Transmission #2-4-1-0; Addendum "Painful"

North Side the Wall, Tokyo Urban; Hidden Village: "Leaf"/ Secure Zone "Fujin"- ROOT Protection Services

*Individual marked entering Tree Leaf Hospital for impromptu visitation due to recurring trauma; Comrade Nurse Tsubaki is the attending nurse, Comrade-Doctor Kawada the primary physician. Further questioning of the two recommended.

Threat Level: Priority

"Sugar 5-0, Sugar 5-0, this is Purple Heart 4l Fire mission: enemy troops, estimate company size and two tanks. Moving west! Coordinates: 1-7-9-3-2-2. My position: 3-2-2-3-4-8-1. Will adjust - over!"

"Roger that Purple 4, this is Sugar 5-0. See what we can get you."

"Oh shit - SHIT! Seven o' clock! Behind us."

"Flak 38 - Take it out!"

"Kos! Kos! Get to cover! EVERYONE DOWN!"

Ratatatatatatatata*

Private. Kosuke "Kos" Maruboshi ducks behind the jagged remains of a building wall as the world around him erupted in gunfire. A storm of hot steel shredded the concrete, sending sharp fragments bouncing under the brim of his helmet. A few splinters caught him in the eyes, momentarily blinding him. He clenched his jaw to suppress a yell, his grip tightening on the worn stock of his M1 Garand.

Sarge would slap his ass in a sling him if he saw him drop the thing. That is if the halftrack didn't do that first.

The distinctive whoosh-crack of the M20 Super Bazooka fired by Yoshi reverberates through the street, followed by a deafening explosion as the projectile slammed into the half-track advancing on their flank. The vehicle erupted in flames, its turret still firing wildly before collapsing into silence.

"Fuck! Fuuuuck, I'm hit!" came Yoshi's voice, his pain cutting through the chaos.

"Kos! Kos!" Sergeant Tanaka's voice roared over the cacophony. "Get to cover! EVERYONE DOWN!"

Kos obeyed instinctively, diving deeper behind the wall as bullets ricocheted around him. The weight of the M1 Garand in his hands grounded him as he fought to steady his breath. He peeked around the corner, just in time to see one of the Leopard tanks rumble into view, its massive cannon swiveling toward their position.

Ratatatatatata!"

The machine gun mounted on the tank's turret opened up, tearing through the air like a buzz saw. Kos flinched as the torrent of rounds shredded the ground where he'd just been crouching moments before. Dirt and asphalt exploded upward, showering him in grime.

"Sugar 5-0, Purple Heart 4! We need that fire support NOW!" Tanaka barks into the radio, his voice hoarse with desperation.

"Hold tight, Purple 4," the response came. "Artillery inbound. ETA thirty seconds."

Kos didn't have thirty seconds; the Wehrmacht company was pushing hard, advancing with frightening precision. He raised his rifle, sighting one of them through the smoke. His finger squeezes the trigger, the sharp ping of the rifle echoing as the clip ejected. The German went down, clutching his chest, but another two took his place.

"Hold the line!" Tanaka bellows, firing his Thompson for good effect. Sarge is a lifeline amid the chaos, standing tall like one of those characters drawn on the war bonds ads back home. "We don't give an inch, hear me? 442nd doesn't retreat!"

Kos shifts his position, heart hammering in his chest. He feels the enemy closing in, their shouts growing louder over the roar of gunfire. He grits his teeth, slamming a fresh clip into his rifle. Then ground beneath Kos shifts as the first artillery round screamed in. The blast obliterates the enemy vanguard, the shockwave rattling his teeth and sending shrapnel slicing through the air. Another shell hit closer to home, though. Then another, and another. Till explosions are like shockwaves thundering all around them.

"Short rounds! SHORT ROUNDS!" someone yells.

The next shell lands dangerously close, the force of it flinging Kos backward into the rubble. His world spun, and the taste of copper filling his mouth as hot shards tore into his chest and face. All the world is seen through a veil of red - he can't make out anything as suddenly he finds it hard to take a breath.

"Oh no - Corpsman! Corpsman!" Kos hears his friend Jiro's voice come through, frantic and raw as he grabs Kos by the collar to drag him behind cover.

"Stay with me, Kos!" Medic Jimmy Quan appeared at his side, his hands already working to stop the bleeding. The young medic's voice was steady despite the chaos. "You're not dying on me, you hear? Stay with me!"

Kos can't focus, the world all smoke, and fire, and screaming. But one thing remained clear in his mind—his rifle. His fingers tightened around the stock, refusing to let go even as blood trickled down his arm.

Nearby, Nakayama and Gin were holding the line. The two brothers from San Francisco, and two of Kos's good buddies from basic, were entrenched behind the blown-out wreck of a greyhound bus. They continued peppering their attackers bearing down on them. Their Browning barking in steady, concentrated bursts. They don't register the mechanical screeching of pistons align as the Red tank's turret pinpoints their position.

Neither hear Kos yelling towards them to get out.

"MOVE, YOU IDIOTS!" Sarge Tanaka screams.

But Nakayama and Gin didn't move. "Go for broke" was the battalion motto since day one, and they weren't about to back down. The tank's cannon fired, and the explosion swallows the bus in a wave of fire and shrapnel; their defiance ending in a heart stopping moment.

Kos barely registers it all, his world narrowing to the weight of his rifle and the sound of Quan's voice. "Stay with me, Kos. Stay with me." You know, the kind of thing all medic's say to dying men. And he definitely knew he was dying. Right here and then, as every haggard gasp tastes more and more like blood. Kos can't keep it in - it's coming up now through his throat, and it chokes him. Oh God, is this it? Is this where it'll happen? The look on Jiro's face says it might be, and it breaks Kos's heart knowing he's gonna leave his friend all by himself now.

And his mom.

And his pop.

And his little sister, Kimiko.

Kos told them he was going to come home - he wanted to come home. That there was nothing to worry for, and he was going to be all right. No chance he was going to bite it in some far-off place. If he was gonna go, it'd be in a warm bed surrounded by a loving wife who adored him, maybe two or three kids, a whole gaggle of grandchildren. Shit, throw in a dog in there, too. But not here in some unknown French village street. Anywhere else, but here. It felt too much like a cruel joke.

More and more does the world turn into a black veil, a mist hovering over his sight as tries - God, he's trying - to stay awake. Quan is pleading with him, fumbling with the gauze and bandages; Kos feels him stick his leg with the morphine shot, and a warm sensation hits his body. Better than the pain, better than knowing this was it. Jiro is holding his shoulder, choking on half-hearted pleas, trying to tell him this ain't nothing, not a thing: "You'll be back working your dad's shop in no time. You know he's gonna need the help - he's getting too old. Come on, Kos. Come on! You're being a real dick right now, you know that?!"

That last part almost makes him want to laugh, but he can't...He's so tired now, so sleepy; the world doesn't feel like it's shaking anymore, and the gunfire feels like it's ebbing away. He sees himself back on his block in Honolulu, seeing the sun crest over that great ocean blue and green mountains. Mom and pop used to say how happy they were to get them out of Japan when they did seeing what it became. Kos, too. Because he couldn't imagine growing up anywhere else.

He wants to go back there.

Maybe Sarge will take him - he sees him running over his way

Private Kosuke Maruboshi makes sure he keeps hold of the rifle in his hands, but thinking how nice it'll be to show Sarge where it was he grew up.

"Name and number, comrade?" The question came out as flat as the fluorescent lighting overhead; the man behind the counter—a ROOT officer clad in a stark black uniform with an unnervingly crisp button-up—didn't bother to look up from his clipboard

Kosuke blinked, shaken from the familiar battlefield memories that had enveloped his thoughts moments before. The officer's tone was just sharp enough to cut through the fog. He forced himself to focus, exhaling a shallow breath to steady his response.

Oh, yes." Kosuke straightens as much as his body allowed. "Comrade-Genin Maruboshi Kosuke. I'm here for my appointment with Comrade-Doctor Kawada."

The officer finally looked up, his brow twitching upward in surprise. "Genin? At your age?"

Kosuke smiled thinly, the kind of smile that was more reflex than joy. It wasn't the first time someone made the observation, and it wouldn't be the last. "That's right, comrade." He left it at that, letting the silence linger.

The ROOT officer shrugged, unimpressed. "We'll see what we can get you, comrade. Take a seat."

Kosuke gave a small bow, because that's what good comrades did, and hobbled to one of the rows of worn leather chairs lining the wall. They were functional, ugly, and just comfortable enough to make you forget you were still in a waiting room. His body protested every movement, and he winced as he eased himself down. His knees screamed louder than the firefights in his memories.

Hospitals. Kosuke hated them. Always had. They felt less like places of healing and more like liminal spaces where people waited to be judged. Purgatory before the gates—or the descent. He ran a hand through his graying hair, a futile attempt to smooth the stray strands. He couldn't help but wonder if twenty years of life in Konoha had been penance enough.

Probably not.

Same could ge said for the rest if those hete sitting alongside him.

The room about him was a portrait of quiet despair. A mother and father sit in the corner, trying to soothe a crying baby whose distended stomach and hollow cheeks spoke volumes about the struggles the Village faces. The child doesn't need a doctor, but proper formula. Kosuke looks away, but not quick enough. The sight burns into his mind, an unwelcome reminder of how tight scarcity gripped Konoha.

His gaze shifted to the rest of the waiting room. Old men and women like him stare ahead, resigned to the slow crawl of time. A young boy coughs raggedly into his mother's handkerchief, his face pale and drawn. Kosuke leans back in his chair with a sigh, every ache compounded by the weight of the room's silence.

And then he hears his name.

"Maruboshi Kosuke."

The voice snaps him to attention like a barked command. His hand instinctively moves to the cane at his side, gripping it tightly as he pushed himself upright. He grits his teeth through the pain, willing himself to stand.

A small, little nurse, with short brown hair, short, scrunched up face, and short everything waits in the doorframe for him. Sakura Haruno greets Kosuke with a tired smile, asking him how he's been. Better, he jokes; if you're at the hospital, then chances are you're probably not great. But he's glad his time had come for whatever judgment awaits him.

The smell of saltwater lingered in the air as he trudges along the boardwalk, boots crunching softly against sandy planks. An orange sun dips low beneath the horizon, casting long shadows across sparkling waves. Sound of the surf brings him a semblance of calm. A fleeting one, but it's there. Helps to take his thoughts elsewhere—away from the houses he'd visited, the faces he'd seen, the tears he'll forget.

The visitations were the worst part coming home. Walking up to each door, rehearsing words that never felt right, watching the hope in a parent's eyes die the moment they see his uniform. He wanted to meet them all in person - some of the men who'd served with him he knew personally. Most from the 442nd came from the islands, giving them all a special type of camaraderie. Every man grew up a block away from each other; they all played on the same little league teams, and celebrated together every 4th of July. They all knew each other in some way. Which made it all the harder telling these families their son, their brother, wasn't coming home.

The sight of a mother breaking down—collapsing under the weight of her grief—was unbearable. But it was the fathers who haunted him the most. Their silence, the way they clenched their jaws and looked away, hurt more than any screamed accusation ever could. He could feel the unspoken question burning into his soul: "Why him instead of our boy?"

He asked himself the same question every day. And the answer he offered, meant to console, always felt like ash in his mouth. They didn't want to hear how brave their son was, or how he died fighting for something bigger than himself. Those words rang hollow in the void. He'd been a good soldier, sure, but being a good soldier just meant he was the one standing on their doorstep instead of their little boy.

He continues along the beachfront, taking in the sights and sounds of civilians getting ready to leave with their families. Their carefree nature made him feel good at least somebody can have a stress-free day. Honolulu was a beautiful place, and it did feel good coming back after such a long while. A shame he's committed to leaving again so soon. By the time he makes it back to base it's already nightfall. His legs ache from the trek, but it was the sort of pain he welcomed. It gave him something focus on as he heads into to the CO's office. Firing off a salute, he gives his name and rank.

General Abernathy looks up from behind a mountain of paperwork. His sharp, square-jawed features were illuminated by the dim light of the desk lamp. Half-eaten dishes if breakfast, lunch and dinner clutter the desk, evidence of a man too busy to finish one thing before moving to the next. Figures, Abernathy was a busy man. Now that the war in Europe was finished, and the end goal was in sight.

The Pacific.

Japan.

Victory.

"I don't know why you're so gung-ho about shipping off again, son," Abernathy says to him, his voice tinged with disbelief. "You just got back from France; you boys more than earned your right to rest. Don't you at least want some time to get your head right? See your folks, friends?"

He shakes his head firmly. "Enemy's still fighting, sir. Wouldn't feel right if I were to call it quits now."

The general looks at him mindfully, carefully, trying to see if this man was indeed sincere in his willingness to go back into hell. Or if he just had a death wish. There were opulent you those about, too. Men who thought the 'real world' just didn't do it for them anymore. They needed a rush, needed the thrill, and what was being asked certainly was primed to deliver a shit-ton of risk. Something George Abernathy had a hard time wrapping his head around.

"The OSS doesn't ask its operators to be like the rest rank-and-file, son," Abernathy goes after a pause. "It's not about running and gunning anymore. You're talking about deep cover work - acting classes, language tutors, cryptography, airborne training, black cell write-ups. You won't be a knuckle-dragger anymore, but a true, bona fide spy man. Looking for a secret weapons program in the heart of the enemy itself. Something our own Pacific intelligence can't corroborate. For all we know, you're hunting for a wild goose that may or may not exist. You really want to put yourself through that?"

"The program is real, General. That I can promise you." A new voice goes.

Kosuke turned to see the speaker—a man leaning casually against the far wall, a stark contrast to the rigid formality of the office. He was dressed like he'd stepped out of a fashion catalog: fine checkered slacks, a crisp white button-up with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a bright red tie that shouldn't have worked but somehow did.

What struck Kosuke most, though, was the man's appearance. Bright blond hair, unnervingly vibrant blue eyes, and a carefree smile that felt out of place in a room weighed down by war. He looked like so many of those Rhine boys he'd dropped in the south of France.

So much for Hitler's master race; a 7.62 round seemed more than adequate to put one down.

The man pushes off the wall and walks toward the desk with an air of confidence bordering on arrogance. "The intelligence is solid, General. This program is real, and the threat of its completion has the chance to change the entire complexion of this conflict. If we don't act now, we could be looking at a real game-changer here."

"Game changer?" Abernathy scoffed, face laced with disbelief. "We're at the one-yard line, the clock is ticking, and the ball's in our hands. The war is over. The Japanese have been pushed back to their home islands, and as we speak the largest invasion force in known history is being assembled right outside their doorstep. You expect me to believe the Imperial government now is holding out hope for some Hail Mary super-weapon that can turn things around? No chance, Agent...?"

"'M', sir." The man says, voice calm but firm. "But with all due respect, aren't we hoping for the same thing?"

The general's expression tightens; doubtless the G-man would know about Los Alamos, but not like the sort of banter could - or should - be thrown about as easily as if you were talking shop like they were at Sebastian's Tiki Hut and Bar. Abernathy also catches M's gaze looking at the chaotic pile of notes, maps, logistics, coordinates, and a slew of correspondences addressed to Admiral Nimitz. After Okinawa, Chester was painstaking; he needed - wanted - the location of every artillery piece, airfield, and even machine gun nest mapped on Honshu before Olympic commenced. Their intelligence suggested the Japanese planned to commit the majority of their remaining air forces to action within 10 days after the Allied fleet's arrival. The causalities would be catastrophic.

That M could confirm.

It meant more men, more fighting, more death. And if the whispers about Jap operatives smuggling Nazi scientists out of Germany were true, the stakes were even higher. Agent M moves over to a map of the Eurasian continent, file in hand, and starts pinning photographs along it with a red string. "If intercepted Soviet radio chatter can be believed - and I do, gentlemen - the whereabouts of these individuals are of prime importance to the war effort." Agent M points to the location of a number of faces - blurred visages boarding trains, hiding away in crowds, stealing away at the last second with the slight dip of a hat, or a perfectly placed umbrella. "Eichmann, Mengele, Hohenheim - the KGB are looking for all of them. But none more so than our infamous fraulein here."

Abernathy's attention and his own are drawn to the face of a striking woman who looked more a Hollywood starlet than a high-profile Nazi scientist. Time spent in Europe had given him a bit of know-how to the who's-who of Third Reich cronies. This one, though, was a popular figure among the bunks. Pictures of her were passed around like cigarettes and comic books, an angel of death come to visit each GI every night in their dreams - or nightmares. The sight of her as beautiful, as the rumors of her work were terrifying.

"Doktor Brunhilda Hartmann. A key figure in Himmler's Nazi Aryan Youth Science Division. She is the progenitor of his Lebensborn Program, guilty of conducting an incalculable number of inhumane experimentations on hundreds of prisoners during her stint in Munich. But prior to 1941, she and hers were part of a Nazi expedition sent to the Himalayas. There, she linked up and worked closely with the head of Japan's biological weapons department, Surgeon General Shiro Ishii. You'll know them better, General, as Unit 731."

Agent M's hand sweeps along the red string from Berlin, across Soviet lines, down to the Dardanelles in Turkey, then along the southern coast of the Black Sea. He explains how her team had been in contact with a covert detachment of Imperial Japan's intelligence division for some time before things started to go south in Europe. With that contact, Frau Doktor managed to broker a deal with the Kempeitei and secure her and her team's rescue. In exchange, Hartmann offered her extensive knowledge of Germany's DIX genetic testing program, codenamed 'Shambala', a continuation of what was being researched in Tibet before Hartmann was recalled. Now, she offered assistance to Japan's own efforts replicating the research.

"A shinobi team was dispatched from the Village Hidden in the Leaves on April 5th, 1945. Their orders: rendezvous with one 'Tsunade-hime' just outside of a place called 'Numachi'. 'Numachi' roughly translated means 'bog', and bog in this instance meaning 'Berlin'. Upon meeting, Hartmann's team was escorted - with great risk, yet superb efficiency - all the way across Europe, the Mid East, through Tibet, then turning south towards a port in Hong Kong. There they hopped aboard an I-201 class submarine, which was able to get past the Third Fleet, and make anchor at the port of Nagasaki. This I've already briefed him on, General."

Agent M nods over to him, standing there trying his best not to seem perplexed by it all. If he could be honest, a fair bit of doubt does creep into him seeing it all splayed out. He wonders if he really knew what he was signing up for, that maybe this was all too big a job for a grunt like him. Shit, he didn't even like doing crossword puzzles. Now, this Agent M was pulling together a team to find the location of some Jap weapon being developed, and either steal it or destroy it before the Soviets do? He couldn't blame General Abernathy for being doubtful - it all sounds like some crazy plot best suited for Captain America.

But M's conviction says otherwise.

"Now," M continued, his tone unwavering, "we know Hartmann is working directly with Japan's own researchers to continue the Shambala project. We don't know specifics, but we do know of its intended goal: the development of genetic enhancements, able to create soldiers far superior to anything we've seen on any battlefield. Imagine a single infantryman taking down an entire platoon. That's the kind of science she's playing with."

Abernathy, seated at his desk, leaned forward, his face red with frustration. "And what exactly do you propose we do, Agent? March into Japan while we're planning the largest amphibious invasion in history? You want to break into a lab, destroy or steal this weapon, and get out without alerting half the Imperial Army? Do you even hear yourself? It's suicidal."

M didn't flinch. "The invasion gives us perfect cover, General. The Japanese will be too preoccupied with defending Kyushu to notice a small, highly-trained team slipping in and out. This operation is precision work—find Hartmann's lab, dismantle her research, and extract or eliminate her before the Soviets get their hands on her. If they beat us to this technology, it won't just shift the balance of power—it'll start a new kind of war."

Abernathy leaned back, dabbing at the sweat forming on his forehead. His handkerchief came away damp as he stared at M incredulously. "And if you're caught? I can't promise any sort of rescue. Hell, I can't even promise plausible deniability. You'll be on your own."

"None of us intend to be captured," M replied smoothly. "I've debriefed the team on the risks. We know what's at stake."

At that moment, he feels the General's eyes on him, his unspoken question hanging in the air. Was he ready? Could he do this? The fear still gnawed at him—the enormity of the mission, the scale of the danger—but he met Abernathy's gaze with determination.

"I'm ready for this, General," he says, voice firm. "It's what I was trained to do."

This is true; he was. Agent M came to him one night in the mess, just as he was sitting down for some coffee and whatever pie was left over from the earlier dinner rush. Cranberry - not his favorite, but it held up. One of the chef's on call was a buddy of his back in basic, and got him a nice piece and warmed it, too. He'd been thankful for that, until he told him a man was expecting him tonight. Before he could ask who, M steps from the shadows and tells him everything he wanted to hear. It was better than the pie, not as good as the coffee, but sated him better than the pain he'd subsisted off since coming back to Hawaii. It was something to live for—and something worth dying for.

Abernathy sighs, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the decision. "God help you all," he muttered. "Fine. But you better pray this works, because if it doesn't…"

M's confident smile returned. "It will, General. Trust me."

Kosuke exhaled quietly, steadying himself. This was it—the next step in a war that had already taken everything from him. And yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt ready to fight again.

"I would give you something for the pain, but we're running short lately." Tsubaki says; she removes the blood pressure bag from his arm, and makes note of it in her chart.

It's no different what she does for any other patient in Tree Leaf. Yet, Kosuke treats her like she's the best thing since sliced bread - a novelty in this Village nowadays. He warms her with meek smiles and carefree attitudes, always telling her he's a lucky man to have such a pretty woman to worry and care for him. She teases him, telling him to watch his tongue: flattery doesn't work so well here as Kosuke might think.

The little old man sweats, throwing up his hands apologetically. "Oh, dear. When you get to my age unfortunately, words - like my bladder - tend to be a hard thing to control. I'm sorry, Tsubaki. I meant nothing by it"

"Speaking of your age, Kosuke..." Tsubaki takes a seat down at the desk, swiveling the chair around to face the lit up monitor. Kosuke's file on tap shows a long list of old wounds, injuries, and grave health concerns which were a testament to the man's long career as a shinobi. Despite the rank of "下忍"being marked in red at the top right hand corner. "As a man still taking on the kinds of missions you are, I would be remiss in telling you maybe - MAYBE - you should think about starting to dial it back. Genin aren't afforded a lot of leeway when it comes to the grunt work."

"I can still manage." Kosuke says.

"Your medical records says otherwise." Tsubaki replies back.

"My medical record has been saying for years I should be dead, and yet here I still sit."

"Barely." Tsubaki wheels about, looking at him incredulously; Kosuke is favoring his left side, leaning slightly off-center. It was a miracle Kosuke could even walk in here at all. If only she had more of the painkillers, but the last batch Naruto brought was already practically finished. "I don't want to read back your numbers from the blood test - they're not good, let's just leave it at that."

"Very good, then we shan't waste time talking about it then."

"You aren't going to be able to keep this up for much longer, Kosuke."

"Bridge Builder says I can." He says this with a smile, but there's harder stuff in his tone than before. Kosuke proceeds to put on his shirt, wincing a little as he throws his arms into the sleeves, and looks again towards Tsubaki. "If he's going, I have to, as well. I have to..."

"Mizuki will never agree to it. You're too-"

"Sick?" Kosuke chuckles.

"Sick is knowing what I had for so long, yet pretending I didn't. Putting on a fake name, a fake story; a fake everything in order to forge a life in this Village which, in the end, was all a big lie. I could've died so many times before, in any number of horrible ways if they caught on. But they didn't - I played my part. And did it very well. I knew your predecessor, too, before she'd been discovered. I wept when I found out what happened to her." Nimble fingers quickly button up the dress shirt, fingers moving with precision and care; they were honed from years of training at the American military base in Honolulu. "I sacrificed a lot waiting here, Tsubaki. Watching out for him, even though he'd barely said a word or two in my direction. I felt guilty seeing him by himself, but I followed my orders and kept my distance."

"Bridge Builder knew all along, Kosuke; he was never as alone as all that - we were watching over him." Tsubaki reasons, even though it all seemed like one grand excuse

She always thought the smuggling was a calculated risk, she said as much to Bridge Builder when he first broached the idea. It was risky, she said, trusting him before he was even considered "ready". Mizuki, though, loved the idea: giving The State fits with the influx of contraband items coming from Konoha would be a great way in putting it Sapporo's crosshairs. Plus, making a little cash off to the side wasn't bad, either. Bridge Builder agreed - with the first sentiment, not the second. But also emphasizing the boy's profile was a near one-hundred percent match to his mother's. He needs an outlet, the Bridge Builder was telling them. "Open the door just a little bit, and he'll burst through. Trust me, I know how the kid operates; he's just like his mom."

But Kosuke shakes his head - he hadn't liked the idea before, nor did he now. Especially, with the risk being greater than before. "It's not fair to him, nor to me." He tells Tsubaki. "But if you're serious about this, if we're all finally set to move, I want to be there. I have to be, because I gave my word. And I'm not going to stay one more second in this Village, watching from the sidelines, as he goes at this all alone. Besides, you need all the help he can get, Tsubaki. You know that."

Tsubaki nods, her heart aching as she sees the conviction in his voice. His face tells a sad tale of so much time passing, yet with little to offer. Save for that of his teammates who'd given their lives to fulfill the mission. Stuck in a place like this, living amongst his enemies. Life had been nothing but sacrifice, and for what? A promise to a dead woman? Kosuke couodve left whenecer he wanted, could've exfilled any time. Bridge Builder gave him the option once, yet he refused. "Not until we get Naruto out of here," he told them sternly. "Not a moment before."

"Fine, all right." Tsubaki reaches for his chart, hands trembling slightly. "I'll let them know you're in."

Kosuke didn't answer right away. Instead, he buttons his shirt with the precision of a man who'd spent his life preparing for battle. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady and resolute.

"Thank you," he says, nodding graciously. "Thank you."

She watches him leave the room, slowly, painfully, but with a slightly more pop to his step than before when Sakura brought him in. Kosuke Maruboshi was crazy, she thought to herself. Wondering, too, just what the hell did Kushina say to make him endure so much?

The air in the tunnel was stifled by the mixture of sweat, gunpowder, and the overbearing sounds of gunfire and shouting. "Kosuke Maruboshi" crouches low behind a fractured support beam, the rhythmic crackle of his Type 100 cutting through the tumult as precise pops echoe down the long, dim passage. His aim was true, each shot buying them a few precious seconds as the relentless Kempeitei guards closed in.

Uchiha.

Most all of them were.

"Go! I said GO!" Kosuke barks over his shoulder.

Further down the tunnel, M had his arms wrapped around Kira, struggling to keep her upright as she writhed and screamed. Her pregnant belly seemed impossibly heavy, and the jagged black stripes across her cheeks glowed faintly, pulsating with the volatile energy that leaked from her like steam from a cracked boiler. Her aura burned hotter by the second, the heat singeing the edges of M's shirt as he gritted his teeth.

"Arrrrghhhh! AAARRRRGGHHHH! He's coming!" The woman's pained cries go. Kira - "Kushina" - was struggling to stay on her feet, belly swollen, with dark circles under her eyes, and stark stripes across her cheeks. She's emanating a terrible aura of energy about that singes M's shirt as she holds onto him for support. "I can't- I can't- I can't hold on any mooorrrreeeeAaaaarrrrggghh!"

A fiery burst of heat comes off her; it's a miracle M is burnt to cinders. Instead, he grabs her face and brings her close to his. "Kira! Kira! Look at me - LOOK at me! Control it, okay? You can do this. Breath. I'll take you somewhere safe. Trust me."

Her eyes snapped open, crimson and wild, filled with equal parts pain and rage. "TRUST YOU?!" she howled, her voice echoing unnaturally through the tunnel. "YOU'RE THE ONE WHO DID THIS TO ME!"

Before M could react, she lunged, her elongated canines sinking deep into his hand. Blood spilled between her teeth, pooling on the ground below them. M let out a sharp gasp of pain but didn't pull away, his expression softening as he cupped her face with his uninjured hand.

"Kira…" he murmured, his voice low and steady.

Her eyes widened as the realization hit her, the anger in her face dissolving into horror. She pulled back, her hands trembling. "Oh no. Oh no, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—I didn't—"

"Don't," M said firmly, jaw tightening as he ignores the blood dripping from his hand. "This isn't you. This is my fault. All of it is my fault. But I'm going to help you, okay. Trust me."

Kosuke, crouched several paces back, glanced over his shoulder at the scene, his expression hardening. The sight of Kira, broken and raging, tore at him, but he didn't let it show. He turned his attention back to the narrowing tunnel, the sound of Uchiha boots thundering closer.

"What are you doing - Get out of here!" Kosuke shouts, firing another burst of bullets that sent sparks flying off the walls. They can hear the guards coming closer, see the red of their eyes glowing faintly in the shadows as they close in.

M hesitated. "Are you crazy? We're not leaving you!"

Kosuke lets out a short, bitter laugh, even as another bullet ricocheted inches from his head. "No more than you are, kid. Now MOVE! You don't have much time!"

Kira's glowing hand reaches out, grabbing for Kosuke. Her energy singed the fabric of his sleeve, as tears streak down her face, cutting through the soot and sweat. "Kosuke! Promise me—whatever happens, whatever comes. Promise me you'll make it out of here - promise you won't give up. For me, and..."

He pauses, lowering his weapon to meet her gaze. For the first time, his calm façade cracks; he wants to tell her so many things. God, did he ever. But that would be too selfish of him to say now. Not with the weight of everything they'd lost and everything still at stake reflected in her tired, weathered eyes.

"No one's giving up on nothing. You're making it out of here. That I promise," he said, his voice steady but quiet. "Now go."

The words almost cause her to break, and she's in tears when M pulls her away. But he couldn't have her give up hope. Not now. All the pain she'd been out through had to be meant for something. She deserved so much more than this.

M nods grimly, his face a mask of determination as he leads Kira toward the far end of the tunnel. Kosuke turned back, the SMG barking once more as the first of the Uchiha guards came into view, his red eyes gleaming with murderous intent.

"Come on, then!" Kosuke roared, his voice echoing down the tunnel as he fired relentlessly. "You want her? You'll have to get through me first!"

The sound of gunfire and shouts faded behind M and Kira as they flee deeper into the base, leaving Kosuke in the heart of the storm. The tunnel seems to collapse in on itself, the air growing hot, heavy, as Kosuke stands his ground against impossible odds. Knowing in his heart this was where his story was either going to end...

Or start anew.