[Infernal Prisoner] She Pours Out Her Voice

[Tagiushi Moro]

At his slightest touch the coppery flakes drifted to the ground, swaying slightly back and forth in their decent. The grouping of the prints, spaced delicately and evenly, and their flat, seemingly intentional perfection struck the operative as rather curious. He would've missed the small hole without their guidance, and prints placed amidst a struggle would have been closer together, in a more similar direction and streaked from frantic movement. Taking a knee, Moro ventured a gander into the tiny space. Its edges were rounded, and it was deep enough for something to fit inside. There was no way in hell he was going to stick his finger in there to poke around, but he was curious to see how deep the hole went, possibly giving him a larger clue as to its purpose. He had to continue onward, and this hole was his only shot as far as he could tell.

Pulling his Santaru-Tagi combat dagger from its sheath at his right hip, he unceremoniously jammed it into the crevasse, working it back and forth loosely. Unsatisfied, he regained his full height, brushing the loose clumps of dirt from his knee; double-taking as he did so, a thick soupy mist had begun to pour out from beneath the dirt, and it was already making its way past his ankles. A sharp stench filled his nostrils, and it was then, eyes darting back to the wall, he noticed his previous scrabbling had uncovered the edge of a letter. Pawing away the rest of the prints covering the symbol, Moro cocked his head to the side, staring at the "S" dumbly. What the shit. Moro's chemical expertise went very little beyond the category starting with 'mixing baking soda and vinegar makes the volcano erupt' all the way up to creating ammonia nitrate remote explosives using fertilizer found in a farmer's barn. He had no clue what this "S" meant, but from experience he did know that the smell of rotting eggs meant boom.

Now hectically scanning the room to locate whatever needed to be shoved in this cleft, his gaze locked onto the tree in the room's center. Weirdly grasping, groping hands seeking escape just as he was now, when it clicked. The handprints were made with the tree's sap, and the rounded edges were made to accept a wooden finger. Dashing through the loam like a one thunderbird open sleigh, a few quick jumps from branch to branch brought him to his limb of choice near the tree's apex, his boots already sticky with crimson sap. His goal awaited him at the branch's distal side, it terminated in a wooden fist with its 'index finger' jutting out in an accusatory gesture, assigning blame to no one in particular.

There was zero chance of the branch supporting his weight out where he needed to sever the hand, and so begrudgingly he clung underneath it. Upside down, he eeked slowly along the branch, keeping as much of his weight near the tree's trunk as he could, gooey droplets pelting his upturned expression of concentration, and oozing slowly over the sides of his face like hemic tears. Wobbling precariously as he inched closer to his goal, he finally was able to stretch his right arm out as far as his body would allow, flicking open his sword and swiping the hand off in one fluid motion. He dropped with his sylvan prize, catching it in midair and rolling across the dirt as he sprinted back to the wall, shoving the lone finger into the aperture.

 

[Santaru Rin]

Once the index finger was jammed into the lock, the rest of the hand seemed, briefly, to come alive: it squirmed and writhed, yet there was naught to be done. It had been caught in a finger trap. That section of wall shuddered and then crumbled; a gelid wind burst through, birthing a cloud of steam as it hit the humid air of the tree chamber. The collapse left a hole big enough for Moro to step over. The timing was just as well. Moro's exposed flesh had begun to burn and blister from the rising mist.

Flurries settled and melted on his face. He looked upon light, blinding after his time in the foetid dark.

"Greetings, and be welcome, child of children," a wavering voice said. His eyes rapidly adjusted. An aged and legless woman sat before him upon a veritable mountain of soiled and ragged cushions. In her ruined lap sat a small golden cage, filigreed, with a crank that she began to turn. From it issued a simple melody that beckoned memories of childhood, of comfort, of safety. "I so rarely receive visitors..." Her rheumy eyes searched him hungrily.

 

[Tagiushi Moro]

Once the hand's finger was caught, while eerily lifelike it had remained paralyzed even when severed, it now went Lazarus and threw its free fingers against the wall in a futile attempt to escape. Moro cringed involuntarily as he watched it squirm, great gouts of sap belched from its wrist and he stepped back from the quickly forming puddle. Just as well because with a low rumble the wall tumbled, a brick rolling against his boot.

Stepping across the threshold, the frigidity of the air raked him, assailing his senses, the shock squeezing the remaining breath from his lungs, moisture greedily seeping into the onrushing arctic gust and layering a few wayward strands of hair proximate to his mouth and eyebrows in a frosty veneer. He struggled against his primal urge to breathe for as long as he could, in anticipation of the bite of the elements, and when he finally caved and gasped obnoxiously, he still wasn't prepared. The air turned his mucus membranes to stone, the blood promptly fleeing was accompanied by a distinct ripping sensation. An innumerable myriad of hooked needles pierced every single alveoli in his chest and continued to wriggle and worm with every labored breath thereafter.

Blinking away fluttering snowflakes in the unexpected brightness, a low pitched gravely quaver reached his ears. "Greetings, and be welcome, child of children," His eyes snapped around the room, still catching his breath he put his back to the wall in a fluid slide, searching for the voice's source. At what he first thought was a shapeless blob, a creature of some sort, turned out to be a paraplegic old woman. He remembered Takayama-taicho's words: if she thinks that you are weak, or if you anger her, she may kill you. He steeled himself, began to stride seemingly confidently forward. The music box's tune was calming, blunting his razor senses. He felt sleepy, the music making him drunk with nostalgia and Arcadian thoughts. He knew the music was the cause, and he knew he had to fight through it. "I'm happy to visit with you. Most my age shy away with those with a lifetime of experiences and wisdom, not I. They fear those with knowledge greater than their own, it makes them uneasy." He said with a smile, hopefully masking his own terror adequately. He viewed the music as a time bomb, soon enough he wouldn't be able to resist the urge to just lay down in a snowdift and fall asleep, presumably to never wake again.

"Their music is so lovely, it reminds me of home." He tried to close the remaining distance between them to one that was politely conversational, never doubting for a moment she could end him at a moment of her choosing. "Are their signs on the box? I'm seeking a mark, they guided me here and I intend to follow them through to their end." Moro inspected the box in the crone's hands with a raised eyebrow and probing looks.

 

[Santaru Rin]

"Flatterer," she smiled, showing the gaping face of age. "Are their signs on the box? No indeed, no indeed. This song is their song. If you listen closely... You can hear the music of the spheres." The hag turned the crank ever faster until the song blended into a primal scream in Moro's ears.

Moro winced at the familiar telltale pinging of metal against stone as a volley of kunai fell around the quintuplet, all of the missiles going harmlessly wide. As the two corporals and trainee stepped into view, Moro couldn't help but notice that two of them had kunai jutting from their heads. What in the name of Raiden-?

Moro could only stare, dumbfounded, as the trainee, knees shaking like he was doing some kind of absurd dance, released his bladder for all to see. Then, a voice rang out from the impromptu squad's surroundings:

"So Kumogakure's in danger, and the Sileo is invaded, and Shinbatsu, and Council chooses you...to make matters worse they seem mere children who just stepped out of their diapers."

Shinobi instincts finally beginning to kick in, instead of worrying about the fact that someone had just called him a child, Moro realized that the voice had come from none of the three traitorous ANBU standing before them. Somewhere, in the darkness, lurked even more enemies. Moro swallowed around the lump in his throat, their chances of survival were already starting to dwindle.

Half-snapping out of his thoughts, Moro realized that the more he worried about the fact that he was going to die, the more likely the scenario was of actually coming about. Suddenly, he realized that he had forgotten all about something. Something important, actually, it was someone. Strangely enough, the way that Moro realized his own mortality was in the thought that if he died here tonight, he would never be able to see Gin again. Imaging the softness of her features when she gave him that peculiar smile of hers, how perfect it felt to be wrapped up in her warm embrace. How the two of them had laughed onto tears, rolling on the forest floor clutching their hurting midriffs, each gasp of air sending a sharp pain through their stomachs.

Moro squeezed his eyes shut in order to gain concentration for the battle at hand, and for a split second, time seemed to freeze.

An immense pressure squeezed him back into awareness. A sharp point dug into his neck. A cool trickle dribbled down into the hollow of his throat as he swallowed instinctively. The old woman held a spear made of carved bone, tied and bound with glue and tendon. Moro knew, then, that the spear was of her own legs, that the glue came from her cartilage, and the tendons had once been hers. She smiled. Those toothless gums could crush his bones into dust.

"Oh, you're awake, dear." The spearpoint left his throat. She hid it behind her once again. The music had ended once the spell was broken. "Well..." She smiled apologetically as she stared hungrily at his neck. The gilded box still rested on her ruined lap, and she covered it with one hand as he watched.

Then her eyes narrowed. "What? What is that?" Hoarfrost formed around Moro's lips. "You! Damn your blood, you sluggish winter-bred maggot! Take the box and go!" She hurled the music box at him. "Go before I lose my patience, maggot from maggots! Vulture! Worm!"

 

[Tagiushi Moro]

"Flatterer," the crone smiled, reflexively Moro smiled back, disarmingly. However the damage was done. Before he could do anything but limply raise his arm in a plea for silence, the music of the spheres, whatever the fuck that is<i></i> filled him. Not just his ears, but every fiber of his being seemed to sway and beat in time with the notes sputtering out of the infernal contraption in 'Ol Legless' vice-like grip. His world shuttered and turned, all of his current surroundings flying away in a blur.

In the blackness, his eyes slowly began to adjust, or was it that reality was simply fading into existence as he watched? A dark, vaguely familiar corridor began to illuminate before him, the scattered nintools at his feet and sparking wire above him blew the dust off of something in the bottom of his psyche. something sealed away, the details of which were absent, leaving only a few vague snapshots and an overwhelming sense of dread. the full brunt of the memory came to bear now. He could only watch-behind his own eyes-the scene unfold, his thoughts were his own, but those of the past. Never before or since had fear so terrible overcome him.

With a sickening pop he was shoved back into the present. Moro immediately collapsed to his knees as the spear left his throat, barely choking back tears. From their new, near equal height, Moro stared at the box hungrily. For the moment words failed him, but there was no way in hell he was leaving here empty handed after what he just went through. She must have sensed his intent, her eyes narrowed dangerously and she cocked her head to one side, as if listening for something that Moro couldn't hear. She started gibbering maddeningly and although it had seemed impossible when he first entered the room, the air grew colder still. Feeling fled his extremities completely and was replaced with a burning bite.

My blood? what is wrong with my blood? Raiden guide me...He only had eyes for the box as she tossed it to him. Immediately, he tucked the box under an arm and fled, curses floating through the air behind him. Faster than he had ever run from anything. He barely saw the tree, and in the Red Room the distractions proved to be the least of his worries. Moro quickly located, and then threw the unconscious trainee over a shoulder and bolted head first into the pitch black tunnel.

Fear withdrew long before they saw light again, and it was two days before a nurse found the two of them passed out on a pair of empty cots in a storeroom of some backwater wing of the hospital. The nurse nudged Moro, his bloodshot, jaundiced eyes popped open and he bolted awake, gripping her by the shoulder, pulling her close enough to make out the barely audible, gravely wheeze. He asked for two things through bleeding, cracked lips: water, and the Reagent Commander.

[topic left]


*As the legend of this quest grew, so did half-truths and exaggerations exponentially. The stories always share these common elements. The one thing that the tellers and documents never agree on, is which request Moro asked first. The operative refuses to speak a word of it after having given his report to Santaru Rin herself, regardless of how blackout drunk, what interrogation methods, or how close of a relationship is the person asking.