At The Intersection of Gauche and Obtuse

Perpendicular lines:  Intersecting lines that are at right angles to each other.

Line A: That boy from Root

Rubber soles on hardwood floors fall into an unrehearsed cadence; along narrow torch lit passageways, shadows bunny hop over lacquered masks, dissolving inside the black wool of their cloaks. Into the brightly lit armory they march single file; each man rendering an account of the weapons remaining from this last mission in low clipped tones. Practiced hands pat down their bodies, searching for undeclared contraband; one by one, they strip naked - their discarded clothing, gobbled up in the roaring flames of a waiting incinerator.   

From there to the infirmary for a thorough physical exam and cavity search; on to the decontamination showers, where blankets of rising steam mute harsh overhead lights. Stiff bristled brushes scour their bodies from head to toe with a retch inducing mix of antimicrobial and antibacterial agents.  The same long handled brushes shepherd them into and hold them captive under oven-like waterfalls.

Pronounced clean at last, each man is issued a new uniform, a toiletry kit, one bedsheet and a wafer-thin blanket.  Their final stop, the place they’ll call home for the next few weeks; a windowless, 6x8 individual holding cell with unadorned clay walls, one chair and a writing table.  A hard canvas cot sits in the center of the room and a combination steel sink and commode is anchored into the far wall.  

Here, every move they make, every action they take is scrutinized; their sleep/wake cycles meticulously annotated, even the amounts and types of food they ingest are recorded in their personnel files.  Each man is allowed one or two recreational items prior to confinement; either reading or writing materials, a radio or a phonograph and records.  The last squad member to enter his cell was given no choice whatsoever.  By Lord Danzou’s decree, the dark haired, pale skinned young man receives a sketch pad, a package of colorful charcoals, an easel, brushes and water based paints.

Such was post mission life inside Konoha’s Root Division.

Line B: Kakashi:

Post mission rituals … always the same.  

With a pained shrug, the heavy backpack would fall from weary shoulders and land with a thud in the genkan beside dusty sandals. He’d take a moment, to peel away sticky leather gloves and breathe in the welcome scents of home.  Next, he’d lay down a wavy trail in the thin coating of dust on the breakfront on his staggering march to the bathroom.

Any weaponry or scrolls remaining in his flak vest, found their places on the table outside the bathroom, his outer clothing hung on designated hooks above another small table.  Once the cool tiles were underfoot and the bright lights shone over the medicine cabinet, his body always relaxed a mite. He'd kill a little time cataloging the newest gouges and bruises while the rumble and groan of temperamental plumbing subsides and yellowish brown water forced its way through a calcium encrusted shower head.

From scalp to soles, sudsy wintergreen scented spears would pierce through layers of grime and sweat leaving his skin atingle, minor abrasions depurated and aching muscles soothed.  Once the body was cleansed, the sullying of his soul would commence; it was as if every pore in his body would simultaneously open, allowing anamneses to sink bone deep.  Every misstep he’d made, every opportunity he’d forfeited became food for ravenous mental demons which would deprive his body of needed rest.

The longer the mission,

the greater the weight of disappointment...

the shorter the interval between one memory and the next.

That was another part of the post mission ritual which never varied.

Such was the downside of photographic recall.

This time, he didn’t remember moving from bathroom to bedroom as crisp line dried sheets rose past his waist and up to the middle of his chest. Even with a firm mattress beneath him, it felt as if he were falling into a void. Somewhere on the fringes of consciousness, he heard muddled voices, felt the displacement of air, as if someone or something was swiftly moving about him.  Impossible of course, for he was locked away, here in the dusty stillness of his apartment.  

Probably just Gai taking care of things, he thought. One more aspect of his post mission routine that never changed. Gai would noisily sneak in, partially stock refrigerator and cupboards, water the plants and generally make sure he was still breathing.

When I’m this tired, everything around me seems suspect.  Too keyed up … sleep won’t come naturally. So, I can either fritter away the time playing the ‘should’ve, would’ve, didn’t’ game or I can put this photographic recall to better use.

With the words of Icha Icha at the ready, he’d relax the mind; with the powerful imagery which flowed from Jiraiya's pen, and a quick yank, he’d dirty the sheets while comforting the body.

Take that insomnolence, he thought with a smirk.

 NOTES:

Depurate: to make or become free from impurities.

Sully: to soil, stain or tarnish.

Anamnesis: recollection or remembrance of the past.

Insomnolence: sleeplessness, insomnia.