Snippet #2284078

A mild clattering sound marched from within the confines of the Briefing Office. The settling of leather, wood, and metal as it rolled or rocked with the sturdy movement of flesh beneath. A heavy thud as each foot announced their arrival with the next step to follow. The youth with the armor murky as night forced himself out through the entrance, facing the tiny gathering that had accumulated before the steps. Just then as though calling out from on high he spoke, his voice somewhat grave and stern in their opposition.

“Forgive me, did I hear mention of a mission?”

When the gloomy orbs latched to Mashio there grew a disdain in Akimoto’s face. Even the confines of his somen could not soften the disappointment that marched over him. The child prodigy and the faux samurai were defined almost exclusively as opposites. Though he did not hate Mashio, he did resent her natural talent and helplessly decisive instincts. Both were newly minted Chunin and worse still both graduated to their ranks at similar times. From Akimoto’s perspective, he had to fight to gain every inch of ground, and by his mind this girl just floated through on remarkable aptitude. They were not rivals as far as he believed, just opposing lifestyles with unfortunate timing. If anyone had to guess however, Akimoto’s bitterness stem almost entirely from jealousy.

“Perhaps Matsu-sama would prefer the aid of a senior,” the cold eyes ratcheted between the three conversationalists, settling lastly on poor Sugahara.

“Growing old is inevitable, growing up is optional.”

A personal stab filled with empty words. Akimoto was only a year older, and hardly a senior in his field by comparison. Yet he certainly didn’t act that way. Holding his body rigid and looking over the situation with a false grandiose air. A nose upturned in a bluff. Quietly hoping to pull the mission free and have it become part of his own dealings.

Normally the shinobi would take heed for the rebuke in messing with other’s affairs, but such an opportunity could hardly be passed up. Missions of late held little honor or even challenge, how could Akimoto wear his father’s armor if he wasn’t winning renown with it? For both the village and his love he strove for recognition. If not by his peers then perhaps by those unfortunate to meet him? Feared, treasured, or even hated so long as it gave his nodachi meaning, and cemented the Tsugaru name. A selfish indulgence he realized, but his fame was his clan’s fame and therefore justified by his own terms.