I Need About 50. [Gingy]

[Michi]

She was looking for the sort of man that did not ask questions. The sort of man that even if he had a tale to tell nobody would be willing to listen. The sort of man that did not matter. That is why she came to the Grand Palais, she wanted to find someone forgettable. She passed the barred storefronts and the glassy-eyed stares of drunkards and ne'er do wells. She spent most of her time in the bars, along the counter. She stood out like a fly on a wedding cake, she was given a wide breadth not because she looked dangerous in the conventional sense but rather her practice of basic hygiene and the possession of clothes that were actually buttoned to her collar and skirts that covered the entirety of her backside. She looked like the sort of person that was sent there to watch them, not that they were wrong. She was taking less than inconspicuous notes in a notebook. However, with enough drinks plied to an unsanitary man or a sleazy woman that tried to repay her with a proposition she rejected in exchange for information about a tinkerer.

Yes, she was looking for a tinkerer. Was this tinkerer a drunkard or a man-whore? Hard to say but there were a few people that knew of him, he had the credentials that suggested he was proficient. A member of the fledgling Journeyman Order and he apparently squatted not far from here. It was a queer combination that she sought, a man that was capable but unlikely to be trusted by the virtue of his character. So she sought the company of a one Oda Yatamaru. She was eventually directed, in exchange for a few drinks or the phone number of a girl cuter than her that would give them a good time on the cheap, to his address. It was the sort of place that one would think was condemned. The sort of place you could smell the stale ale from two buildings away.

This place... this man was absolutely perfect.

The porch-light was out, there was a crazy cat lady staring at her from a window. Curlers in her hair and a large angry cat giving her a death-glare. Another apartment still had its lights on, they faced the streets but could have... should have invested in curtains. The flexibility of the woman was commendable, but again not exactly what she was looking for. She attempted to keep her metaphorical blinders on from this point onward. She entered the building and made her way down the hall. The description of his apartment was simple -- the numbers were missing from his door and the scent of beer was strongest here. The door was of course locked, but for the loose yen in the bottom of her pocket one of his very nice neighbors would help her break in. Of course she was hoping they had a spare key. They didn't. Rather, they just ripped the knob off the door.

The door would swing open, inward, knocking into several open, empty bottles of booze. There were clothes on the floor, most she assumed were his, but she could not be entirely certain. Carefully she would enter the apartment and close the door behind her, mouthing a thanks to the kindly, destructive neighbor. She would wait for Oda Yatamaru's return, it was late enough at night and it was unlikely that he would be long. She started to clear some of the bottles and detritus. She did not expect to find a man beneath it all.

Was he dead?

She would kneel down besides him, a bottle caught beneath her knees as she made her way to the floor to attempt to revive the drunkard. The bottle would shoot out from beneath her and she would fall to the side, almost cracking her own head on the floor. She would catch herself (probably) and grab hold of the tinkerer with both her hands and attempt to violently shake him awake.

 

[Kazu]

Yatamaru wasn’t the type to be caught sleeping on the job — so it was a good thing he was neither on duty, nor actually asleep.

Sleep implied he could indulge in the practice of not being awake. Rather, his current state could more accurately be described as “overly well-oiled,” or maybe even “comfortably numb.” He would not stir as his dwelling was defiled. He made no sounds, nor moved an inch, as his intrepid visitor violated the sanctity of his carefully curated piles of refuse with her tactless sense of cleanliness. Had he known he’d be getting a free room-cleaning service this evening he wouldn’t have bothered cleaning up earlier.

Shake as she might, the unnamed intruder would have a very tough time rousing the unresponsive man — for all intents and purposes, she couldn’t be blamed for thinking the man dead. He certainly looked the part: white button-down stained with unnamed brown liquids, brown pants with frayed ends and a number of tears, all topped with the unmistakable order of cheap booze and foul-smelling smoke. It took quite the effort, but with enough of it he slowly began to stir. At first he merely groaned, unhappily, and took to trying to nestle back into the cozy dark-embrace of drunken stupor where rude disruptions were far less common. Eventually, however, it became clear that whoever (or whatever) had decided to disturb his rest meant not to leave.

He opened his left eye, the mint green iris reflecting back with equal measure whatever annoyance she might be feeling.

”Put it back,” he croaked. ”All of it. Doorknob included.” Then he closed his eyes once more and rolled back over to resume his restless respite. ”Damn that next-door bastard of a neighbor. Fucking fifth time this month he’s helped someone in...”

A long arm reaches out aimlessly, blindly, groping for something that it’s only vaguely aware of. Amid the debris and filth strewn about is a half-way spent packet of cigarettes next to an overflowing ashtray. Skips over it, grabs an unfinished, nearly-spent cig that’s been lazily shoved into the top of the mound of ashes, and brings it up to his now-hidden face. He doesn’t need a lighter. Fire Ninjutsu came in handy, once in a while.

A light haze begins to fill the room. It only adds to the decaying aura, steeped thoroughly into every nook, corner, and cranny that could be found in the dinky apartment. For a Journeyman, whose skills are known by word of mouth, you’d think he could afford a better place than this. That would imply he gave any sort of crap, about anything.

”Are you still here?” He didn’t sound entertained. ”The fuck else do you want from me? Not enough for you to disturb my peace?”

 

[Michi]

Underpants go into the underpants pile. Nails go in the nails pile. Take-out containers go into the takeout containers pile. Actually, they all should go into the garbage. She rummaged about and tried to find a garbage bag but she could only find shopping bags. She would shovel the refuse into the varied shopping bags, judging where he chose to shop the entire time. She should have worn latex gloves. Still, it helped her pass the time until he came home, little dd she know he was already there. Beneath a pizza box, an unhealthy amount of booze and a magazine of questionable content she found a man of equally questionable vitality buried beneath. She would try to shake him awake, he was not quick to rouse. She checked for a pulse, she was not entirely certain she could find one. He would have had CPR performed on him if it was not for the fact that his eye opened spontaneously.

”Put it back.”

He demanded.

”All of it. Doorknob included.”

She still had the doorknob in her hand for safe keeping. She was about to comply when he closed his eyes and tried to roll over muttering about his bastard neighbor. She let out a sigh, she was a busy woman and she did not have time to babysit a drunk and make sure that he does not swallow his own tongue. She stuffed the doorknob in his pocket and searched the clanking bottles of beer until she found one with contents -- flat, stale contents. According to literature the best remedy for a hangover was additional alcohol. Beggars cannot be choosers. When he opened his mouth to make his next comment about his neighbor's meddling behavior she inserted the lip of the beer-bottle into his mouth. and allowed the contents to pour in. "Shh.... shh... the best remedy for a hangover is to get drunk again," it did not sound soothing in the least but instead factual and almost monotone.

Successful, he would have half a bottle of beer in his belly. Unsuccessful, he would be wearing the contents of the bottle. Either way it smelled reminiscent of dog piss. The guy did not seem to be a scholar as he found a cancer stick to clench between his teeth. She looked around again at the filthy room, the spent bottles of booze and cigarettes. All he needed was a tin foil hat and a sleazy pin-up and he would be a cliche. If he could do even half of what she heard he could he would be absolutely perfect. She would wait patiently for him to get his bearings, she had nowhere else to be. Not yet at least, she had not proposed to Kazuki yet but she was already concerning herself with the... security.

"As entertaining as your disrupted circadian rhythm might be, I am here for a reason," Michi admitted. She looked around for a seat, there was none that were clean. She brushed off the contents of one such chair, or crate and made herself as comfortable as a woman could be in a place like this. "You are quite famous Mister Oda," she commented as she watched him for any sign of aggression. Sunans were a bit unruly at times, problematic when she is unprepared. "I heard that you are a skilled mechanic. I am looking to give you some business,"</B><i></i> she shrugged. "Well, a lot of business."<i></i> She let out a sigh, <B>"I need about fifty puppets, dressed to appear fine with facial features that appear human. Something simple for a skilled artisan such as yourself."

 

[Kazu]

Yatamaru wasn’t expecting that.

Somehow, without his noticing, his unnamed guest had snatched up a half-empty bottle from one of his benders (he must have really gone off the deep end, at some point, to have been drinking beer), slipped it into his mouth in-between insults, and attempted to pour the vile liquid down his admittedly foul throat. It was warm, stale, and distinctly not to his taste. Sputtering, half in surprise and half in revulsion, the once-foamy liquid would spray out to one side — though, if he could do it over, he wished he had aimed it at his assailant — and dribble down his chin and onto his shirt.

”Pfft! Bblplb! Fffppthph! Blegh! Yuck! Gross!” He hadn’t been happy before, but the taste of old beer was somehow more revolting and aggravating to him than the fact she’d forced him to drink it. ”Warm beer? What are you trying to do, poison me? Could’ve at least used some Firewater, or something…” Beggars can’t be choosers? Obviously, whoever said that had never met Yatamaru.

Looking down at his ruined shirt (well, more ruined than before) with dismay, Yatamaru let out a sigh of remorse. He wanted to change his shirt, but in current company that would be revealing a little too much — literally, and metaphorically. Yatamaru didn’t exactly mind others knowing he wasn’t quite human, though he also saw no reason to advertise the fact. Settling on a compromise, the puppeteer made use of his chakra threads to retrieve a decently clean towel from another room. He would dry himself, and the most recently added stains to his shirt, as best he could.

Even more sad than his now-damp shirt, however, was the now-damp cigarette.

As his guest got as comfortable as she could in a place like this, Yatamaru eyed her vigilantly. He was less angry, and more bemused, by her actions. Breaking and entering, just to clean his place, nurse his hangover (he wouldn’t mention he never got those anymore), and compliment him? She wasn’t normal. Then again, neither was he.

”Bit late for flattery, don’t you think?” He’d been around the block enough to know when someone wanted something. No one goes through this much trouble for nothing. What’s your goal? He wouldn’t have to wait long to find out, though the answer to that was a tad shocking. Instead of answering her immediately, Yatamaru made a point of slowly considering her words, reaching for the half-empty pack of cigarettes laying next to him, pulling out a new cancer-stick, rummaging around for a lighter (even though he didn't need it), sparking it, regarding the flame a moment, lighting his cigarette, taking in a deep pull, holding it in, and then slowly blowing out a thin stream of smoke in between the two of them. A moment more passed, before finally, maddeningly, he would say, "Pass me that bottle over there, would you?" By her foot was a bottle of whiskey. The good stuff.

He was testing her, obviously. Though he expected her to play along, or to otherwise make her own moves, the art of the game was not which moves were made. It was about how they're made. So far, her moves seemed poorly masked.

"Fifty puppets, huh? You're right, that's not really a big deal for a skilled mechanic like me; actually, it's a tad too simple, really." He regarded her carefully, his eyes locked on hers. "Tell me — why should I? Despite what it seems, I'm not really strapped for cash. I just couldn't give less of a shit." Another exhale of smoke. If she'd passed him the whiskey, he'd take a hearty swig right about now. "What's your interest in all those puppets, anyways? You opening a travelling performance show? You planning to grow another dozen pairs of arms to control them all?"

 

[Michi]

Well, it could have been whiskey, all brown bottles looked alike and she never partook. He acted as if it was poison, spraying the amber fluid from his mouth. Fortune was on her side, or perhaps she manipulated the odds by angling her body so that a majority of her body was closer to his crown than his torso. She was familiar with the term 'firewater' but it seemed ill-advised to get the young man plastered. Well, young was a relative term, he was younger than her by a fair margin even if she looked like she was in her late teens.

”Bit late for flattery, don’t you think?”

"Flattery?" She repeated. "Fact," she declared with certainty as she crossed her legs and planted a notebook on her thigh. She opened it to a fresh page and she started to sketch a picture. It was of Yatamaru, it was not his best pose or expression but it was drawn with photo-realism. In the margin in small font she would start taking in notes. Most of them nonsensical, numbers that if someone like Oda looked at long enough he would recognize, but it would only deepen the oddity of this encounter. To her everything was relevant, so she wrote about everything. His height, his presumed weight, the length and width of this room, the height of the ceiling, the number of bottles she spied in a tally. She was profiling him, spying his abdomen to see if there was any sign of ascites. His smoking habit. His lack of clutter. His casual chakra capacity lighting his first cancer stick. How he dried himself with chakra threads and a towel, reinforcing that he was a practitioner of his craft. Good.

• Addictive personality.
• Depression.

<i></i>
He sought a dry fag and demanded the bottle by her feet. The bottle looked downright toxic, was that a poorly drawn skull and crossbones? That was allegedly the "good stuff." Well, the "good stuff" if you wanted to slur your words, forget how to walk a straight line and think the ugliest girl in the room is a model. 10% of consumption in Sunagakure are attributed to rampant alcoholism, all he was doing was contributing to the next generation of ugly children. She would reach down, with her fingertips roll the bottle towards her before she gripped the bottle's neck and with an underhanded motion she tossed the bottle towards the disturbed drunkard. The motion was casual, just like her entry and even her care for the Journeyman. She did not demonstrate any possible chakra-capable skill, rather she acted like a meddling townie in need of an artisan. was this a purposeful attempt to mask what she was? No. She was quite famous, even if she had a different face back then, she had made enough enemies these past few years that a part of her expected that she would be known. However, her specific skill-set remains a mystery, that was her only saving grace at this point.

"Fifty puppets, huh? You're right, that's not really a big deal for a skilled mechanic like me; actually, it's a tad too simple, really."

She nodded, the drunk had an ego. Of course.

"Tell me — why should I?"

"Money.

"Despite what it seems, I'm not really strapped for cash. I just couldn't give less of a shit."

"Really." Her eyes glanced about the room. If that were the case, then he would have had better quality booze strewn about the refuse. Perhaps more costly vices. The panties of a whore. Toxic substances that the site rating cannot support. "The only reason someone gives less of a shit is when they have nothing to lose..." which considering his surroundings was not incorrect. "So you have only something to gain," but sometimes value is not defined by monetary gain. "When money is a non-factor that means that you have other needs," she postulated. "Social interactions," she paused a moment. "And you're such a prickly pear," she commented "could imagine you as being the lonesome type." She would have preferred to say 'peach' and 'could not' however she could not lie, only deceive. Deception was in her nature. "Hygiene," she shook her head side to side. Yeah... no... "Or power," which could be defined as physical might, political prestige, status or information. Her eyes locked on Oda's, "I guess the question is: what is it that you want?"

"What's your interest in all those puppets, anyways? You opening a travelling performance show? You planning to grow another dozen pairs of arms to control them all?"

Thing is, she was capable of making puppets, perhaps not to the same extent as he could but there was little quality necessary in what she was looking for. It was his reaction. She smiled, "security for my wedding." She shrugged her shoulders, "political weddings are troublesome." That was the bait, something for him to try to bite. "A Sennin's wedding requires the utmost security."

So what would a drunk pretend to want?

"Besides money, my greatest asset is my library," she scribbled another note on her page. "I am sure that I can compensate you in knowledge."

 

[Kazu]

He blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. …Fourthce? That can’t be right; maybe it’s fource? Fourice?

Something didn’t add up. Yatamaru had been on the receiving end of a breaking and entering a few times before (some of which had been warranted, though he’d never thought so), and each and every time the break-ee had been a bit more…well…hostile than this. This woman, on the other hand, had a certain laxness to her — a comfortability, not in the environment which she found herself, but more so the ease in which she flowed from one biting comment to the other. It was graceful, yet dangerous. Coupled with the fact that she’d yet to show even one iota of chakra-capable tendencies (something which, in hindsight, he should have been more aware of), made for one interestingly perplexing combination which baffled the mind and confused the senses.

Her insight was uncanny. Like a seasoned pro, she dodged and weaved through his barrage of inquiries and subtle prods, all the while delivering plenty on her own terms. As if she’d profiled him previously, and was merely going through a list of check-boxed traits, her comments hit surprisingly close to home. His life story didn’t really include a plethora of pals, nor leave much room (or desire) for social networking, and he certainly didn’t have the most agreeable of personalities. Some of that could be deduced quite easily — after all, just take a look at where he lived!

But then there was that notebook. And her motivation (or apparent lack thereof). Yatamaru felt like he was looking at this woman, clearly, for the first time. He realized just how little he actually knew about her and just how much she seemed to know about him. He wasn’t prepared for this negotiation — not by a long shot.

”Who are you?” The question escaped his lips before he had a chance to clamp them shut. ”What do you really want with me?” His suspicion that not all was as it seemed was obvious.

There were only three Sennin in the Hidden Sand Village: Takahashi Sousuke, Okayama Roku, and Senju Kazuki. Yatamaru was on good terms with the first of them (or as good of terms as anyone could be with a mess like him), the former Kazekage and fellow tinkerer and puppet enthusiast; from what the drunkard knew of him, marriage seemed far outside the realm of likelihood. Plausible, but nothing more. That left only two, both of which were rather mysterious in their roles and motivations. She could be referring to either one — he had no clue which.

”A Sennin’s wedding? With you? Puppet-based security? What the hell are you talking about?” He clearly found the idea absurd, possibly even downright ludicrous. Yet her actions thus far were not those of a crazy person. They were downright cold and calculated.

”You’re trying to goad me. Play me. Use me. You’ve got some sort of game going, obviously. How big, or at what scale, I’ve got no clue.” He had some sort of clues. ”But what I do know is this: you came to me for a reason. You need me, somehow. You think I've got a part to play, for better or worse.” Statements. Thoughts. Declarations. Yet nothing concrete. "I want to know, for starters, what my value to you is. Beyond that, fill in the holes in your explanation: you can't just operate fifty puppets. Not effectively. And why get fifty puppeteers to wield them all? Just hire other kinds of shinobi, if money's no problem. But puppets don't talk. Puppets don't question the motives..."

That, however, is as far he could guess. He would need to know more about her to proceed any further in this mental conjecture. Yatamaru had some homework to do. And what better place to do that than a library?

”Knowledge?” The negotiations had reached a sticking point for Yatamaru. Whether she knew it, or not, there was something the young man desired far more than his next drink. Something that, were she to know, she may be able to play him like the pawn she probably thought he was. Yatamaru realized, right then and there, just how high the stakes of this game were. ”It must be pretty amazing knowledge if you believe it will convince me. So, out of curiosity, how extensive is your knowledge? Old tomes? Secret lore? Hidden records? What kind of dirt are you hiding in that notebook of yours?”

 

[Michi]

”Who are you?”

"Fuu," she replied. It was the name that was more likely to get a reaction from the people she wanted a reaction from. She was hunting several men and she needed them to all be in the right place at the right time. "But I prefer the name Michi," she gave him the link the suspicious marionette manipulator would need to unite the Oracle with her future husband to be. She was a woman that wanted everything but knew full-well that the odds were not in her favor but she could stack the deck to some extent. There was a breadcrumb trail that was being left for the Journeyman but she did not know if the drunkard would be capable of playing the role she needed fully. She wrote her names on his page, yes she also tracked what they knew.

”What do you really want with me?”

"I want you to make fifty puppets for the sake of security at my future nuptials," she repeated. His task seemed exceptionally simple, albeit odd. Certainly she was capable, even if she was far from a master tinkerer she could make a reasonable creation more than likely. Perhaps it was for his skilled hand. The benefit of time. Perhaps it was for something else entirely. He was right of course, she wanted something specific from him. He was going to give it to her. She gave him a coy smile, the sort of smile a woman gives not when she is necessarily feeling sheepish or shy but rather when they are hiding something. She wanted him to react, for him to suspect malfeasance.

”A Sennin’s wedding? With you? Puppet-based security? What the hell are you talking about?”

"Yes, I am going to be marrying one of Sunagakure's most eligible bachelors," she claimed as she crossed her legs, left over right. It made her look like she was getting comfortable. That she was confident, which she was, but she wanted him to think he knew something more about her. She was carefully cultivating an image and a message for him, one that she was increasingly confident he would disseminate. "Don't you think I am pretty enough?" Vain... petty... preoccupied... She frowned slightly, but the expression was lopsided. She wanted to set off an array of alarms in the newly awakened man's head still likely full of fog and cobwebs, perhaps even a few spiders. "But yes, I need puppets to ensure the venue's security, you can't expect me to have armed samurai," yes she picked the word samurai specifically in case he was bright enough to catch on. "To sully the aesthetic of my very special day." She hardly looked like the type of woman to be vain, she was not wearing heels or make-up or a dress, she was wearing a jacket, a shirt that was unusually thick, perhaps even padded but not in the bosom in particular, cargo pants and a pair of pliable work boots. Her hair was down, there was no jewelry, no adornment that supported the words she chose or the rationale. While not a lie in all likelihood, every woman yearns for perfection on this day, it was unlikely that even a bridezilla would go to these lengths to make sure that the security 'looked good enough' for her.

”You’re trying to goad me. Play me. Use me. You’ve got some sort of game going, obviously. How big, or at what scale, I’ve got no clue.”

"Accusations, how cold," and true, she commented.

”But what I do know is this: you came to me for a reason. You need me, somehow. You think I've got a part to play, for better or worse.”

And he was playing it perfectly. She jotted down another note. Not a complete idiot, only a partial one.

"I want to know, for starters, what my value to you is. Beyond that, fill in the holes in your explanation: you can't just operate fifty puppets. Not effectively. And why get fifty puppeteers to wield them all? Just hire other kinds of shinobi, if money's no problem. But puppets don't talk. Puppets don't question the motives..."

"I can operate fifty," at least in the manner she intended to use them. "But if you must know..." she raised one finger to designate that she answered the first question, she could operate them as intended. She was feeding him. "I am looking to enjoy a private affair, both my future paramour and myself face the risk of being accosted by those that wish us harm. The more people at our wedding, the greater likelihood that an unintended guest will arrive and derail our wedding. Former lovers... enemies..." she raised a second finger to denote that she answered his second question. "Why would I need more questions when you seem to be asking enough for a staff of fifty?" The statement was answered with a rhetorical query of her own, it was intended to keep him on the defensive. She was leading him into a dangerous corner but he did not even know that he was traveling. "I am a reasonable patron," she claimed. "I am marrying Sennin Senju in a Spring wedding. I have contacted Steward Takahashi regarding my intentions, I plan on proposing later this week and sought his insight into the matter," alarm bells should be blaring, Sousuke was useless in terms of romance which she well-knew yet she offered him all the same. "He could corroborate," she proposed. "The only one I have no desire to include is Sennin Okayama Roku," the Sennin who she met only 'once' in the Obsidian after 'Kasha' dropped off her charred body. She was uncertain that they were one in the same, only that they were somehow connected and that was enough for her.

”Knowledge?”

He was biting. Yes, there would have to be an exchange here. That moment where he either actually or at least pretended to discard his suspicion or ethic to gain something worthwhile.

”It must be pretty amazing knowledge if you believe it will convince me. So, out of curiosity, how extensive is your knowledge? Old tomes? Secret lore? Hidden records? What kind of dirt are you hiding in that notebook of yours?”

The book she carried was large, the size of a large leather-bound textbook but a single codex is limited. No, this book was on a single subject. "This is the book of you, the least interesting of my tomes I assure you," she would pass the book over to the engineer. It was not a lie. Nothing she said could be a lie, however it was a part of her nature to deceive. What he would see if he accepted would be a blueprint of his apartment, well the parts that she had already seen on the page that it was open to. The next page would be a sketch of Oda's face, neck and shoulders. It was drawn with photorealism. The next page, a full-body print with the same skill. When did she have the time to draw all these? There was a page of notes on him, single words, measurements, estimated weights that would earn her a living wage if she worked for a traveling carnival. And yes, there was a comment about him being not entirely an idiot.

"Some of my documents are more inclusive than others," she admitted allowing the subject to change. She wanted to give him something he wanted or at least claimed to want, there needed to be an exchange. "What is the subject of interest?"

 

[Kazu]

”Michi, huh?” He tossed the name around in his mouth, sizing it up, trying it out. It had a meaning, The Righteous Way, though Yatamaru was not the type to keep track of such frivolous details. The irony, however, was too great not to be a factor here. ”That’s a much better name than Fuu,” especially because it was his name. His ANBU name. ’Does she know that already?’ He didn’t like this. Not at all. ’I’ll have to assume so...’

She tossed his questions aside. She repeated her answers. Reiterated the same details. Yatamaru couldn’t get heads or tails on this woman — maybe he was over-analyzing? Maybe she really did just need puppets made by one who knows their intricacies? But then, why all the subterfuge? Why the game? Why make it so complex? So many questions, not nearly enough answers. Maybe he was just looking at this wrong? Maybe it wasn’t what she wanted of him, but how he did it? What did she gain from this? What did she want?

”So you think puppets would add to the décor of your wedding? I’m not really one to question your choice of aesthetics, but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste on the bride’s big day.” She definitely didn’t seem the type to care about appearances — not that she was bad to look at, or anything, but she just didn’t carry that type of air around her. She was a planner, obviously. A tactician, of sorts. Her assets were her mind and silver-tongue, not her looks. So why the preoccupation with the wedding’s appearance?

She continued to insist that she could operate fifty puppets. Operate, being the key word. ”Maybe, but I’d pay good money to see them do anything besides jerk around haphazardly.” There wasn’t a puppeteer alive who could pull that off, not by normal means. That was absolute; no one, not even that multi-armed freak from the Mitsuyo Clan, had enough hands to manage such a feat. The only exception he’d ever come across was a sort of ‘hack’ that took advantage of extraordinary circumstances — if you were foolish enough to trade your flesh-and-blood for wood-and-metal, a spool of chakra-wire could be implanted somewhere on your person that could directly link your chakra core to a vast number of puppets. A hundred, to be precise. It was possible — unlikely, but possible — that she possessed the same kind of body he did. Or, she could have an acquaintance who would do it for her? But, again, this seemed unlikely.

She just needs to operate them, right? What sort of operation?

She continued to feed him clues. Private affair. She expected someone to interrupt. The bigger the party, the more likely a target it was. The interrupter...was a former lover? An enemy? Then she threw a real curve-ball, telling him exactly when, and who, she was intending the event for. She had sought out advice on the matter, naming the Takahashi Steward — the most least likely man in the entire village (maybe even the country) to know the best course of action in such circumstances — as her informant. And, as the cherry on top, she named only one person who absolutely was not invited: Okayama Roku.

She was telling him a lot. Too much. Something clicked in Yatamaru’s mind. ’She wants me to know. This is a trap.’ He made no outward signals. He kept his face deadly serious, wondering whether this was just another play in her game (but knowing, deep down, that of course it was), while he tried to think of a way out of this mess. He could see none; not yet, anyways.

”You wrote a whole book on me?” His eyes widened slightly at that realization as she tossed the book over to him. Catching it, flipping through the pages, seeing his own face stare back at him, reading the little notes of: his idiocy, depression, addictions, the scale of his house, his abilities, the brands of alcohol he drank, the things he knew that she’d told him — Yatamaru felt sick, violated, and ever so slightly impressed. This woman, Michi, could not be underestimated. Not if he intended to make it out of this without embroiling himself in her schemes.

And yet he had no choice.

'I have to see what she intends,' he told himself. He had to gather more information. Learn her motivations. Study her habits. Extract as much usable field data as he could on this woman, her capabilities, and her interests. 'I have to figure out her game,' he argued. But deeper still there was something else. Something personal. Something that he’d sought, for years and years, but couldn’t seem to find much of anything on. A whisper in the dark. A specter that eluded all efforts. A matter of unfinished business, regret, and personal vendetta. It kept him up at night, far more so than his inability to sleep, and haunted his every waking decision.

He had a duty as an ANBU to protect the village. He had a responsibility to ensure the safety of the citizens. But he had a burning desire for revenge that he could not quell. And here was a ticket, an easy path, that could lead him straight to his target.

”There’s a trail that’s gone cold, deathly so, and I have a great interest in picking it back up again.” He paused to collect himself. Was he really going to compromise his own position in order to get closer to his own goals? Was this even worth it? Could he trust that what she gave him would be accurate, untainted, and not another part of her plan? No, he couldn’t. But he didn’t know where else he might find the knowledge he seeked. Even Sousuke, the Steward of the Sand, hadn’t been able to help him in this regard. Steeling himself, Yatamaru looked eye-to-eye with his adversary, and took the plunge. ”Mikaboshi. Ancients. Fuujin and Homura. Half-Ancient hybrids; man-made, naturally occurring, and otherwise. I want it all. Their histories, their whereabouts, their abilities, their motivations — anything, and everything, you have on them.”

”And,” he raised a finger menacingly at her, as if to emphasize the point that he didn’t trust her any farther than he could throw her, ”I want to see this so-called library. Full access to the original documents you keep. No middlemen, and no alterations to the texts. And I want to see what information you have before I begin working on your order.” It was a ridiculous set of requirements. Absurdly one-sided, one could say.

”What do you say, Michi?” he said, pressing her, ”do we have a deal?”

 

[Michi]

”Michi, huh?”

He repeated the name she had chosen the day she was destroyed and reborn. She was not the same person that she was when she first came to Sunagakure, in fact she was not a person at all. Freedom came at a steep cost for her as she had to abandon her humanity in exchange for autonomy. There were parts of her that did not change however. She still had her memories, that mind that made her an asset to some, a threat to others and a weapon to still more. She had her experiences, those were the building blocks of what made her weren't they? This was a question of nature of nurture. How much of what she did was based on who she was and who much of what she did was cased on what she was? The truth of the matter, she feared how much of her humanity was drained because she could feel the difference. There was new compulsions that replaced what Nao had instilled in her those years ago as a means of control. For Mikaboshi, what she became and what changed did not grant him an iota of control, but rather he inserted his very nature into her to kill in the holes. It was like giving form to Faust, becoming a monkey's paw, a fay. Words and deals, compromises and the letter of the law... but also deception that created this ordered, predictable chaos.

”That’s a much better name than Fuu,”

She nodded in agreement. In that they were both on the same page.

”So you think puppets would add to the décor of your wedding? I’m not really one to question your choice of aesthetics, but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste on the bride’s big day.”

"Indeed," she confirmed. It did not take her long to consider the validity of her statement. Appearances were important, while she was fair from vain she was particular. Many people try to find a way to stand out. They color their hair brightly, they adorn themselves in ink or silver piercings. They chose gregarious attire, or something tight or plunging to display their assets. The point of these things was to attract, to draw attention onto themselves. Then there were people like the man before her, the messy apartment, the scent of stale cigarette smoke and old booze. These behaviors in and of themselves show an air of gluttony and vice, a disease that could threaten him later if he failed to come to grips with it. It also suggested depression, isolationism and self-loathing. These were actions meant to repel, and they were just as distinctive as the behaviors intended to attract. It was something that made him stand out. It was something that made him memorable. She, on the other hand was the true antithesis to either. A non-distinct woman with shoulder length dark hair, dark eyes and pale skin. No distinctive markings such as scars, blemishes or tattoos. Her attire consisted of layered clothes, a shirt that did not cling to her form but fit well. A jacket over top and a pair of loose-fitting pants. Her weight could be estimated but it would be a range that could vary by about twenty pounds at least, somewhere between 90 and 120 pounds. She was not a large woman, that being likely her most distinctive feature, being only five foot-even. A search for a short woman with dark and and pale skin would not get him very far, however she could describe him. His scent, his mannerisms, his vices. She could predict his behaviors, he would likely avoid large crowds. Considering the number of bottles here, he preferred to drink alone and considering the quantity, he was likely a well-known regular at some of the local shops. "Every woman wants their special day to be something to remember," she claimed as she continued to study him.

”Maybe, but I’d pay good money to see them do anything besides jerk around haphazardly.”

He either did not believe that she could operate the puppets or he wanted her to bite and explain how she was 'exceptional' enough to operate the puppets. Pride can be a dangerous thing, but it was not her vice.

”You wrote a whole book on me?”

She nodded in confirmation as she tossed the book over to him. The book was heavy, the pages and the leather felt somewhat new but already well-used. The book was likely only a few weeks old, a suggestion perhaps regarding how long she had been studying him. The subject of her study was detailed academically, details and habits. There was a chaos to her writing, notes rapidly scrawled on pages when a thought reached her mind and jotted down before it was forgotten. "Only one book," she confirmed. He was hardly fascinating enough to dedicate more to just yet. There were still pages left in this text, but she had come upon intriguing subjects unexpectedly before.

”There’s a trail that’s gone cold, deathly so, and I have a great interest in picking it back up again.”

So, information it was. Good.

”Mikaboshi. Ancients. Fuujin and Homura. Half-Ancient hybrids; man-made, naturally occurring, and otherwise. I want it all. Their histories, their whereabouts, their abilities, their motivations — anything, and everything, you have on them.”

A lesson in history, biology and current events. Easy.

”And,”

He wanted more.

”I want to see this so-called library. Full access to the original documents you keep. No middlemen, and no alterations to the texts. And I want to see what information you have before I begin working on your order... What do you say, Michi? ...Do we have a deal?””

"I cannot fulfill your request I am afraid," there was no lamenting expression on her face. It seemed as if her statement was entirely factual. "Ignoring for a moment the fact that you are asking for full payment before you do any work what so ever on my order, there is the fact that..." she would stand up and approach the drunk and attempt to pluck the book from his hand once she was certain he had skimmed its contents from cover to cover. "I am always taking notes, always updating. In a sense, adultering." She admitted. "So even if there was some sort of gentleman's agreement that could potentially be truly binding, I cannot be compliant in the deal. So, I will make you a counter-bid," she continued. If she had the book back in her possession she would jot something quickly down.

"I believe the cliche here is 'half-now... half-later," The gears in her head were turning. "I have demonstrated that I am a capable gatherer of intelligence. I have already assessed your skill set, allowing us to forego some of the formalities." He made a mistake when he listed what he wished to know. "So... Mikaboshi." it was interesting that his name was the first name to pass his lips. "Deep Court Ancient Lord, born from the shadows his portfolio includes the darkness and secrets. Mikaboshi was the Lord of the Deep Court, their domain was beneath the earth, however this realm was often contested by Homura Lord of the Flame Court whose portfolio included fire as well as war. Adjacent, but diametrically opposed one could say, progress was difficult for the minor Court. The Deep Court never grew to be very large, a dozen perhaps at their peak. They were one of the few Courts that never had slaves, rather humans deemed 'worthy' in accordance to old law were welcomed into the Court as peers. It has been said that Mikaboshi took a human lover, however she is long since dead. The Ancients of the Deep Court ate souls, however not to the same extent as the great Courts or even some of the minor courts. During the revolution of mankind, the Deep Court did not involve themselves in the war. When the war was won by mankind, the Ancients of the greater and lesser Courts essentially eliminated, man turned against the neutral Deep Court. The human members of the Court were slaughtered and the fates of the Ancients, less Mikaboshi himself are unknown. Journeymen during that time discovered a means by which they could seal an Ancient to a blade and to a blade Mikaboshi's essence was sealed and for centuries he remained trapped until he was rediscovered by the Steward Takahashi Sousuke. How the Ancient Lord earned or bought his freedom is unknown to me. However, it would seem as if the Deep Court Lord and the Steward are not on good terms. As for the Deep Court Lord's intentions, they are duplicitous in all likelihood. Ancients abide by certain immutable laws -- for a Deep Court Ancient it is to speak only the truth but to have a penchant if not compulsion to deceive. It is for that reason some have dubbed the Deep Court Lord 'The Deceiver.' However, if I were to guess of his intentions, I would consider Mikaboshi to be a tragically lonesome creature, the last of his true kind... the losses of what would have not just been his family, but his entire civilization would have been devastating and the passage of the centuries would unlikely salve the wounds. Humanity's betrayal those centuries ago have likely left a festering hate, however he needs mankind to not only eat but to fortify his numbers." She purposefully stopped there, her intimate account of his history, his intentions and his psyche laid out. She did not know Oda's specific interest in the Ancient Lord, but she understood men well enough to know he would want her to explain what she meant by fortify his numbers,

"Ancients," she continued. "Some consider them gods, however they were never gods... just beings that in an antediluvian era were incredibly power. They still are." She chose those words carefully. "They predated humanity by an indeterminate amount of time. Humanity came later from the land and the sea, a wandering people whose first accounts with Ancients have been passed on truly through only oral tradition and old stone tablets that have since been archived in the great libraries In the southwest. Ancients came to understand a utility, souls. A human soul being a source of concentrated power that they could take onto themselves, humans were seen as essentially cattle and treated as such. The enslavement of mankind was a simple task and had a protracted duration. A source of entertainment as well, you could liken the gladiator tournaments in the old days to cock fights I suppose. However, times change and with the transition of one era to the next, a hand of power intervened. A single man was given the means by which to topple Ancient Courts and he had done so, leaving a legacy that has lasted for centuries." She left a few holes in what she said. It was purposeful. "Ancients, in and of themselves are similar to chakra-capable humans... only longer lived and with laws to which they must abide. It is the Lords that are unusual."

What was next. Ah yes, 'Fuujin.' "Fuujin was the Lord of the Solar Court. The most powerful Ancient Lord to ever live. Of the three 'great' Courts there was the Solar, the Earth and the Flame. His domain was the sky," unlike Homura that seemed to have possession of what was below the earth. "Sun and storm were his primary domains and he was a creature of great hubris. He was destroyed utterly during Godsfall, The great library of Babylos details his rise and fall as well as details of his descendants." Yes, there were libraries from which she had referenced her information from. Homura and Fuujin were long dead, all she knew was learned from the archives of her youth.

"Homura was the embodiment of war, he fell also at the hand pf Primus alongside Fuujin at Godsfall. Fire, tempering himself and others through the heat of battle made for an aggressive Lord of the Flame Court. He is likely the reason why so few other courts ever became 'great' courts in these old times. He sought disputes and settled them with force." She was getting thirsty, she would reach for her hip and search for a waterskin, No need to cloud good sense. She would take a drink.

"Half-Ancients can be made one of three ways," she raised a single finger. "Birth through an Ancient and human parent, survival rates for first-generation half-breeds is quite low... about 22%." She raised a second finger, "By having part of your essence replaced with that of an Ancient done by an Ancient Lord. There is a strong possibility that this process will kill the subject, survival rates are best among the chakra-capable." She raised a third finger, "Nao's technique." The means by which an Ancient were made was simple and almost academic. "Hybrids do not necessarily have to abide by the Ancient laws, although many first generations do... it depends on how much of themselves was lost if it was though the intervention of a Lord or how much Ancient essence is within a born Hybrid. As for Nao's technique..." she shrugged her shoulders. "I have only theories and those are in my personal archives as well as perhaps in the Great Library of Babylos," she mused almost thoughtfully as she carried on.

"Mikaboshi... here." She started to list off the whereabouts. "Fuujin dead." There was no remains to recover. "Homura, dead." The means by which he was also destroyed, there was nothing to uncover. "Suna, here." She continued. "Most full-blooded Ancients have either been consumed or remain trapped in the armories," she explained, reminding him of the history lesson they had just had. "Suijin and the sea, however, remains undisturbed," she mentioned an often forgotten old Lord. "Hybrids... the Kisihii live deep in the badlands to the south of us primarily," she named a tribe of hybrids. "However many humans have a trace of Ancient lineage in their biology, it is often so tiny that it is irrelevant." It was like having neanderthal in your genes, it was in there... someplace remote and distant. "The Toraono Dojo's Senju Clan is the largest clan of potential Deep Court hybrids, however only their clan leader has displayed the characteristics of the Court." Kazuki's strange heritage was what tied him to Sunagakure in an intimate manner. "Myself," she was likely the 'newest' or 'youngest' hybrid. "Sora has a large concentration of varied Court hybrids."

She shared a lot of information with him, some of it he likely knew but some he did not. However, she took care to leave certain facts out. To leave him with just as many, if not more questions than answers. "In exchange for your work, I will let you pursue my books, however I will continue to update them. If you wish to see books untouched since the moment we have met, I can also direct you to the Great Oracle Library of Babylos. The city still stands, however the denizens of the city suffered an unknown fate decades ago. Two-hundred miles to the southwest, their great ivory tower being the dead beacon leading scholars to enlightenment, what I lack... they would certainly possess."

 

[Kazu]

Yatamaru had expected her to refuse. What he had asked was fully unfair, totally one-sided, and ultimately a rip-off; if, however, what she had wanted was all that she had asked for. But he had not been immediately refused, denied, or cajoled. That could mean at least two things: the information was of little value to her, or the benefits of divulging such information were substantially greater.

She moved towards him, attempting to take back the book she'd tossed his way, and the drunk puppet made no effort to impede her. He'd thought about burning the book, drowning it in liquor, or otherwise shredding it to ribbons –– it would be pointless, however, as he knew she would just be able to make another copy. There was no point inciting her. She stated quite simply that the deal, in its current form, could not be abided; but, also, that it was not irredeemable. She was constantly updating her works and his request for unchanged versions of her notes seemed to be the sticking point. To Yatamaru, the seasoned infiltrator of enemy lines and a purveyor of lies and deceit, it seemed odd to be hung-up on such a small difference. For what reason did she cling so tightly to the integrity of her words?

Was it something to take note of? Perhaps, but perhaps not. Would it affect their agreement? Perhaps, but perhaps not. A slight ammendment, then? A small twist, here or there, to make things acceptable? It seemed so.

"I accept these alterations to our deal," Yatamaru stated, nestling into his improptu corner-of-the-ground-seat for what would prove to be a long exchange. "I also accept these accounts to be your own, personal, view of things. Dispense away with formality, by all means, and tell me how you see things." That's precisely what he would want. Her perspective, unchanged, unedited, and unadultered.

Michi had a lot to say. She was quite the expert, on seemingly every subject, and spoke precisely and with confidence. He was happy for that. He wanted that. He said nothing, for a long time, even when the woman got to the end of her explanation of Mikaboshi. He noticed the pause that she had left for him, though he did nothing with it. He seemed pensive, apprehensive (maybe?), and just a little bit inquisitive, but significantly less involved than he might have seemed before. There had been a shift in the man's personality, a seperation of himself from the situation, as if he were looking in through a thick sheet of glass at a caged and wild animal. Yatamaru was weary. He was also preoccupied.

Michi wasn't the only one who liked to take notes. Yatamaru had never been a good drawer, nor particularly good at organization, so notes in the sense that Michi took them were out of the question for him. Had he tried to write down what was important, or even attempted to sketch a half-way likeness of the woman before him, the moment he was trying to capture would have sailed right past him before he'd even gotten the second line of information down. He had a different method. What he lacked in raw chronicling talent he made up for in creative methods of input. Seemingly yesterday to him, though in actuality probably some months or even a year ago, or even two ago, he'd been struck by inspiration during a conversation with one Takahashi Steward. Ironically, the subject of conversation had been very much this same one he was having now, though that's not what was important here.

What was important is the high-storage chakra computation device he'd come up with back then. Crystals possess an interestingly regular lattice structure, packed together extremely densely, and furthermore are able to be produced synthetically via chakra. Combine this with an already chakra-sensitive body that has to handle the throughput of consciousness to every corner of an artificial (or in other words, synthetic) body, and what you get is an almost telepathic level of thought-to-data transference.

In short: Yatamaru was taking notes, and there was a reason he wasn't saying much. In his mouth, hidden from Michi, was a small, uncut, ruby made from his own chakra. Everything she said, every word she uttered, was being record. Everything on Mikaboshi, Ancients, Ancient Lords of old and now, Half-Ancients, all of their whereabouts, and an interesting mention of a library that was not her own. What fascinated Yatamaru the most was her unabashed naming of Senju Kazuki, himself, as a Hybrid, her admission of her own Hybrid nature, and the way in which she named both Mikaboshi, and Suna, as being 'here' –– this last point, in particular, raised a number of questions in his mind, though the crystalline sphere held in his mouth would make such questions difficult if he wanted to maintain this ruse. Not impossible, just difficult. He waited until Michi was done, took a large swig of the whiskey by his foot, and swallowed with what appeared to be apprehension, concern, and reservations reflected in his expression, but was actually a carefully calculated move. His secret crystalline notes would be washed down, stored inside his puppet body, and retrieved later. Hopefully, with Michi none the wiser.

"That was...quite the explanation..." he stated, truthfully. There was a lot to take in, analyze, and conjecture over. Yatamaru would have leads to follow-up on. Questions to explore. Inconsistencies to analyze. For now, he just wanted to make it out of this situation without raising any suspicions. "You've given me a lot to consider. A lot to think over." More truths. Not all of them, but more of them.

"Well...I'm a man of my word. You've given me what I asked for, so I will give you what you've asked for. Fifty puppets. Lifelike in appearance. I should have them ready for you within a week or so — how will I contact you when the time comes?" He would need a way to find her again, this sly woman of mysteries. How she knew half the things she told him, he could only hazard a guess; regardless, the confidence with which she told it spoke volumes towards at least the value in following up on her leads. So many things which he'd not known of before and only so many moves available to him. He needed space to work in. He needed freedom of movement. He needed time to think.

"This library you speak of...Babylos, you called it?" He needed to divert the subject. Get things moving. "How can you be so sure that it possesses what I seek? I've never even heard of such a haven of knowledge. Regardless..." he pushed up against the wall, sliding hid body upwards until he was standing with his back fully against the well, "I will take the time to check it out. I thank you, Michi, for this information. It is appreciated." More than she could know. Unless she did. There was a very real possibility that there was trickery afoot. "So, with that said...would you mind getting the hell out of my house?" He wasn't the subtle type. That's what he looked like. That's what he was. That's all he wanted her to see him as.

[ooc]
Using my CRPJ, Crystal Drive: Read/Write, to make a CD transcript of Michi's speech.

Spoiler: Crystal Drive: Read/Write

Approval: [Link]
CRPJ's Effect: By combining the rigid matrix of crystals and the flexible nature of chakra, Yatamaru has learned to make a portable, high-storage, chakra computing device. The crystal's natural piezoelectric properties, combined with precision chakra control, allows the user to manipulate data into and out of specialized Crystal Drives (CDs). Acts like a book of never-ending pages, allowing Yatamaru to store as much, or as little, information as he wants into each CD. Performing this technique does not require a conscious effort on Yatamaru's part — much like how his consciousness controls his puppet body by instinct, so too does it inscribe his thoughts into the CD once he begins the technique. Only text may be stored with this technique, as anything more complex would take too long to input, or output.
Reason why it cannot be used in battle: Does not have any offensive qualities. Could be used, but would only record the details of the fight for later review.

 

[Michi]

Gingirou failed to understand exactly what made the Oracle previously known as Fuu tick. However he had all the information he would need to figure it out if he so cared to do so. He knew that she was playing him but not to what ends. Certainly there had to be the consideration that he might be the 'fall guy' or that she was trying to extract something from him, which she was, but their exchange appeared to be for the most part one-sided and rather simple. Yet how she was getting their seemed unnecessarily convoluted. She was setting off all sorts of internal alarms for the human puppet, was she truly so careless? There was a psychology at work here but the more one thought about it the more confusing it became. Was she unintentionally divulging more than she intended? Was so inept in concealing her actual ambitions and aspirations that she was revealing her duplicity? Perhaps it was a compulsion, like the Riddler with Batman or more relevant like a Deep Court Ancient and any other living being. Was the 'shady' (har har) behavior simply a personality quirk? Perhaps... But even if it was, was she blind to this fact? Was she incapable of making this attribute a boon rather than a limitation or a tell?

"I accept these alterations to our deal,"

Yatamaru conceded. She got what she said she wanted, but like any woman -- did she really say everything that she meant?

"I also accept these accounts to be your own, personal, view of things. Dispense away with formality, by all means, and tell me how you see things."

There was much to share, however the constraints of time and his likely limited attention span she erred on the side of brevity. Her information was not complete, there were some purposeful omissions as well as a few erroneous ones. For instance, she was unaware of Kaen's hybrid status. Kaen was not considered to be a relevant, while there have been notes in passing of a boy matching his description the boy lacked the fame to draw her attention yet. However, there were things she knew more about than she was letting on, such as the means by which Nao made hybrid Ancients. It was not a lie that her ideas were not for certain fact, however her theory was based in logic and was unlikely far off. That was why she was so terrified of the consequences of consumption. It was part of what made her both angry and 'blessed' by Mikaboshi's intervention. It was a strange, contradictory sense she felt within her where she was both free but also dead. She was not the same person she once was, there were changes in her body and her mind that even a willful woman such as herself would have to comply with. However, she was also out from under the thumb of Nao. No less scared, but also angry.

She would not know that Oda used a re-flavored Snapshot jutsu to record their conversation, not that it would have mattered if he had a microphone and a tape recorder on display during this lecture. During a future discussion, one that they most certainly would have, he would learn why. It was the antithesis of everything he had learned as an ANBU, the secrets were what made you strong and to an extent he was not wrong but he was not right either. Information was power, a mantra that they both shared despite their divergent training and the control of information is advantageous as they both knew as well. But that is where the similarities ended for them both.

"That was...quite the explanation..."

He concluded and hopefully it was satisfactory for the moment. She required his begrudging compliance for a reason yet to be revealed and she was feeding him information, whether he knew it or not. Despite the fact that he was the one that was asking the questions, she controlled the direction of the conversation. She revealed the information she intended to share and learned so much about him in the process. What someone asks allowed her to glean from his words and his topic of choice what was important to him. It offered her the information she would need to control him when the time came. Everything needed to fall into place, as messy as it would seem, in a very specific way. It had to if she was going to make sure that the right people died.

"You've given me a lot to consider. A lot to think over."

She expected him to fact check. She was not foolish enough to feed him a lie. Truths cleverly placed in a manner by which the subject comes to a conclusion of their own is a more effective means of control and manipulation than telling him something that could be refuted, debated or proven inconsistent. In fact, that would be more damaging than anything. She could be rude, violent, emotional and still be in this conversation. In fact, she suspected Oda to be all three of these things as well as unclean and likely depressed. However, when everything becomes a known illusion, there is a certain offense and distrust that flourishes. It is then that arrangements, even between enemies cannot be made.

"Well...I'm a man of my word. You've given me what I asked for, so I will give you what you've asked for. Fifty puppets. Lifelike in appearance. I should have them ready for you within a week or so — how will I contact you when the time comes?"

Of course she did not believe him, Believe that he would one be capable of making 50 within the week considering his alcoholism. Two, that he would if he was a loyal member of the Suna shinobi force, she set off too many alarms for that. However, if he did, she expected fully that there would be a mechanism that would betray her perceived wants. Third, he did not need to contact her. Oda had already given her an anticipated completion date, she already knew where he was and she knew where to go. He had no need to contact her but he was looking for a excuse. "Seeking an excuse to gather additional information on me," yes she was calling him on it was a casual manner. It was purposeful for her to do so, to tell him that she was aware. Perhaps it was a power dynamic that she was looking to maintain. After all, she was an initiator and she seemed to prefer being in a place of control, but she was willing to relinquish the control of being a mystery. "Fine," a sardonic smile would eclipse her lips. Yes, she was judging him and she was not trying to hide the expression. She would search the piles of refuse, there had to be a rag or something similar. She would find something, a T-shirt that has seen better days. Many better days, it smelled worse than it looked and her stomach did a flip flop as she acquired it and split the shirt in half, front and back unless somehow prevented. With a pen she would write on its breast: 2215 Burdett Avenue, Upper Sunagakure. was written in a neat cursive script. The other half, she would try to stuff into her pants pocket.

"I will keep my curtains open to facilitate your voyeurism." No, she was not flirting, the tone was wrong. A bit scary in fact as she handed him the bit of garbage with an additional precious tidbit of information.

"This library you speak of...Babylos, you called it?"

She smiled. Go on.

"How can you be so sure that it possesses what I seek? I've never even heard of such a haven of knowledge. Regardless..."

"I am sure you will know that truth soon enough," she claimed as she watched him rise to his full height. Whatever it was, he was taller than her and likely by a margin since she was just five foot even.

"I will take the time to check it out. I thank you, Michi, for this information. It is appreciated."

"You and likely several others," she commented. Was that a slip? No.

"So, with that said...would you mind getting the hell out of my house?"

Calling this place a 'home' was a bit of a stretch, it was more like a condemned space he enjoyed a drunken stupor within. "I thank you for your time Oda Yatamaru," she bowed her head but never lost sight of the tinkerer. "Tell them Fuu says "hello"," she requested without giving any names and potentially deepening his paranoia. It was one final prod at his psyche whether he realized it or not. She would leave, or at least try to as she walked to the door. She was paying close attention to him, guarded despite her calm expression and assured mannerisms. "See you soon Oda Yatamaru."

[Attempt to Leave Topic]​

 

[Kazu]

Yatamaru had noticed Michi tried to take the unused strip of his ripped shirt after handing him her address, scribbled on the other half of the now (more than it was previously) useless shirt. He didn’t say anything, but as she walked out towards the door he attempted to slip one of his chakra strings into her pocket and steal it back from her. He didn’t know why she’d tried to take it — likely to track him, or maybe even to try to scour it for DNA — but he had resolved not to give up anything more to her. This small scrap, however unimportant, would not go unnoticed.

Yet that was just about all he was capable of, at the moment. He had forgotten what it was like to hold his breath in anxiety; this is, until he remembered that, idiosyncrasies aside, it was literally impossible for him to do so. He was all sorts of confused.

He waited until she’d walked out the door. He didn’t try to stop her exit. He waited frozen in place, for several minutes, until he was absolutely sure she was gone. He closed his eyes. He “breathed” once or twice. Then, without looking, he bent down and scooped the half-way empty brown bottle of whiskey and brought it straight to his lips. He took a sip, then sputtered softly, ”Shit.” He took another sip, this time deeper. ”Fucking shit.” His hands were shaking. He felt angry, and scared. His throat constricted, or he at least had the impression of it doing so.

He tipped the whole bottle back, practically breathing in the potent liquids, and downed it all in one go. His anger bubbled up, consuming him, and he threw the bottle as hard as he could against the wall opposite him. He was seething. He roared, ”SHITSHITSHIT, FUCKING GOD DAMNIT, MOTHERSHITTINGFUCKFUCKFUCK,“ and collapsed against the wall behind him. His eyes darted to the door. It was still open. He wondered if she was still here, somehow, satisfied with what she’d accomplished. He couldn’t get the thought of her, and what she might be doing now, out of his head. He was obsessed. Possessed. He was terrified. He closed his eyes again.

’Get ahold of yourself, man,’ he thought to himself. ’You can’t let her get to you like this. This is what she wants. This is her game.’ He resented that his own acknowledgement. He’d let himself grow stale. Stagnant. She’d surprised him, and now was clearly ahead. He didn’t like to watch people’s backs. ’Breathe,’ he told himself, entirely aware of the horrendous irony, trying not to let the self-mockery overtake what needed to be done. ’Breathe,’ he repeated. He forced indulgence. The motions, however pointless, helped. He was focusing. He was calming down. He had to control himself. He had to do this. He had to.

Opening his eyes. Glass shards were everywhere. He saw, truly, how disgusting this hovel was. He didn’t care. He sat down, cross-legged, disregarding the tears he would surely get in his clothes and absconding from worries of bodily harm. He had other priorities.

Firstly, the recording: the puppet reached inside his shirt, with his right hand, grasping a tiny handle in the side of his abdomen, and clicked open the magnetically secured lock. Only he could open it (without damaging the components, of course). The gem had passed through the calorie-converter box, located in his upper torso at the base of his neck, and had fallen to rest at the bottom of his torso compartment. He plucked out the chakra crystal, stored it in a secret compartment on his left forearm, and returned his chest cavity to its properly closed position. Another breath. ’Worry later, work now.’

Secondly, the analysis: he’d made many observations of Michi’s behavior, motivations, and tells during their exchange, but it was important for him to clear them up before proceeding. He needed a solid base. Something to work with. Something to work off of. He thought through his entire interaction with the woman. Start to finish. Everything was important. A second gem, this time an uncut sapphire, would serve as his notes on this unexpected meeting:

• • Indirect, manipulative, and cunning. She shows a clear understanding of psychology, intellectual warfare, and has the wherewithal and talent to capitalize on that knowledge.
  • Observant. Carries a notebook with a complete list of details regarding seemingly everything of importance. It is implied she has many, many, replica books with various other notes on various other subjects. Near-perfect photorealistic drawing capabilities.
  • Deceptive. She seems to use knowledge and information as her weapons, and thus everything she says must be considered a potential misdirection or untruth.
  • Admits to being a Hybrid Ancient of the Deep Court. This aligns with previous note, wherein she would be compelled to deceive, which adds credence to the truth of what she says. This does not mean she can be trusted — merely that, in some form, her words are true. Truth does not mean accurate, or credible, or in any way helpful for any purpose other than her own, however.
  • Indicates a desire to marry Sennin Senju Kazuki. Further indicates a desire to keep enemies (likely Okayama Roku) from learning such. True intentions unclear. Likely, this line of desire is truthful, though masking a deeper, truer, intention. Further indicates that Sennin Senju Kazuki, as well, is a Deep Court Hybrid.
  • Possesses a great knowledge of subjects that are not well known, even among the elite of the village, including but not limited to: the history of Ancients; Ancient Lords; Hybrids; the current whereabouts, abilities, and motivations of said beings; and, the location of a lost city of knowledge named Babylos. Information was given (at cost of services as an exchange) seemingly without remorse for its spreading. Indicates a desire not to conceal, or hoard, information. Likely would be willing to exchange for more information.
  • Indicates that the last Ancient Lords (Mikaboshi, Suna, and Suijin) are still alive, saying vaguely that they exist ‘here.’ Further indicates that Hybrids exist naturally, referred to by the name Kishihii, and that they roam freely the Southern Badlands.
  • Possesses knowledge of a lost treasure, the Great Oracle Library of Babylos, despite the fact that she also claims it to have suffered an unknown fate decades ago. This raises many questions, including how she learned of its whereabouts, or existence at all, if it was lost for decades.
  • Claims to live, reside, or otherwise have ties to the address 2215 Burdett Avenue, in Upper Sunagakure. Investigation and reconnaissance recommended.
  • Seems to intend for this information to be spread. Likely wants me to bring this information to the higher ups, immediately, in order to play into a larger game she’s playing. More information is needed regarding her motivations, psyche, and desires.

It was not a complete list, as there was likely much more that could be gleaned from this encounter had Yatamaru been better equipped to field her questions and responses, but it was the best he’d be able to do at the moment. Storing the sapphire similarly to how he’d stored the ruby, in the secret compartment of his left arm, he returned again to the tasks at hand.

Finally, he stood up. He looked around. This room, the room over, the closets, hallways, and everywhere else that he could. He gathered up everything. There were not many essentials for him — just superfluous indulgences and vices — though the few things he took were of vital importance. His tools for puppetry. His shinobi equipment. Scrolls containing various puppets, tools, information, or messages. His ANBU gear. Everything fit in a small wooden box that could be carried on his back, locked via a mechanism which only a skilled puppeteer could unlock. He left behind his booze; he didn’t need it, at the moment, and could always buy more. He wasn’t kidding when he said he wasn’t strapped for cash: she wasn’t the first to have requested puppetry services and they fetched quite the pretty penny. Not to mention his payments for ANBU and shinobi work. He’d be fine. Plus, he didn’t need to eat or drink (besides what he wanted to).

He walked out the front door, and didn’t look back. He couldn’t return here. Not after that. If Michi ever came back here, she’d find the entire place abandoned, forgotten, and basically in the same condition as she’d found it the first time. The only difference was the smoldering metal trash can in the center of the apartment: before he’d left, the now-paranoid puppet had gathered the rest of his things — anything that could relate back to him — and burned them.

It was time for the puppet to become a ghost. A wanderer. A vagrant. A nobody. He would find her when he needed to, but she would not be finding him so easily again. Never before had anyone so completely shaken the puppeteer to his very core.

He wouldn’t let her get the drop on him again. Next time, he’d be prepared.

[ooc]
Topic Left.

 

[Michi]

Allows him to succeed in taking back what is his. [Note]

 

[Michi]

January 1 2321

A criminal often comes back to the scene of the crime. Such was true in this case as well. It had been a few days since she had last interacted with one Oda Yatamaru in his mess of an apartment. A deal was made and she was here to assess whether or not he would keep his end of the bargain. The follow-up is nearly as important as the initial assessment and the interventions given. She had her theories regarding what would happen next, it was a game of probabilities. A game of chances. There were several roads the drunkard could take from here, some had a higher likelihood than others but that did not change the fact that there were possibilities that would result in an unintended outcome.

1. He could do nothing, return to his inebriated stupor.
2. He could work on the puppets as requested.
3. He could find her request suspicious, and it was and flee.
4. He could find her request suspicious, and it was and seek help.
5. He could find her request suspicious, and attempt to create a product that would be ultimately dangerous for her to utilize as perceived to be intended.

When she arrived, the door was resting against the door-frame, it was still in need of rehanging. The hall had a distinct stink of smoke, the ceiling was slightly darker than before and the apartment itself was empty less a blackened waste can in the center of the room. It would appear that he ran. She wondered if he was going to do any work on the puppets in his hiding place or if he had abandoned that project. She wondered if he simply fled or if he decided to 'stop' her potentially nefarious deed. She would learn soon enough, step one was accomplished whether Oda knew it or not. She would be back in a few days time.

[Topic Enter & Left, 1 Hour S Rank]