Awareness and anticipation for what was to come was almost always worse than the event itself, when it passed, but even having this insight would never allow it's captives to break free from their miserable imprisonment. Tetsu stared up at the oblique face of the Torre Celeste, now reflecting sunlight in a sheer patch of yellow-white that made the surrounding cliff faces look like some God of the landscape had simply forgotten to colour in one spot. Each step up the towers cold, stone slabs seemed to heighten Tetsu's dread just a little more, and he spit to his side, as if trying to cast off the sacredness that the building seemed to be engulfing him in. He didn't have time for awe, he had to focus on how he could act naturally. He knew his clothing smelled ever so faintly of alcohol, try as he had to wash it through the river. It literally took him an entire week of washing, and yet the subtle hint of it still followed him when the gust was strong enough. The thought of it lingered in the back of his mind, but never reared it's ugly head to speak, as he approached the woman sitting at the reception desk. He tried to gather his strength, unsure of why it seemed to be trickling out of him at this rapidly increasing rate. 'Hi there!' The woman started, her cheeriness seeming... Not exactly fake, but tempered by an obvious efficiency and a razor sharp glance passing all along the people exiting and entering the ornate building. Tetsu interrupted before she could go on, "Yeah, I just need someone to give me a passport. He tried to casually place his hands in his pockets, but ended up gripping the fabric inside as small beads of sweat started forming on his forehead. "Oh, please head up to the Raikage's office, he'll be with you shortly."
The boy started to protest, the words 'just need a Chuunin or Jounin' escaped his lips at one point, but it was too late; he was already being carried along with the flow of the crowd, and in front of two large shinobi that seemed to be vaguely escorting him. The last thing he wanted to do was to meet the Raikage himself. The boy had trained for over a year now, in the secrecy of the forest, measuring his growing skill against his cohort by privately spying on them when he had the chance. He knew he was better than most of them, it was no longer even a point of pride by this point, and try as he might to conceal this fact, he wondered just how apparent his wiry frame was beneath the layers of Autumn wear he had piled on to disguise his competence. He would tell himself that the purpose of this discretion was simply another point of strength, an edge to hold over your opponents, and opponents were by no means limited to those outside of the village. The truth, though, or most of it, was that after he had been thrown out of his home, his techniques almost started manifesting a kind of sacred sentimentality to him; as if the fact that they were the one thing in the world that no one could take away from him gave them a special value that would be diminished by the mere possession of their knowledge by other people. He also felt a strong and almost instinctive dislike for the kage, bordering on disgust, that had very little to do with who it was that was under those ceremonial robes. He didn't realize that this had been an inherited feature passed down to him by his father, nearly as fixedly transmittable as genetic coding.
All he could do, it seemed, was try to ignore the competing anxieties shouting to be heard and saying nothing inside of his head. That, and have a seat.
The boy started to protest, the words 'just need a Chuunin or Jounin' escaped his lips at one point, but it was too late; he was already being carried along with the flow of the crowd, and in front of two large shinobi that seemed to be vaguely escorting him. The last thing he wanted to do was to meet the Raikage himself. The boy had trained for over a year now, in the secrecy of the forest, measuring his growing skill against his cohort by privately spying on them when he had the chance. He knew he was better than most of them, it was no longer even a point of pride by this point, and try as he might to conceal this fact, he wondered just how apparent his wiry frame was beneath the layers of Autumn wear he had piled on to disguise his competence. He would tell himself that the purpose of this discretion was simply another point of strength, an edge to hold over your opponents, and opponents were by no means limited to those outside of the village. The truth, though, or most of it, was that after he had been thrown out of his home, his techniques almost started manifesting a kind of sacred sentimentality to him; as if the fact that they were the one thing in the world that no one could take away from him gave them a special value that would be diminished by the mere possession of their knowledge by other people. He also felt a strong and almost instinctive dislike for the kage, bordering on disgust, that had very little to do with who it was that was under those ceremonial robes. He didn't realize that this had been an inherited feature passed down to him by his father, nearly as fixedly transmittable as genetic coding.
All he could do, it seemed, was try to ignore the competing anxieties shouting to be heard and saying nothing inside of his head. That, and have a seat.