believe the half of it, Colonel." Anko rubs the side of her neck, alleviating the pressure that'd been building there for a while.
Anko had no idea what it could've been; maybe on some level, she believed the life was finally catching up. Late nights cruising down street avenues, searching and scoping out marks and targets, blending into the best bits of Metro's crazy underworld. Or maybe she was just becoming a pussy, and the fucking cab driver needed a self-help guide to partake in doggy style.
"Try me, Miss Mitarashi" Joseph says, settling into the chair opposite the strange woman. Her lusty eyes brighten as he addresses her, making him feel more uncomfortable. Off in the corner, Clayton's barely able to stifle his laughter watching his CO squirm. "So, Shiro Ishii."
"Hai," Anko nods.
"Dr. Death himself."
"Uh-huh."
"The most wanted war criminal in the Pacific as designated by the OSS - now CIA, MI6, KGB, and fuck it, why the hell not, even Captain goddamn Kangaroo."
"Yes."
"The same individual who, after spreading the bubonic plague in Changde, watched from an observatory as hundreds of people dropped dead in the street."
"Yep."
"A megalomaniacal purveyor of torture. Responsible for the killing of over ten thousand people. Who makes Josef Mengele look like a two-bit, sideshow, snake-oil salesman in regards to his depravity and cruelty."
"Oui. But, he also dabbles in snake oils, too. Don't know if you guys had that written down somewhere, but, umm...You should. Also, he doesn't like it when people sneeze around him, so... "
"Okay," Joseph brings his hands up around his face, running them past his nose like he was pulling out the headache from his nostrils. "You're telling me that man, someone pronounced dead by most every post-war intelligence agency on the globe.HEis responsible for the attack in Saigon?"
"Yes...Maybe. Could be. Not really so sure, to be honest. That's just what Danzo thinks, or so my source tells me what he thinks. Personally, I think the fucker's dead - Hey, any more donuts?"
"No", Joseph was sure as shit he wasn't going to let her anywhere near another box, she already clearing two before he got her talking.
Anko scrunches her nose as she pouts. "Oh, fucking hell. Can't get anything decent on this base."
"Ain't that the truth." Joseph shakes his head.
He needed this like a bullet to the brain or a kick to the shins. Preferably, he'd have liked it right now if someone were to just push him down flight of stairs - a small reprieve in the infirmary sounded nice. His world, his routine, had been flown out of whack since gathering all these assets, logistics, and personnel for what amounted to a long shot in the dark. So far, he'd finalized the lists: two hundred carefully selected men and women - one whole company to do the job. Not counting the incoming ANZAC, JSDF, Taiwanese, and Northern elements.
General Abernathy was hoping to push a whole battalion to be sent, but Colton urged against it; a large force was hard to maintain, and a bitch to allocate. Being tourists on the ground, Joseph opted for a measured approach to monitor the situation, and keep the peace. From the reports Clayton had scrounged for him, VC trails tended to lean more into the countryside. Leaving the cities as clear government enclaves. Saigon was the heart, and so all focus for Joseph was to build defenses there first, and then work outward.
Problem is, he was blind heading into the bush
Clayton already had broached the problem, going over recent French dispatches sent by General Picard. "I honestly can't tell if they're joking, or if they seriously believe anyone can coordinate using relics from the 19th century."
Apparently, he and Pvt. Morelli had been at it for a good day and half, trying to make sense of old colonial maps, dated coordinates, and radio communication which provided minimal intel of local authorities - tribal or municipal - from the Mekong up to the Highlands. Overall, much of what was said had been skewed; favorable relations with Montagnard tribes benefitted French colonial forces for a time. But few had static enough positions to link up and contact once they hit the ground.
"Half of these tribes live in the mountain forests bordering Cambodia and Laos - there's no way we'd be able to make contact, unless we have a guide knowledgeable enough to find them." Morelli stated in their briefing earlier this morning. "Which brings a whole slew of other issues: customs, locations, wants; each tribe has a different means of how they live, and what they do to go about earning it. Some haven't had any contact with government agents since the Japanese occupation. Half of them don't even know who's probably in charge anymore. Plus, every one of these groups speaks a different dialect. Any one we find who could help has to have at minimum a basic grasp of Southern Viet."
"And if you take into account most of the reliable people who can speak that are - spoiler alert - in the pay of the insurgents." Clayton says, handing Colton booklet cock full of red mark, black ribbons, and crossed off names. "All the background checks I made on the translators recommended by SDECE. Half are dead, the other are behind bars."
"You've got to be joking."
Joseph rifled through the pages, disbelieving over a hundred different contacts could either be compromised or ineligible. Names flash through on the cards, either red-lined or possessing a big fat "X" in the corner of their pictures. Out of the pile. a grand total of eight were vetted as 'eligible' to help. Which included a granny ox-cart driver from Can Tho, or a one-legged, one-eyed cab driver in Long Xuyen.
Not exactly the pick of the litter.
Yet, in Ms. Mitarashi's eyes there was a solution.
How could he trust her? For starters, beyond flashing her lady bits to every grunt and Seabee on base, the blue and white oniwabanshu badge tucked away neath her trench coat. On it were the Kanji letters for "fidelity". That and the old papa-san mentioned he'd send over a visitor. Of course, Hiruzen had done it by carrier falcon. Because why use a phone when you had a bird? Joseph shrugged, figuring this was something he'd have to get used to. Working with these people will at least keep him on his toes. And for what it was worth, beyond the mischievous playfulness, trench coat, and obvious tendency to push people's buttons; Anko very much was was a professional.
Joseph saw that easy without the need of her flashing him.
"Listen, Colonel, I'm not one for beating around the bush. Chief knows you need a guide worth their shit, and we just happen to have one working the Delta, on site, and ready for the assist."
Colton pauses, swirling the nasty toilet water in his mug as he considers. "I've already got a couple of SASR on hand ready for my field scouts."
"Bindoon is not Malaysia, is not Vietnam, is not Japan, Colonel. And if you think it is, we'll be making mistake, after mistake, after mistake. Until we're Pepe le Pew eating a bowl of pho without a pair of chop sticks... Sir." She makes sure to remember the title afterwards; Colton's dossier said he was an officer who played it stiff and by the book. Much like the tan Army button down and khakis he wears.
Hiruzen had told her this was someone she could work with, but only if he played it safer than she would with others: Yamato was always fun to needle, and Asuma could play the game as well as any. Difference here, however, was Joseph Colton was a man who's used to fighting a certain type of war in a way he only knew how. Based off her observation, most the boys on base acted in much the same manner. Save they were dumb enough to bend without breaking.
This wasn't an insult, either; ignorance was the seed from which a mind grows. Hiruzen taught her this, and amazingly enough she hung on to it. Colton just had to do the same. Give in to grow. With those large shoulders, broad chest, prominent brow hovering over those ice-wine eyes; goodness gracious, great balls of fire was he not built like the most handsomest caveman she'd ever seen.
Colton is reserved in his chair, but as always his guardian angel over his shoulder makes the call; Clayton taps in, says it's worth a shot to have eyes not masked over by SDECE yellow tape, or pockets lined with VC money. "Normally, I'd like to be the one bribing, but if this one comes free.."
Joseph cups his hand together like he's saying a little prayer, and maybe he was for all Anko knew. From where she sat, plain the days didn't give him much anymore. He seemed tired, like a man obsessing over every move he makes. It was another thing his dossier told her: above everything, he cared. Cared a lot. Which was unusual in a man like him. Anko's been around the block once or twice, and never did a man act so unbecoming of his station. Yet, at the same time born for it.
Admittedly, she was jealous: Colton had his heart in a place which needed him the most.
If only she could be as lucky, too.
"Colonel," she begins, her voice soft and gentle as she drops the persona just a little. Her hands reach out across the table - not to take his own in them, but splayed wide apart, palms up and open. "I'm being honest with you here. Obviously, what I told you about Ishii is a priority. For both of us. If nothing else, the Sharingan is a weapon if in the wrong hands will cause incalculable chaos."
Tight-lipped, and with just a hint of anger, he tells her he's very aware of its potency; the conquest of Japan didn't happen in a day, and there was a reason. The Sharingan, the Uchiha, a band of violent shadow makers and assassins. They'd given entire companies fits in the islands - the Solomons, Peleliu, all the way to the Philippines and Manilla. Fighting them near caused his own men to turn into the very monsters they tried to kill. War had that funny affect on young boys; at times when you partake in the violence so much, in the end you end up wearing its coat, and become the very evil you never intended to be.
Clayton comes over to squeeze his shoulder, bringing him back from the past and let him know he's still in Basilone, US Sixth Army Base, 1963 Tokyo. Biting his bottom lip, he looks at the young woman before him, gauging if she, papa-san, any of them could see he just wanted them all to come back alive. And every decision he made or didn't make tipped that scale one way or another. It's the kind of shit which could keep a man up at night.
That, and the fact a known assassin was thwarted killing Kennedy not six days ago.
Yeah, believe that?
Some crazy ex-Marine planned to blow the president's head open during a tour of Dallas. Three shots, but the man misses all of them. Blame it on the old Italian rifle he had; it certainly didn't help Oswald when he tried making a last stand at his house. State police caught up with him there, and summarily lit it up like a Christmas tree. The only part of the poor fool not turned to Swiss cheese were his feet.
"Sir," Anko says, closing up her coat, and grabbing Joseph's eyes once more. "Please, we can help one another. Our agent is more than equipped to bring you up to speed, and is your best bet to ensuring our people stay alive. Trust me."
Trust...
Goddamn that word. It expects so much, yet it's blind hope that makes fools write checks their butts can't cash. Colton was very much feeling like a poor man right now, who'd put a lot of trust in a great many things through the years. In his country, the army, his rifle, God; all had merits and cons, he supposed. But his wife always says life was easier when you had something to rely on. "Putting faith in people was a lot more rewarding than expecting the worst in everything."
Well, she may be right in that regard.
And if he put his trust in papa-san and this mama-san here, well, hope is he'd be rewarded with an interpreter. Who wasn't shot, incarcerated, or a possible traitor.
Transmission # 3-7-1-3. Designate: Common Ground
Vietnam Highlands: 10.842354; 105.184349
Date:?
Time: ?
Operative #: "Sukea"
Sukea laughed as the children marked his face with the paint, finally gladdened he'd built up enough trust they could stand to be near him.
It had been a busy two weeks since the assassination of President diem, the reverberations still being felt in even the furthest cities. Business men and owners bunkered down, stockpiled goods, and whatever was allowed to be sold on the streets, the prices were doubled. So far, the military junta had failed in the equal opportunity economy they promised, and the majority of South Vietnamese were left with two choices: find work in the fields, or be poor in the cities.
Many opted for the former.
"Thật tệ nếu bạn tra cứu điều này trên một người dịch để xem liệu tôi có hiểu đúng tiếng Việt không?" Duyên asks him; she'd just come from the city where her father was able to buy a new dress. She told him she'd only let him take her picture when she got it, and that's that.
Sukea, never a man to turn down the wishes of a pretty lady, obliges. "I will take your picture," he says, making sure to keep his brown curls away from getting purple on them. "On only one condition..."
He'd like to see where the monster lives.
For the last two weeks the surrounding countryside was a buzz with activity since the assassination. All the crept and crawled and lurked and hid in the Delta's highlands, river ways and rainforests stirred when Diem's family was deposed. Made his job a lot easier: tracking Viet Minh elements wasn't the hard part - it were the farming villages and the people within that needed keeping track.
Job was a bit hard in the beginning; obviously he didn't look like a local - green vest, green pants, brown hair tussled to the side; he didn't look Vietnamese, or Chinese for that matter, but he had such a control of their language many people didn't bat an eye. At first; he was afraid being too good meant they'd assume he was some sort of government spy sent by the junta. The camera didn't help, either. But when he told them he was a photojournalist from a news agency out of California, it calmed some of their worst fears.
Of course, many were still hesitant; old superstitions a camera could bring bad luck or steal your soul was rampant in the lowlands.
But building trust is a process, growing over time with repetition and consistent interaction.
Candy bars, beers and chocolates also helped. The kids especially liked the cigarettes.
"Hướng này, hướng này", little Hoàng Anh leads the way. His little legs bush him past the group, over the dry riverbed, and into the forest path cutting up through the hill.
The kids climbed over the tree branches with surprising ease, pushing past the brush and elephant grass with nary a concern. You only needed to take one glance to understand how it was possible for the insurgents to move as capably and handily as they do. Sukea may have kept his breathing to a minimum, the chakra assisting to keep his energy up, but was still a tough go with even the minimal amount of equipment he carried.
Note #32: Minimum equipment carried on thirteenth day, equating to only six point eight kilos. Slight exhaustion, minimal sweating- mostly attributed to tropical temperatures still attached to high humidity. Eighty percent is what I've clocked,Sukea huffs over a fallen log in the beaten path, and veers to follows the kids as they bound silently down a dark path.
The light is choked by the canopy above, and the air is sticky with moisture and mosquitos. A bit of the trail is bent with recent footfalls, but the majority of it is overgrown with three-needled pines, two-needled pines, Copperpods and Teak trees; thick bang langs with bases as robust as a sumo's belly, and covered with licorice vines. Thick, white petaled flowers with a lemony tinge give off a sweet, citrusy aroma, as the old tiger hunter's trail winds through the darkened trees.
More and more it feels like Sukea is walking into a dream, a place forgotten by the powers that be, yet still hanging around to be found by the next tired traveler. Stones align the path - at first broken and mishandled, but soon showing a relativity denoting this indeed had a purpose once upon an epoch. Taking out his camera, he snaps a quick few photos of the old monuments eaten by the vegetation. Before Vietnam was a Buddhist nation, older, more mystical heathen gods reigned here; Sukea made sure to read up on them before being assigned here from Kyoto.
The Viet tribes hanging around the rural parts of the nation still held to the folk religions rituals their ancestors practiced. Some of these gods were familiar, an odd, morphed versions of the Hindu deities worshipped by the Cham people. But these other totems were far more surreal. Dragons and water serpents Sukea well understood, but the others which dotted this path were of a pantheon ancient, more animalistic. The vines and trees marred much, but glaring teeth, strained faces, clawed fists holding onto maces and axes and swords were easily recognized.
Note #33: The layout of the valley is as I expected,Sukea walks through an opening where the children lead; air is musky with wood rot and sweet fruit, old stone slick with mist and the lingering scent of burned out incense. Many of the children hang back now, even brave Hoàng Anh. Duyên says she doesn't want to get her pink dress dirty, a sentiment repeated by the other girls in the group as well.
Remnants of the temple are indicative of the Đồng Đậu culture, save for key differences of the compound layout...
Sukea takes photos of the stone edifices most would think is the entrance to a cave; a closer inspection would see the carefully carved insignias, the animal motifs, the ancient language lost in the depths of history. Slowly, carefully, Sukea marks the belongings dropped by the VC troupe that had camped here not so long before. They'd trudged through the area a few days ago, and Sukea had them marked coming from the direction of Cao Lãnh.
Large by the usual standards, the group numbering a little less than a company. Odd, as Sukea had previously noted most insurgent bands mainly stuck to a dozen or two members, phasing out into the hills as they returned from usual hit-and-run assignments. They don't usually travel together in large packs - more people, meant more noise. And French patrols with ARVN armor made unguarded real-estate a luxury. But this group was different. It was organized, regimented, lead by one who could institute a perimeter and guard check.
The mouth of the temple is draped with overlapping vines, pink and yellow flowers drifting slightly in a warm, heavy breeze. Here, a small figment of the sun shines through the treetops, but dark clouds seem to be rolling in. Sukea can smell the rain, feel it in his joints. As he clenches his fists, his knuckles crack and layout is small, confined - due the complex's isolated nature and size, presumably this wouldn't have been used by local tribes. Most like it was reserved solely for priests or nobility. Those enabled to understand the higher mysteries.
Plus, it was easy to defend.
The temple proper needn't a large quantity of arms to protect it: a semi-circular courtyard, ringed by carved out earthen walls and rock, set into the side of a black rock boulder. A few guards with a number of tactical equipment smartly placed could bunker down for a while if they were smart. Who knows how many more temples like this were sprinkled around the Delta. Each with the capacity to hold and house a large number of people, hiding them from aerial surveillance. Strategically, this was a perfect hideout. But what made it interesting, was what Sukea found inside as he braved forward.
Many of the children told him not to go, that the mosnter was sleeping, and if he woke it he'd become angry. The noises and screams the village heard at night, the young men disappearing, the warnings mothers told of the consequences messing with Ong Ba Bi. "This was his home," they would say. "And he does not welcome visitors."
To welcome a guest was a large part of Vietnamese culture. Forgoing this was a massive breach of impropriety, and spoke to the cruel nature of one uncaring of tradition. It is why most of the children opted not go further, with even a few deciding to run back. The wind picks up and sun is swallowed, but Sukea pulls out his light to be sure his hunch was correct. Off in the corner of the stonework, he spies a spent pile of bloody bandages and ration boxes. A number of cots were hastily thrown to the side, and deeper into the complex, a dark hallway. His steps echo off the walls, as weathered and deformed faces of unknown gods and temple guardians stare at him. He follows the blood trail and smell of antiseptic.
Outside, the wind begins to howl. The temple's architecture faces the valley, and pulls in the sound, which isa king to a deep shout. Faintly, its sound is akin to a scream. It rings throughout the alcove, where Sukea notes the spent bottles of painkillers discarded around a rickety table. Finger nail markings rip along the sides, and a coppery smell is still strong here. Whoever was here wasn't long from this place. Give or take maybe days. But they left in a hurry: scalpels, sutures, and a metal hooks used for stitching were strewn about. A rusted Bunsen burner was left near the remains of an old fire...
And a bloodied totem rests upon the outcrop from the wall.
Location coordinates of the temple are thus: latitude, 10.842354; longitude, 105.184349. Majority of sites run along rivers, following trails insurgents use to cross border into neighboring Cambodia.
Sukea shines his light over the statue; it is a hollow vessel of a four legged creature, but with the skeleton-like face of a man. Row of four pairs of eyes run up to two sharpened ears. At first what he believes is a snake coiled around it base, is actually one long, carved tail. Markings run along it's cheeks, mirroring that of his own; these were the wards the children painted to protect from the curse. Ong ba bi left those alone who looked like him, and for that Sukea was grateful.
The flash from his camera alights the ghastly totem as he snaps one final picture for his notes. And as he leaves the temple, the tell-tale rumble of thunder being heard in the distance, those children still waiting for him are almost in tears. Duyên said to him they shouldn't have come here, and she was right. Hoàng Anh looked paler than usual and sick with worry. Sukea tells him he needn't ever come back again, but because he was so brave, they all earned five Hershey bars each.
Hoàng Anh, however, opted for the pack of Lucky Strikes instead. "Easier to bribe soldiers with," he tells Sukea.
The man sighs, thinking how sad it was the reality many of these kids lived; Sukea forewarned the village of a joint ARVN/Legionnaire scouting unit meant to comb the area in the coming days. Nguyen Khanh's capture made surrounding forces more gung-ho than usual, with many intent on revenge. The man pleaded with the chief to get his people to safety, to hide, but lamentably was shut down. "Hiding," the chief says, "will only make us appear guilty. This is our home, monsieur, and I will run from my home. When these men come, we will treat them as guests, and will trust that'll be enough."
It was a foolish sentiment, but Sukea didn't press his luck. This was an old world he ventured in, the tradition and culture running deep. Just as it did in Japan, for better or worse.
And as he removed the face paint from his cheeks, took off the wig and removed his disguise, "Sukea" reclines in his tent a ways from the village outskirts. Tomorrow morning he'd pack his things and head to Saigon. But right after jotting down what he learned, mapping the temple he found, and notching it along with the rest along his map. Hiruzen would want to know the large VC company was moving in close proximity to these holy places. The reason, though, still evades him. The residual power her felt in the temple was minimum, but a tinge of aether still abounded.
Form a secular standpoint, these were perfect military hideouts for provisioning and rest. However, none but the brave or young would venture to such places without prior knowledge of them. And if the essence within still resides, further investigation to determine for what purpose is warranted.
Transmission # 3-7-1-3. Designate: Common Ground
South of The Wall, Tokyo Metropolitan, Shinjuku Ward
Subject 213 meets with Hokage
22:45 hrs; November 27, 1963
"Is that what your contact said?" Asuma asks Anko, as they both meander down the hushed city street.
Tokyo was again alive with the bountiful colors of its neon signs. The nightlife here never slept, and by the looks of it, neither did Anko. She seemed tired and spent, looking more invested into a night in, than another sojourn through these alleyways for another drop. Yes, even if Anko presented herself as an untiring ball of energy, didn't his father ever think to offer her a break?
"You look like you need a vacation," he goes, pulling out his lighter to rekindle the dying flame of his smoke. "I don't know how much time I'll have in the future, so if you want, take a few days to rest. I'll send word if I need you again."
"Oh, such a gentleman," Anko's answer is more acidic than sweet, and the wrinkles around her eyes are more pronounced. "It's nothing; just have to get some water in me, is all. And I have to take a crap."
"Well, there ya go."
Asuma guides them over to a small ramen stand, saddled off to the side. Some food will probably be good for her, and would give them some time to just sit; her pasty faced cab driver's already down the street, with ever that unsettling smile on his face. Asuma would offer to bring the guy some food, but honestly he just gave Asuma the creeps. "Fancy a quick bowl, or you feeling like ditching me tonight?"
"Huh, nah? I can sit for a bit. Been running around here, so it's fine. Yo, Teuchi, the usual."
A pleasant man waves his hellos, and greets his customers - he says it was nice to see Anko, and this time with a man somewhat put together. Anko tells the guy to fuck off, and just bring a bottle of beer; her head was spinning, and she needed a downer to keep her steady. For her benefit, a waitress quickly comes over and was Johnny on the spot with a cool bottle.
"Thanks, girlie," Anko goes, before Ayame looks over to Asuma, but he waves her off.
Water was fine for him, and whatever Anko was having was good, too. The waitress nods, telling them their orders would be out quick. Which, thankfully, they were; two full bowls of swirling noodles, steaming with a bunch of garlic, beef, and fish broth.
"Sukea has been working the area the for sometime now, but he doesn't know particulars." Anko snaps the chopsticks which were offered, rubbing them together to ward off any splinters. "Thing is he can't get close without blowing his cover. He needs to be cautious; this bunch doesn't exactly play nice with the media. But my bet is, if you're serious about this little witch-hunt, guarantee we're on to the right track."
Asuma's brow furrows in concern. "How does that make you feel?"
Anko's eyes narrow thoughtfully, contemplating her past before taking in a mouthful of ramen. "He fouldn't be foolif enuff to do dravil closf to da groop. But if hif little thienf efperiment goef haywire, he'f da only one equipped to fix this. *SLUUUUUURRRRRPPPPPP*"
Stirring his bowl absentmindedly, Asuma's mind races. Yamato's contacts in the JSDF can only do so much, and from what he's heard Lt. Colonel Colton sounds ambivalent about the while situation. Asuma couldn't fault him necessarily for that, by all accounts even this didn't track well for Asuma either. But if ROOT was deciding to get involved, this would be an all hands affair to ensure Orochimaru - Dr. Ishii - would get the due justice he so righty deserved. Especially for Anko as well, considering her relationship with the doctor.
"Sukea...?" Asuma inquires, his curiosity piqued. "Never heard of him before. Who is he?"
Anko's demeanor shifts slightly, voice firm. That on the need-to-know basis, you certainly don't need to know. Besides," She adds with a smirk. "I didn't tell Yamato or the Americans who as passing along information from your little meeting."
This makes Asuma chuckle, a genuine smile breaking through the tension as he leaned into his bowl of ramen. "You watching out for me, huh? Worried?"
Rolling her eyes playfully, Anko fires back it was only because she liked his father more, and wouldn't appreciate if she put his son in danger. "Just because Sapporo is showing support for the operation doesn't mean your clandestine activities here are safe for you well-being."
Asuma's chuckle belies the understanding of the risks he takes, but she knew he wasn't one to shy away from danger. Despite his slight pot-bellied physique since assuming the role of Kage for the Leaf, considering he wasn't needed in field operations anymore, Asuma still prided himself on his ability to remain solid in a pinch. Save, he did miss the tail which had been following them since entering Minato ward.
Anko's demeanor shifts, and she leans in close. "Quiet," she cautions, telling Asuma to shush as she continues with the act like she's tired, she's spent, and utterly incapable for a chase. For a while she wondered who it was that could be tracking their moves - it had occurred soon as Asuma met with her, and they took their stroll. They're guest was careful, and patient. Clearly a shinobi, considering she could sense their breathing; it wasn't heavy, but steady, slightly vexed - nervous, probably. Someone who knew to conceal their signature, but not skilled enough to hide thoroughly.
"We've company, Asuma," Anko says, causing Asuma to turn his head.
It was a rookie mistake and one Anko made sure he knew he made. "Dammit, keep your cool. What the hell is the matter with you?!"
Asuma grumbles under his breath, irritation mixed with anxiety as tense seconds pass. Suddenly, Anko reminds him to make sure he pays the bill before they leave." He looks at her puzzled, but before he could respond, Anko sprang into action. In an instant, she hopped from her seay, darting into the alley behindd the stand. Asuma fumbled with the cash, and hastily follows as his heart races.
"Sai, meet me on the other side of the block!" Anko yells into her radio, urgency lacing her words. Without skipping a beat, she quickly scaled a fire escape, her movements fluid and practiced.
Pushing himself harder, Asuma curses his; his formal shoes were ill-equipped for the sudden sprint. Breathing deeply, he focuses his chakra into his feet, propelling himself up the wall of the adjoining building. Spotting Anko above, he sees she chases after a springing figure slipping away into the night. "Stop!" he hears Anko shout, but the figure had a head start, and moved with uncanny agility. Anko pulled out a pair of sharpened needles saved over from the dango sticks she'd been eating, and lunches them into the darkness.
Unfortunately, her aim falls short, and the shadow slips over the edge of the rooftop. For a moment, they both lose slight of the figure, but quickly reach the top of the building to see it cornered by the edge. Asuma inhales the remnants of his cigarette, and spits out a cloud of burning smoke and fire that hung heavily in the air. Seeing her opportunity, Anko hurled another needle at the figure spotted within the cloud. She as confident this time around, and her aim rings true.
But to their dismay, an audible pop is heard as the needle pierces the shadow clone.
"Dammit!" Anko yells in frustration, realizing their quarry has left them in a literal cloud of smoke. Her eyes scan the area to no avail, and Asuma curses himself. He's incredulous he could be so careless, so positively lazy; this never happens, and yet he's left now sweating in the crisp air of the night. The view of Tokyo before them is breathtaking, but it is lost in their anxiety...
And the imposing sight of The Wall which divides their nation beyond