Legend

Spoiler:

Mission Approval
NPC
Participant

Mission Start


Three months. It had been three months since Hanzoku Kirima and Mikado Kaze had taken Gouka from the twisted hell of the Raiju cave. My, how utterly a world could fall apart.

Hitomi Ningen was dead. Kisuke Ningen was dead. Both his adoptive parents, gone from the world before he'd even gotten the chance to reconcile. A chance that would be long in waiting now, it seemed. And the cherry to top the misery-cake, Gouka had watched the last vestiges of life drain from his comatose sister, Tsume Ningen. The memories were too painful to contemplate. The years had been too long, too hard, to give into the faint hope that now, after all this time Tsume Ningen might have woken up from her coma.

Dead blue eyes drilled holes into the back of his mask as Gouka marched stiffly along. The chelsea grin carved into his face itched faintly. The memories tried to rise, but he mercilessly crushed them down. No time to think. No time to feel. Only duty. Gouka had thrown himself into his KYOBU duties. Week by week the assassinations had flown by him. He barely recalled any  of the faces of the men- and women- he'd killed. Finally, one of the main captains of the organization,  Raven, had pulled him aside. While he'd commended Gouka for his dedication and skills, he'd been very frank. 'No one is a machine, rookie. You've done ten assassinations in five weeks. You're burning yourself out. I can't take you off-duty, but for the next month or so, leave some corpses for us, eh?' The Captain's faux attempt at joviality had had the feel that even he was beginning to be unnerved by how... Easily, Gouka fell into his role.

Gouka was not deaf, though he suspect that his fellow operatives, being Stealth Operatives, did not try to hide their murmurs. There was a stillness when Gouka passed by, like a thin sheathe of ice. A reputation was forming. For now though, this did not trouble Gouka, and his thoughts remained far from it. He'd taken a relatively "simple" mission to kick off his "vacation." Escorting a small merchant caravan was about as simple as it got. At worst, they could expect bandits, but with Gouka calmly striding alongside the head cart as it traversed the mountainous roads, KYOBU mask in plain sight, any bandits would have to be suicidally desperate or suicidally stupid. Suicidal, in either case.

Best case scenario, the journey to the small out-skirt village to deliver the merchant's good would go off without a hitch. Worst case scenario, Gouka would get another jacket covered in blood. It made no difference. After his first mission, he'd custom tailored his clothes from a special thread, available only to higher ranking ninja and KYOBU operatives. Bloodstains were remarkably hard-put to set it, and those that did were removed with minimal effort. Whatever the case, it would be just another mission, one of many Gouka had undertaken in his care... In his life. Or rather,  should have been.

Gouka had glazed over the meeting with the actual client, letting his stony silence and curt nods simply smother the man into silence. Gouka had paid little attention to his rant on the importance of his cargo. He'd been a short, stout man with a receding hairline, wide nose, and of all things, a beret. Wearing a well-tailored vest and sporting and amber brooch at his throat, he had reeked of pomp and prosperity. That said, he had not been a particularly unpleasant man, simply seemingly lost in his own little world. A sentiment Gouka could vaguely sympathize with, even if his "own little world" ended with embedded knives and muffled screams. It was still a world he had control over. A world that made sense.

After the man had blustered into silence, he had bid Gouka- known only to him as Jestre- a good day, eying him nervously, before turning to the pretty, silver haired-girl beside him, and issuing her some orders as well. From what Gouka could dimly gather, the girl- who's name escaped him- was the merchant's daughter. For one reason or another, the man saw fit to send his daughter along. Perhaps to conduct the business necessary in his stead. To Gouka, it mattered little, and did nothing to change his objective... Even if her amethyst eyes and penetrating gaze stirred a quiver of... Something, in Gouka, before being ruthlessly silenced by Jestre.

It was a long road. The caravan consisted of three ox-drawn wagons, steadily plodding along. Gouka positioned himself abreast of the center cart, easily keeping apace with the slow-moving beasts. From the center, whichever direction an attack might come from, he was in optimal position to respond to it as quickly as possible. Further, he walked in a slight haze, passively encompassing the area with his senses. If one good thing had come of the damnable cave, it had been his ability to detect the chakra of other living beings. While he had his attention cast out, likely no foe would catch him unawares.

The silver-haired lass in the wagon seat nearby him, however, would prove another matter entirely.

Legend

Spoiler:

You could have saved her. You could have protected her. Instead you gave in to a moment of weakness and mercy, and look where it got you. All those years alone with your own head, and just when you think it's alright to let your guard down again, your best friend gets kidnapped, the closest other thing vanishes from your life without a trace, and you watch seven years of effort just fade away when you pull the plug. Seven years too late to be the monster you needed to be-

”Do you get tired, walking that fast for so long?”

Gouka visibly twitched as his concentration on his sensory range broke, hands momentarily flexing towards his daggers before ceasing, in a movement so fast it was a barely perceptible flicker, the voice of his own inner demons cracking through his head like a snapped whip as it coiled back into silence. Truth be told, he had completely forgotten about his "client" as it were, so intently focused inwards he would only have noticed anything beyond if someone with murderous intent had entered his range. He inclined his head ever so slightly, his mask turning to face the young woman, amethyst eyes turned curiously towards him.

Serena, the name drifted up in his mind. Perhaps the merchant had used it while Gouka had simply glazed over his pompous rant. She was a, if Gouka was frank, very pretty woman. Delicate, in the way a glass flower was. Her silvery hair was tied up in a pony-tail, leaving her face un-obscured to gaze curiously at Gouka. Her eyes were a very unusal amethyst. It gave her a soft, yet penetrating gaze. Looking at her, she struck Gouka as the type to not be intimidated easily (It certainly took a strong will to strike up conversation with any ninja, much less a KYOBU),  nor one to give up easily. Mulling it over, it was probably best to answer her question, lest he spend the rest of his journey being nagged into conversation.

It tended to be frowned upon to kill clients.

His mask turned back away from her, once again gazing upon the road. "I should hope not." He spoke simply, in a polite, but listlessly emotionless tone. It sounded more like a routine than an actual response. "As a ninja, I am often expected to cross large distances in short time frames on little energy. As a KYOBU, I am expected to be a class above the average ninja." His shoulders heaved in a slight, barely perceptible shrug. "When you deep in enemy territory in a Black Ops mission gone wrong, it tends to be a survival trait to not tucker out before your pursuers, or not fall over in exhaustion after killing the seventh or eighth guard between you and your target." He gave a small, quiet snort of disdain, one of the few emotions left available to him, crowding in with... not quite pride in his duty, but determination to do it properly and efficiently. "That said, any mission with a body count that high is either well into the Charlie Foxtrot, or else I was supposed to kill everyone."

Unseen beneath his porcelain visage, his gaze flickered towards her, gauging her reaction. "To answer any further questions, you may refer to me as Jestre, no I don't know how many men I've killed, my hobbies and interested are summed up as Career Murderering, and yes, if I told you, I really would have to kill you." He paused, before continuing in his listless dead pan. "And I abhor the color yellow." There. Coldness, a hint of menace, and an out-of-the-blue personal fact. Perhaps the combination would discourage her from asking further questions.

Oh yes, certainly. That'll push her away. Afraid to feel again, mister big bad monst-

'Shut up, Gouka,' thought Jestre.

Legend

Spoiler:

Pretty purple eyes gazed at him without even a trace of fear, not even a hint of trepidation. Though Gouka would not admit it, some small portion of him admired that. Most civilians could barely summon the courage to speak to him while he was on duty, and those few that did usually quailed in the face of the blunt reminder that he was, in fact, a trained killer, and could, in fact, see them off to their maker with an ease normally associated with breathing. Even his own... comrades, fellow operatives, whatever word best fit, were uneasy with how easily and deeply the KYOBU lifestyle had taken him.

She barely blinked as her lips parted ever so slightly, tongue seemingly turning over and considering her words physically before they slipped out of her mouth, like a butterfly taking flight in their softness, yet firm and audible. "Why Yellow? Yellow is usually symbolized with warmth, Light, happiness. I may not care for the color per say, but I cannot abhor something of that caliber. Why do you?" She brushed aside a silvery bang as she displayed her knowledge, gaze never once leaving his mask. Truth be told, Gouka did not know why he didn't care for the color yellow. Perhaps the bright color offended his world of darkness. Perhaps the "happiness" she spoke of simply depressed him.

Whatever response might have been forthcoming, however, was stalled as, from the corner of his eye, a nearly imperceptible glint high up in the sky. His masked visage tilted upward, and, in a smooth, fluid motion, a single dagger slipped into his hand, the edge gleaming in the sunlight as his hand snapped up, an audible hiss precipitating the speed of the movement. An even more audible snap was heard, however, as the arrow it intersected fell to the ground in two pieces. Paying his client no further mind than a simple "Take cover," his senses expanded out and there, 30 meters off and hidden in a copse of trees just ahead, were several chakra signatures, all civilian class, all clearly desperate to be attacking a KYOBU.

Without another word, he put his hand up on the side of the cart, used the pull to lever himself onto the other side of the wagon, and hit the ground running, melting into a barely perceptible blur. The copse of trees stood silent for only a second before a hail of arrows flung from it with a hiss, quickly followed by several shouting, screaming men, clad in what appeared to be rusted old samurai armor, wielding equally rusty swords and naginatas. The arrows were ignored, their aim too wild to be of concern; they had clearly seen the nature of their foe, and blind terror had hampered their aim.

As Gouka closed the distance to the men, he could see the fear and desperation in their eyes. They knew now how grievously they had erred, for few could fail to recognize the signature mask of a Black Ops KYOBU, even a custom one like Gouka's. Nevertheless, the charged on. Perhaps they would die fighting. Given the reputation of KYOBU, they would most certainly die anyway even if they didn't fight. Desperate men in a desperate situation, driven into a corner. Gouka almost would have pitied them. Jestre would not.

Gouka reached the first man. He swung his sword wildly, eye wide with terror, almost nothing but whites. Gouka, already low to the ground from his head-long sprint, barely had to duck as a dagger-wielding hand lashed out, a sparking hiss reaching his ears at the notched steel of the blade was diverted even higher by Gouka's dagger. Before the man could even begin to realize the folly of his attack, Gouka's dagger lashed out under his upraised arm, sinking into the unarmored crook beneath his shoulder. Gouka was no expert at anatomy, but as an expert at killing, he knew that  in that general area there existed an artery or vein (the distinction escaped Gouka) that, when struck, would bleed out the victim in very short order. Given he only knew it was "in the general area," a vicious twist of the knife was necessary, leaving a deep gash across the entire pit. The man's sword clattered to the ground as blood sprayed from the wound, his feeble cry lost on Gouka as he vainly attempted to staunch the bleeding.

Gouka's boots skidded across the ground as he came to a stop past the dying man. He twisted as a long naginata jabbed past him, missing his side as it punched a hole through his trench coat. The man who'd just tried to skewer Gouka pulled back on the spear, readying for another stab. Gouka was the faster, as his arm flung out, the dagger leaving it trailing on a coil of wire, sinking solidly into the man's skull and the frontal lobe behind it. His corpse spasmed, the spear dropping from its hands as the body began to follow suit. The rest of the men were beginning to get their baring now however, and Gouka was looking to find himself facing four slightly more coordinated opponents with nowhere to run and nothing left to lose.

It'd been a while since he'd had a challenge.

Legend

Spoiler:

It was almost laughably easy. They all four rushed him at once, lacking any sort of coordination, and too busily watching their each other to make sure they were not alone in their assault. Four rusty swords clashed into the ground Gouka had previously occupied, all for men looking somewhat dumbfounded as their blades tangled up. It had been child's play to dart between to of them, coming up behind the men. As the men turned to find them, Gouka simply stabbed the both of them in the base of the skull, twin pronged-daggers puncturing brain-stems, bringing immediate death. The corpses twitched once before falling off his blades. 'And then there were two.'

The men looked badly shaken at having had so many of their number reduced so quickly. Their swords clattered in their grip. Suddenly, one of them threw down his weapon and ran screaming. The lone bandit blanched, trembled in place, and simply folded like a wet blanket, eyes rolling up into his head. Gouka cocked his head in mild, disinterested curiosity. He could honestly say that this was the first time he'd incapacitated a foe from sheer fear alone. He gave a small shrug, reaching down and, without even a glimmer of hesitation, slitting the man's throat. He choked on his blood, gasping back to a few brief moments of terrified unconsciousness, and then the light left his eyes.

Wiping his blade in the grass, Gouka slowly stood upright, hand slipping into the fanny pack across his back. He eyed the fleeing man as his hand withdrew from the pouch the folded up blade of a windmill shuriken, a flick of the wrist expanding it. Suddenly, a voice reach Gouka as he pulled back to make the throw. "Oi! You cut that shit out, ya hear, or I'll bleed her like a pig, I swear!" His masked visage turned slowly, incrementally, to face the voice. There was the bandit. There, clasped in his grip and with a blade to her throat, was Serena.

There was a moment of silence as Gouka very slowly, very deliberately, finished pulling his arm back, and heaved the shuriken with a mighty throw. The fleeing bandit would catch it in the back, right across the lungs and spine. He would spend several moments drowning on his own blood. That was neither here nor now, however, as Gouka was already making his way towards the final bandit, the captor of Serena, melting into a black-blur as his blades flashed.

It was the simple, cold blooded logic that had made Gouka so perfect for a KYOBU. If he complied with the man, he'd only be disarmed, and killed. And then Serena would die as well... If she was fortunate. Gouka knew all too well what sort of depravities a man could visit upon a woman. And so, the simply, cold logic of the plan came to light; rush the man. Kill the man. Hopefully save the client. Because any other option would simply guarantee their deaths. One final strike, one final attack.

As Gouka had seen the man, he had seen a look in Serena's eyes. A look that, even unto his cold, heartless core, haunted him. Within her amethyst gaze, there had been... Trust. An implicit trust that he would succeed. Some fragment of his humanity responded to this trust. It responded with fear.

Because we both know just how magnificently you've shown yourself to be worthy of that trust, don't we, Takeshi Gouka?

'Shut up, Jestre.'

Legend

Spoiler:

Gouka was good at the cold, algebraic logic of necessity. It was what made him a terrifyingly ruthless- and efficient- fighter, and an even more terrible to behold assassin. Any more "moral" ninja would have simply thrown down their blade and hoped for a chance to present itself. "Moral" ninja quite often, in Gouka's experience, had their careers cut short. He'd personally cut short such careers of three ninja, as far as his knowledge held. Where a moral shinobi would have hoped for the best in surrender, Gouka hoped for the best in trusting his speed. If he was fast enough, the client would live. If he was not... Well, the client would have died anyway.

It happened slowly. Far too slowly. The cretin's eyes began to widen as he realized Gouka was not, in fact, listening to him, quite had no intention of listening to him, and was moving towards him almost faster than the low-life could see, a barely perceptible black blur. Muscles began to tighten and clench as he prepared to take the blade across Serena's slim, pale throat. A thin, crimson trickle of blood might have managed to well up, even, on the razor edge.

And then Gouka's dagger slammed into the man's throat, the force of his speed translating into such a violent blow the blade only stopped when it lodged in the man's spine. An arterial spray of blood gushed out around the steel edge, splashing across Gouka's mask and shirt, drenching him in crimson. Both Serena and dagger fell away from the bandit's grip as he clutched weakly at Gouka's arm, fingers stained in blood. Gouka watched impassively, until the fingers darted past him arm and knocked against his mask, the blood-stains smearing across the eye slits. Under his mask, his scarred visage remained impassive as the bandit's hands fell limp and the last light of life ebbed away from his terrified eyes.

The corpse stood limply for a moment before Gouka jerked his dagger from it's neck, watching it collapse like a marionette with cut strings. He pondered the corpse for a moment, flicking his daggers to clean them of blood before sheathing then, only then turning to face his client once more. Through one un-smeared lens, he could see her looking up to him. Other than a trickle of crimson slowly oozing under the hand she held to her throat, she was mostly unharmed and, more importantly, alive. "Thank you." He inclined his head ever so slightly to acknowledge the thanks, before frowning under the mask as a drizzle of blood dripped onto one of the eye lenses, further obscuring his vision. He sighed, his hands reaching up to grip the porcelain edge of the mask. 'Hardly matters anyway. Not as if his identity mattered. No one left who knew him. No one left to be used against him.

He pulled the blood-stained piece off, scarred visage squinting as they saw unfiltered light for the first time in what felt like years as he turned the mask around to inspect it. 'As I expected.' The white ceramic was utterly drenched in the blood, the lenses smeared with drips of it as well. He hooked the mask to his belt for the moment, walking past Serena with almost pointed care not to make eye-contact. A brief walk took him to the other fallen bandit, whereupon he retrieved the windmill shuriken lodged in his back. A casual flick cleaned the blade of blood before folding it back up and returning towards the cart, and his client.

Ewwww, gross!
What's wrong, Tsume?
It's this color. It just... ugh, clashes horribly with my hair. I just hate it.
It's just a color, sis.
Still hate it.
... Weirdo.
Hey!

"... I abhor the color, because my sister hated it." He spoke simply, before motioning with his hand towards the cart. "We're not far out from our destination now. Just over the next hill." The rest of the journey would continue quite in silence as the corpses were left to rot and the cart started up again. There was nothing to be done for the blood staining his clothes, but the mask, at least, was rendered usable after a few wipes with what fragments of clothe that were left on him that were not stained in blood. Whatever else, he would offer no further conversation for the duration of his journey; he was too busy pondering why his lips had betrayed him and let slip that his hatred for the color was a token memory of the sister he he had been bereaved of for so long.

[End?]