CH_7.3 (221)

CH_7.3 (221)

The meeting in the war room continued, and Anko accepted the mission on behalf of Team-9. It wasn’t like she had a choice; Team-9 was ordered to take the mission.

After Shirakumo was done explaining, Anko took him and Benzou to the side to discuss more details about the mission. Rikku and Daiki gathered around Kameko to read more of what was in the mission file. Iori pulled Toridasu into a conversation about needing new fuinjutsu formulas and supplies that she would need, and Toridasu looked serious about her points about the fuinjutsu budget for the mission.

Takuma, on the other hand, approached Gaku, who sat slumped in his chair, smoking without a care in the world.

“So, a retired shinobi, huh?” said Takuma, “What do you even do after it?”

Gaku stared at Takuma as he took a long puff of his cigarette. Takuma waited for the reply, but Gaku continued staring and took another long drag without answering.

“Is something wrong?” Takuma asked, not appreciating Gaku’s rude behavior.

Gaku snorted. “Oh, nothing. I’ve been doing nothing... I just retired.”UppTodated from nô/v/e/lb(i)n.c(o)/m

“Really?” Takuma sat down. “You made enough money to retire? That’s impressive.” He didn’t believe that Gaku hadn’t done anything after retiring. Gaku’s current physical condition wasn’t that of a retired shinobi who had hanged his boots up. The man looked lazy, but Takuma could tell he hadn’t let himself go.

“Money ain’t that important to me,” Gaku smiled sluggishly. “If I need some, there’s plenty of work for someone like me. I might no longer be a shinobi, but that doesn’t mean I forgot all my craft if you know what I mean.”

It seemed that Gaku had been doing some freelance work on his own.

‘No wonder he was still in shape,’ thought Takuma.

“What about you? You’re young. How long must you be a shinobi at the Leaf before they let you go?” asked Gaku.

“Ten years,” said Takuma.

A genin fresh out of the shinobi academy had to sign a ten-year contract of employment as a registered shinobi with the Hidden Leaf. A genin could only retire after completing the time on their agreement or sign five-year extensions each time their contracts ran out. As for chunin, a fifteen-year extension was a requirement for the promotion. Every jonin had to agree to another twenty-five years of work for the village.

This meant any Hidden Leaf jonin was obligated to work for the village for fifty years. Which meant that if they graduated from the academy at eleven years old, they could only look for alternate employment when they turned sixty. Of course, most jonin were already fully retired years before that age with the condition that they would have to return if the village needed them. Those still working had long since transferred to managerial or diplomatic positions.

“And? Do you want to keep being one after that?” asked Gaku.

Takuma opened his mouth to answer but suddenly found that he didn’t have an answer to the question. He hadn’t ever thought about it before. Did he want to be a shinobi for the rest of his life?

But he wanted to be a jonin, which meant being a shinobi until he was an old man.

Forget thinking that far; he hadn’t thought about what he wanted to do after the Fourth Shinobi World War that he knew was coming in the future. He had been so consumed with the present, taking it one day at a time and preparing for the calamity, that he hadn’t ever sat down to consider what his life would be after that.

Gaku chuckled, seeing Takuma fall into silence.

“It’s alright, you’re still young,” he said. “You and I are going to be working together. Let’s get along. I’ll take the lead; I’m sure you’ll learn a lot, kid.”

A laugh escaped from Takuma. He smiled at Gaku, fully understanding what had just been said. “You’re real funny, old man. Leave the work to the professional and do your job as a local tour guide,” he nodded and smiled.

The lazy smile on Gaku’s face turned flat.

“I’m the native of that city. I know the people better than you ever will. Why do you think they called me out of retirement?” said Gaku.

“And I don’t deny it, but if you’re so good, then why are they sending us in?” Takuma leaned forward, staring Gaku in the eyes. “A team who isn’t even from the Hidden Steam... What does that tell you?”

Gaku deliberately took another drag of his dwindling cigarette.

“I don’t know what your problem is with me, but neither you nor I are the leader.” Takuma pointed to Anko talking to Shirakumo and Benzou. “That lady there is the boss. Whatever she says goes—we’re only there to advise and follow orders.”

“My problem? I don’t think I’m the one who’s the problem,” said Gaku, scoffing.

He got up and walked out of the war room without saying anything.

Takuma muttered, “What a weirdo...”

———

.

After the meeting, Team-9 sat under the shade of a tall tree. Anko leaned against the trunk while the others sat and laid around her. There was a certain somberness hanging over the group. They had just been ordered to complete a dangerous mission behind enemy lines without backup.

“Retired?” said the tutor clone. “Which means he’s not from the Hidden Steam people on the base?”

“Oh, I know that guy,” said the duty clone. “I know that guy.”

“Pardon me, what?” Takuma looked up at the ceiling in surprise.

“Yeah, he just came in today, early morning. We chatted for a bit. Nice guy,” said the duty clone.

“Nice guy!?“ Takuma exclaimed, feeling betrayed by his own clone. “Fuck you!”

“You mean, fuck me? Thanks, but I’m not really into selfcest.”

“I already used that joke,” the tutor clone laughed.

“No, you didn’t; you aren’t even the same clone,” said the duty clone.

“Shut up, both of you,” Takuma grabbed his head.

It suddenly became so clear why Gaku looked like he knew him. It was because Gaku had chatted with the duty clone in the morning. And to Gaku, it would’ve seemed like Takuma was being rude by pretending not to know him. Gaku wasn’t at fault. The blame completely fell on Takuma’s head.

“Why didn’t he just say so?”

Takuma groaned with the urge to throw himself off the Hokage Mountain. He had needlessly created the wrong impression on an instrumental ally who would be attached to the team for the duration of a very dangerous mission. He had done a disservice to his team and the camp by his actions.

“Ah, so that’s what happened,” the duty clone laughed on the ceiling after listening to Takuma’s story.

“Just apologize to him later,” said the tutor clone, finishing his lesson preparation. “Come now, it’s time to study. There’s much to cover today; don’t you dare slack off!”

Takuma sighed deeply.

———

.

A couple days later, Anko gathered Team-9 in a room and dumped a thick stack of black paper and envelopes on the table.

There was a long silence as Anko looked at the team with a difficult expression on her face.

“What’s wrong?” asked Iori, worried.

The others seemed worried as well. Anko’s behavior was different from her usual bright self. The current her was even different from her rare serious self during important situations. She looked glum as she faced them.

“I haven’t done this before, so I don’t know the right way to do it... but here we go.” Anko took a deep breath. “We are going on a dangerous mission where the chances of death are high. Because we’ll be going behind enemy line—there’s a chance that if we’re found, our bodies might not be found after our death. They won’t find any mementos, nothing at all, so it’s probably wise to leave something of you behind...

“I want every one of you to write letters to as many people as you’d like,” she said.

The team realized what Anko was asking them to do it. The mood of the room changed in an instant. An awkwardness settled in as they looked at each other with uncomfortable looks.

“... I’ll suggest that you guys also draw wills for your possessions—”

“I’m not doing any of that,” Daiki interrupted her, looking both deeply uncomfortable and somewhat angry.

“Daiki, I understand this is not something easy—”

Daiki stopped her again. “I’m not going to die, so there’s no need for... this.” The usually gentle giant exuded a feeling of sharp prickliness that if he was forced, he would blow up. “You all are free to do so, but please leave me out of it,” said Daiki, leaving the room and leaving the team in an even more awkward situation.

Kameko walked to the table from the wall she was leaning against and silently picked up a bunch of paper and envelopes before wordlessly leaving the room.

Takuma stared at the papers. He understood where Daiki was coming from. Writing those letters and drafting the will was, in one way, accepting the prospect of death. That was a difficult thing to accept, even in their occupation. Takuma didn’t want to die, but he knew he could die on missions—but even he found the prospect of writing a memento letter to his friends daunting and unpleasant.

But as Anko said, it was probably wise to do it.

So with a deep breath, Takuma took the step forward towards the papers and envelopes.

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