Chapter Text
The sun beat down on the back of a tall, thin man. His light brown hair, fine and splintered, camouflaged him among the tall, thick heads of wheat. A soft wind rushed through the plain, dancing and weaving with the crop till the whole field glittered like a golden sea.
The man brushed his sickle clean against his trousers, hefted a newly bundled stack of yellow stalks in his arms, and set off down the footpath. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, sweat dripping like rivers down his forehead. Finally, upon the crest of a rolling hill, the squat outline of a small cottage came into view.
The quiet whoosh of a tall mill bears down from overhead. A young, pretty girl with a sun freckled face and upturned, mousey nose, feeds the chickens. They cluck and peck at the pudgy ankles of a young boy, his face creased in laughter as he chases one particularly white hen through the grass.
The wind rushes through, pricking the farmers bare arms. He ambles up the stairs, old, wrinkled knees creaking with each step.
It is the seventy-first year of the Land of Fire. Only one year on from the third Shinobi War.
“Papa” - the man jolts to a stop.
His daughter stood rigid, clutching the boy against her skirts, one trembling finger pointing down the slope. Five shinobi dressed in black appear over the hill. They march two by two. Two in the front, two in the back. One in the middle.
“Take Hanso inside. Close the door”.
The girl swiftly places the boy upon her breast, hurried fingers fumbling with the grain basket.
It spills onto the ground.
“Leave it,” he said sharply. “Go. Don’t run.” She nods shakily, walks up the stairs and vanishes inside the house.
The farmer's hand reached shakily into his breast pocket. Sweat drips down his forehead like a river. The handkerchief is almost wet in his hands. He wiped his face, jaw set, eyes like stone. He cannot hear them, but they are close now. The short man in the middle, with unassuming short-cropped brown hair, signs something with his hands the farmer cannot understand. They speak in code for a moment, when suddenly, three of the figures stand off to the side. One of them even lays back against a nearby tree, hands behind her head, a long stalk of grass swaying lazily from her lips. The smaller one, with a large brute trailing behind, makes his way over to him.
“Are you Hibachi Sakuno”? The small man calls out.
“Yes”.
The man smiles brightly and swiftly makes his way across the road.The Shinobi smiles kind eyes and a soft mouth, his face unblemished from the sun. A hitai-ate glints softly in the heat. He is not what Sakuno expected, so clean and pretty in the face, almost boyish in his countenance. Yet, there undoubtedly was a confidence in his stride that spoke of hard earned experience, despite his apparent youth.
They shake hands. It is a greeting the old farmer would expect from a fellow civilian, rather than a shinobi. Sakuno’s palm was rough with calluses; the man's grip was precise, almost courtly with his white gloves.
“It is a pleasure to meet you Mr Hibachi”. He looks around his farm in obvious interest, a faint breeze plays with the hem of the shinobi’s coat, fluttering almost nervously around black taped ankles.
His eyes crinkled, the skin drawing tight as he smiled, revealing teeth that were almost too white, too perfect.
Yet, beneath his friendly gaze, something lingered, hidden in the shallow grooves of smiling dimples, something that made his stomach squirm. His eyes held a chill, a brightness too sharp, like shattered glass under the sun.
“I am Jounin Agataka Suto of the Internal Affairs Department”. Not a mere boy then, Sakuno thinks.
Suddenly, a shadow falls over both of them. Behind Agataka comes the towering form of a man, who watches both of them with a critical eye.
“Don’t mind Haru.” Agataka says flippantly.
“He’s a little grumpy is all. He just got saddled with the boring job of following me around all day”. The large man grunted, crossing scarred arms across his chest, feet planted firmly in the ground.
Agataka laughed brightly, and with a polite smile gestured back towards the cottage. “May I?”
The farmer nods, and with a flickering gaze to the other shinobi in the yard, leads the Jounin into his home. Upon entering, the man removes his long black coat and slings it elegantly over a forearm, revealing a standard issue green flak jacket beneath. The brute waits outside with the others.
“This is my daughter and grandson,” Sakuno introduces. The Jounin smiles politely as he sinks into a low bow.
Agataka and the boy lock eyes for a moment as he rises, but the spell is broken when his gaze lands on his mother. The Jounin brings a gloved hand up in crisp salute. “Madam”.
Agataka then drifted around the room. His eyes flicked to cupboards, shelves, corners, as if counting ghosts. “Rumor speaks well of your family.”
The Jounin turns a warm smile to the mother and son. “And your daughter is truly the most lovely woman in the whole Land of Fire!” the man exclaims, finally coming to take a seat at their table.
“Although, don’t tell my sister that, or the princess may just throw a fit”. The Jounin breaks into a full bellied laugh. No one else even cracks a smile, but the man doesn’t seem to mind.
Sakuno motions to his daughter for refreshments but Agataka shakes his head when she heads for the kitchen.
“Thank you my lady, but no heavy foods for me. All the running you see. This being a wheat farm, I suppose you would have some bread on hand?” The girl looks to her father for confirmation, and seeing his restrained nod, answers in a soft ‘yes’.
It is only after both men have sat down, the bread cut and dispersed between them, that the girl and her child exit quietly through the front door. Now alone, Agataka reaches into his pocket and fishes out a battered pack of cigarettes.
“I hear you're originally from the land of lightning?” He says conversationally. Sakuno shifts quietly in his seat, his chest heavy. Unease trickled down his spine, but he nodded regardless.
"I have had so little opportunity to practise my Rajin since the last war. I think I’ve gotten a bit rusty. Do you mind?" The Jounin’s accent curls handsomely around the foreign tongue, elongated vowels with a certain high-class inflection one only acquired from exposure to the Daimyo’s Court. Sakuno’s heart tightened. The Jounin shakes the cigarette questioningly. Sakuno stiffly nodded. A blue flash, static in the air, then the smell of smoke.
"I am a curious man", the man continued. "And while I know why I’m here, I don’t know if you do". Agataka meticulously pulls the gloves from his hands, freeing each finger in turn before politely settling them in a neat pile next to him.
He swiftly took his elbows from the table.
"Do you recognise me?"
"Yes".
“I see.” His smile widened. “And you’ve heard of my department, haven’t you?” Sakuno’s silence was enough.
"And what have you heard?" The man was unperturbed, instead touching scarred palms together in thanks for the meal. The farmer looked on as the man generously buttered his bread, the knife gleaming cheekily in the harsh window-light.
"That the Hokage has tasked Internal Affairs with rooting out the remaining Grass Shinobi", Sakuno answered.
"People, actually. Shinobi is more of a bonus rather than the norm", the Jounin admitted. Red jam dripped from the knife onto the plate.
"But, forgive me Sir," Sakuno started. "We have already received two visits from your people this year. As did our neighbours, and our neighbours neighbours. Even out here, we are all citizens of Konoha".
“Ah yes, I am aware. I’ve read all the reports," Agataka said, taking a polite moment to finish his bite.
"But the department’s under fresh management. Honestly, most of it has been a waste of my time. But Shikaku was an unmotivated man and, not to be rude, oftentimes I wondered if he did his job at all". The Jounin chuckled softly to himself before the room once more descended into silence. Minutes seemed to tick by at a snail's pace, the only sound being the quiet scrape of the knife.
Agataka’s eyes drifted lazily around the room, taking in the chipped plates, the crooked shelves, the faint smell of wheat and smoke that clung to the walls. “Of course” he said softly, almost to himself, “one can read all the reports, study the dossiers, and still never know the full measure of a person.”
He paused, letting the words hang like in the still air.
"You must know they call me The Exterminator. Do you know why?" The other man was silent. Agataka grinned.
"I have a particular habit of finding the vermin and chasing them out. Some mean it as an insult. I don’t." Sakuno felt his stomach drop through to his toes, his fingers tingling as a heavy weight settled over the room.
"The rat is a magnificent creature", he continued. "Who can survive even the harshest circumstances. It is disgusting and dirty, yes, but it is also resourceful and cunning. Why, I consider myself privileged to be able to hunt them". No one dares to move. A chair creaks, Sakuno swallows hard, the silence swollen with the image of rats scurrying in the dark. The Jounin flips a paper out from his pocket, the rustle louder than it should be. There, on the page, sits the image of a young man.
"This is Kahane Akihitio. He found his way into our borders during the war. They call him the Chameleon, with the uncanny ability to hide from even our strongest sensors."
Agataka leaned further back in his chair, eyes lazily drawing up through the rafters.
"He was recently seen consorting with a particularly beautiful woman in the nearest town. Despite that, we have neither seen nor heard of him for years, which means that he’s either made his good escape back into Grass, for which I wish him well, or-".
He paused.
The tension in the room was as taut as a bowstring.
Sakuno’s hands, calloused from years of tilling and harvesting, were as steady as he could make them, yet he couldn’t stop his mind from racing. His heart pounded in his chest, and he forced himself to look only at the Shinobi, aware that at this moment, a mere slip in focus could be deadly. Agataka leaned forward, fingers drumming softly against the table. His tone remained friendly, almost conversational.
"Or, he’s found refuge with a local family."
Sakuno’s throat went dry. His mind whirled with memories of the war, of nights spent hiding in fields just like his farm’s, sheltering the wounded or burying the dead. But Sakuno would not falter. He took a steadying breath, holding tightly to the memories of his family, of his late wife, his daughter’s laughter, his grandson’s chubby fingers clutching at his hair. The faint scent of butter and warm bread filled the room, mingling with the metallic taste of fear in his mouth. The farmer forced himself to meet Agataka’s gaze.
“We are a humble family” he said, his voice wavering. “Our lives are these fields, the chickens and the harvest. We aren’t hiding anyone or anything. We know little of the world beyond our crops.”
Agataka’s smile sharpened. “Is that so?” he replied, toying with the butter knife. The glint of metal caught Sakuno’s eye, and he couldn’t help but imagine the knife’s edge against his skin. A low chuckle rumbled from Agataka, dry and mirthless. He set the knife down, his fingers resting on it as if it were the handle of a kunai.
"My predecessor refused this work, he didn’t have the stomach for it. Regardless, you’re the very first family I’ve visited in this area.” he murmured, each word deliberate. He started to prowl round the room, his lazy gait punctuated by the complete silence.
“I am no Yellow Flash, I have only recently taken up my post. Isn’t it strange that a simple farmer with no shinobi connections knows of me out here, hundreds of kilometres from Konoha?” The silence grew heavy. His hands rested firmly on the table, fingers digging into the wood, willing himself to keep a stoic mask.
At last, he answered, “Those who come into contact with my family are either travellers or neighbours. I offer them my help, as I would any fellow citizen.” He gave a slight pause, letting the words settle. Then, his words whispered throughout the room, weary and undoubtedly broken - “I am just a farmer.”
But Agataka was undeterred. He smoothed his gloves on his lap, the act unsettling, precise. “You see, Mr Hibachi, I’ve heard that before,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just a farmer. Just a family.” Sakuno clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of Agataka’s gaze, the calculated suspicion lurking behind those bright, friendly eyes. His fingers, concealed beneath the table, twitched almost imperceptibly.
“What I don’t understand,” Agataka continued, leaning back with a graceful tilt of his head, “is why such good, kind folk feel the need to take such stupid risks.” He gestured expansively, his hand lingering in the air before letting it drop. “Do you know what that does, when people start taking stupid risks? We stop trusting each other, neighbours turning on neighbours.”
There was a charged silence. Sakuno’s hand clenched involuntarily, his heartbeat a drum against his ribs. The image of his daughter, her frightened gaze as she ushered his grandson into the house, filled his mind.
Agataka’s gaze turned hard.
"Kahane is hiding here."
The old man froze. Agataka ploughed forward.
"If you show me where he is, I may let your grandson live, despite his unfortunate heritage". The words landed like poison in the room. Sakuno’s mouth went dry, his heart hammering as if it wanted to rip through his chest. His mind screamed at him to lunge, to beg, to do something. But his body stayed rooted to the chair. The Jounin’s fingers tapped an idle rhythm on the table, his cigarette smouldering in the other hand. Smoke curled upward, twisting into shapes Sakuno imagined were the faces of the dead.
“You don’t frighten me,” Sakuno rasped, though his voice betrayed the quiver of fear. “If you’ve already decided my family’s fate, then what point is there in games?”
Agataka tilted his head, the smile never leaving, though his eyes flared with something colder, hungrier. “A point? The point is choice, Mr Hibachi. I deal in choices. Rats scatter when cornered, but a person will choose how they live or die.” Sakuno thought of his daughter’s trembling hand clutching her boy, the way she’d tried to stand tall before vanishing into the house. He thought of his wife, gone these many years, her laughter still echoing in the fields.
“ Where is he?”
Sakuno pointed to a tall cupboard at the far side of the room.
The cigarette burned to its nub. Agataka ground it into his plate, smearing ash across the neat butter and jam. Then he stood, sliding his gloves back on with slow, deliberate care.
“When I give the signal, revert back to Hino and play along. Ok?"
Suddenly, a sharp whistle broke through the air like the crack of a whip. The door creaked, and the shinobi outside flowed in like a shadow carried on the wind. Their steps were unhurried, their confidence the kind only killers carried.
“Yo, Boss,” the lazy one drawled in Hino, the native tongue of the land of fire, her hair tied back and smirk crooked. “Had enough fun yet? Goddamn Haru over here is doing my fucking head in.”
“It’s not my fault this idiot can’t play a game of shogi to save her life,” the brute shot back, voice flat. “Some Nara you are.”
“You take that back, you—”
Agataka’s hand lifted again, casual this time. “Quiet down. I don’t want you both making a mess of this poor man’s farm.”
The two bickerers fell silent. The room grew cold again, the banter draining as quickly as it had flared. The shinobi fanned out, their shadows spilling across the farmer’s humble floorboards. His daughter stood at the threshold of the cottage door, frozen in terror, clutching her son so tightly his little fists balled against her collar.
Agataka smiled at her. Polite. Charming. Empty.
“Madam. Thank you so much for your wonderful bread. It truly is the best in all Fire Country” The child whimpered. Sakuno’s chest tightened as if a blade had already pierced it. Sakuno straightened slowly, jaw clenched, gaze unyielding. His voice cracked, but his words rang steady.
“We were happy to help. I am sorry you could not find what you were looking for.” The Jounin studied him, amusement flickering over his features like a shadow across glass. Silently he looked pointedly at the tall closet behind them. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the shinobi moved.
It was over in minutes. The clash of metal, the stench of blood. Agataka wrinkled his nose in disgust, if only the poor kid had known Rajin.
And so, with a head in a bag thrown unceremoniously to the rookie, Agataka took out the image of the Chameleon. The paper crumpled in his grip as a large, red X was scrawled over the man's face.
One down, Agataka thought grimly. So many more to go.