“Was it….East? No wait, no. No it was North, and then West…right? Wait, no if I follow this blue line…”
For all his talent, and we’re talking a literal genius able to grasp the concept of any jutsu so long as its properly described to him, Shinjo had terrible directional skills. Oh sure, he could follow a mission to the letter, could get to a spot and back without a hitch so long as…he had visited the location at least once before or, had a decent map.
Today, he had neither of these things.
Going to Earth Country they said. Going to be a big thing they said! The ex-Kumo shinobi turned the map counter-clockwise until he had turned the paper every which-way trying to figure out which way was up. He’d look down at it, back up at his surroundings, move about a kilometer in a single direction in about two minutes before looking back at the map; completely lost.
A week passed. Then a month. The warmer days gave into rain and the dead chill winds of Fall began to blow hard. Shinjo never did figure out which way was up, but, instead found himself stuck in another small village out in the middle of nowhere. Money had long ago dried up and despite being a sketchy stranger who refused to give up his guns, they took him in. The people there did river trading as their main source of survivability, and everyone there - the some fifty or so people - just lived life as if the shinobi villages had never existed. This left them vulnerable to seemingly everything, and yet somehow nothing ever came close to bothering them. The local medicine woman claimed the plot of land itself was just lucky.
About two months into just, vibing at the small village, a group of bandits decided it was time to wreck the place and make it their new headquarters. The village luck proved its worth when the group didn’t even make it past the entrance. A few gunshots and Shinjo scattered them by sniping the leader. He was instantly a hero and got recognition that had once undone him…but that was back when he was an assassin. He let go of his ego for a moment and just accepted the praise. For the first time, it felt like something hollow inside of him was finally starting to fill up.
Six months passed. The ex-assassin sat on the back porch of his house on the edge of the river watching the trading boats come and go. A small glass of bourbon swirled in his palm as he watched the spring traders slowly roll into town. The dainty hand of a pregnant woman who looked hauntingly similar to his late fiancée caressed his shoulder and without looking up, his other calloused hand gently reached up to grip it. Yes. This was the life he had actually wanted all along. Somewhere along the way he hung up the zombie bass, his punk rock dreams, and just simply decided to settle down instead. Shinjo had spent most of his life rebelling or being told what to do. That perhaps, for at least a spell, maybe he should give being a part of the world a chance before giving into that anger. To try and see what he had been missing from this kind of life; the one Kumogakure had forced him to give up on.
[Retired]
For all his talent, and we’re talking a literal genius able to grasp the concept of any jutsu so long as its properly described to him, Shinjo had terrible directional skills. Oh sure, he could follow a mission to the letter, could get to a spot and back without a hitch so long as…he had visited the location at least once before or, had a decent map.
Today, he had neither of these things.
Going to Earth Country they said. Going to be a big thing they said! The ex-Kumo shinobi turned the map counter-clockwise until he had turned the paper every which-way trying to figure out which way was up. He’d look down at it, back up at his surroundings, move about a kilometer in a single direction in about two minutes before looking back at the map; completely lost.
A week passed. Then a month. The warmer days gave into rain and the dead chill winds of Fall began to blow hard. Shinjo never did figure out which way was up, but, instead found himself stuck in another small village out in the middle of nowhere. Money had long ago dried up and despite being a sketchy stranger who refused to give up his guns, they took him in. The people there did river trading as their main source of survivability, and everyone there - the some fifty or so people - just lived life as if the shinobi villages had never existed. This left them vulnerable to seemingly everything, and yet somehow nothing ever came close to bothering them. The local medicine woman claimed the plot of land itself was just lucky.
About two months into just, vibing at the small village, a group of bandits decided it was time to wreck the place and make it their new headquarters. The village luck proved its worth when the group didn’t even make it past the entrance. A few gunshots and Shinjo scattered them by sniping the leader. He was instantly a hero and got recognition that had once undone him…but that was back when he was an assassin. He let go of his ego for a moment and just accepted the praise. For the first time, it felt like something hollow inside of him was finally starting to fill up.
Six months passed. The ex-assassin sat on the back porch of his house on the edge of the river watching the trading boats come and go. A small glass of bourbon swirled in his palm as he watched the spring traders slowly roll into town. The dainty hand of a pregnant woman who looked hauntingly similar to his late fiancée caressed his shoulder and without looking up, his other calloused hand gently reached up to grip it. Yes. This was the life he had actually wanted all along. Somewhere along the way he hung up the zombie bass, his punk rock dreams, and just simply decided to settle down instead. Shinjo had spent most of his life rebelling or being told what to do. That perhaps, for at least a spell, maybe he should give being a part of the world a chance before giving into that anger. To try and see what he had been missing from this kind of life; the one Kumogakure had forced him to give up on.
[Retired]