Again, he stood before the bridge. Sweat beading on high brow, his dark brown eyes searched for the other side of the gorge, so far away it was almost completely obscured by the mists. He turned around in a slow circle, taking in the scenery all around him. Nothing but the blank uniformity of the gray mists, the ground at his feet and the bridge before him. Somehow knowing that he had to walk, the hefty man sighed and made his way forward, gingerly, like an old man without his cane. His geta made dull thuds as he crept out onto the wooden cross beams of the long rope bridge. He inched forward, and so did time.

It was impossible to judge distances in the mist, but he had surely come halfway -- each side of the gorge was equally obscured. Taking heart, Sugahara Matsu breathed deep and took another step. The bridge lurched, swayed, buckled -- and dissolved into nothing. Screaming, he fell into blackness.

***** *****

Waking with a cry, the man sat upright from his bedroll. Despite the cool air breathing in from the open window, sweat beaded his face and chest. The beginnings of sunlight peered into the small room, and Matsu was thankful, for he needn't return to sleep. After washing his face with cold water from the wide, shallow bowl filled the night before, he made his hair presentable and donned his clothing, choosing a kimono of dark green, over which he wore a brown hakama from the previous day.

After a simple breakfast of rice porridge, the old genin scholar went about his day with idle chatter with some old acquaintances, then some hours spent working from his small room, calculating the probability of war between two rival shoguns based on the latest field reports from the clan's other ninja. This was his life -- others in the clan gathered the data during their no doubt adventurous escapades throughout the land, and he helped interpret these findings for the Seniors of the council to make their decisions. Few ninja grew up dreaming of this kind of job -- they'd trained too hard to then sit around all their lives -- but for Sugahara Matsu, it was paradise.

His solitude was broken just before thoughts of lunch were finally going to roust him from his seat. The visitor, knocking on the side panel of the open door, was one of the Seniors of the council -- in fact Matsu's own sensei, from all those years ago when he'd first been brought to the hidden clan.

"Koza-san," he greeted with surprise and delight, for it wasn't often that his old master was able to make time to see him. "What an unexpected pleasure!" He stood with more spring in his heavy step than usual -- subconsciously eager to please the old man even now. Arashiyami Kozaburo smiled kindly as he entered the small room, moving carefully at his distinguished age. "Matsu-san," he greeted. "I think once hearing my news you will not find my visit pleasurable at all." He spoke seriously, although still with a smile. The younger man assured his old sensei that he would be glad of the visit, whatever the reason, although in his heart he was wary. What news could he bring that would affect lowly Sugahara Matsu?

"As you know, we in the council are ever-grateful for your contributions," he said, waving away his old student's self-effacing reply. "However, it is my fear that you have been too long from the outside world, and I have elected for you to return to it with a mission." In his hands he held the small black leather tube -- no wider than a finger, no longer than a hand -- that held the specifics of this mission in a coded scroll discernible only to another of the clan. Matsu's hand did not tremble as he accepted the dispatch, but his tightened jaw set his noticeable jowls trembling.

"I don't understand, Kozaburo-sensei," he said, lapsing from the usual familiarity with which he now spoke with his old master, slipping back into the title from when he was but a child. "What have I done to disappoint the council?"

"Now, now," the Senior replied, again waving his hand as though to dismiss Matsu's thoughts, "it will do you good, Matsu-san. You will return better for your travels. Didn't you once tell me that 'he who returns from a journey is not the same man as he who left?' " Matsu shook his head -- the quote was unfamiliar to him, and if he didn't remember something it was usually because he'd never heard it before.

"No, well, I'm sure that it is nonetheless true," the old man replied gaily, even going so far as to place his hand warmly on the scholar's shoulder. "I expect you to be on your way by tomorrow morning!" Arashiyami Kozaburo added as he left Matsu's small room. Although the few bits of furniture and the many scraps of paper looked the same, the old scholar looked around him as though a tornado had blown through the room. "But I'm a genin!" he called after a moment of silence.

Despite being over fifty years old, Sugahara Matsu had never passed up in the ranks of the clan from the standard ninja, which meant that he couldn't go on missions of his own.

"Then you had better find a chunin!" came the amused response.

Looking around him in dismay, Matsu finally sighed and resigned himself to his fate. He was a realist, and if the council wanted him to leave, he would of course go. No doubt his mission was to pick up some herbs from a shop in the nearest town, or deliver a letter to one of the council member's distant friend. He cracked the seal on the dispatch, sliding out the encrypted scroll.

"Oh my..." he muttered after reading the missive. Surely there had been some mistake? Reading again, the old scholar verified the code. "Oh my..." he said again, before returning the scroll to its slim leather tube before secreting that within his robes. Where would he find a chunin this reckless?