"Good muffins," Gamaheu said. The tattooed Toad was lounging comfortably on a cushion in Panairu's living room, snacking on one of the pangolin's newest batch of banana/watercress baked goods.

The Toad agent paused to look at the muffin and shook his head, croaking a chuckle. "You, baking. Takes me by surprise every time. You've gotten awfully domestic since the war, old friend. What happened to the Scaled Terror that I remember?" He took another bite, eyes rolling back in gustatory delight.

Panairu gave a Gallic shrug. "He got old," he said philosophically. "What, I can't be a fighter and a baker?"

Gamaheu raised a webbed palm in surrender. "Hey, I'm not stopping you. Although, funny you should mention fighters...."

Panairu's massive claws had been busy crumbling a muffin into small enough segments that he could swallow them without choking; at his friend's words they stilled. He looked up, leaning slightly forward so that he could get a clearer look at the tattooed toad. Given that he was the better part of eight feet tall and Gamaheu was only five this left the pangolin more or less looking at the top of his friend's head.

"I'm not going to like this, am I?" he asked, resignation heavy in his tone.

"Probably not. Nine days ago our scouts spotted a squad of Condors trying to sneak by on the southern border. The leader wore green stripes. Three left, two under."

Panairu sighed. "Lovely."

Green was reserved for the Condor military. Three left-facing chevrons signified an Undercommander, leader of a company. Two underbars meant Logistics branch. If the Condor army had grown to the level of needing entire companies of logistics troops...well, you generally didn't need that big a supply train if you were staying home. And if they were sneaking around on the Toads' southern border....

"The scouts followed as far as they could, but you know how it is—they fly, we don't," Gamaheu said with another shrug. He absently tossed the rest of the muffin into his mouth to free his hands so he could rummage around in his beltpouch. "I brought the scout leader's report, though."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Panairu chided reflexively. It was an old joke between them. "It's disgusting."

Gamaheu gaped his mouth open to reveal the half-chewed muffin mash, bactrian eyes twinkling. Panairu rolled his before taking the proffered scroll and unrolling it. He pulled it almost against his eyes so he could skim through the details, and immediately cursed at what he saw.

"I'll take this straight to the Polemarch," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "Thanks. You must have run your feet off to get this here so fast."

Gamaheu shrugged casually. "Nothing that couldn't be done by any dashingly handsome demigod. Have to admit that I wouldn't mind sitting and having another few muffins before I need to go walking again. Polemarch won't be offended if I don't come, will he? I don't really have anything to add to the report."

Panairu shook his head. "Nah, he'll be fine. Probably want to talk to you tomorrow just as a courtesy, but I doubt he'll begrudge you a night's sleep. There's a tub in the back and more muffins on the counter. Make yourself at home."

Gamaheu smiled. "Thanks. And, if you don't mind me saying it, I really hope you get to stay a baker."

Panairu nodded without speaking as he turned for the door. Personally, he'd rather stay a baker too. Still, if the Condors were gearing up...well, he was old, but his claws were still sharp. The Condors might just need a reminder of what it meant to face the Scaled Terror.

o-o-o-o

"Reporting for service, Polemarch!"

"Be at peace, Strike Leader," said the Polemarch's massive voice, the faintest hint of amusement hiding somewhere in its depths.

Strike Leader Pankurashun, Senior Combat Instructor for the First Army of the Pangolin Clan, did not do 'at peace', ever. At his Polemarch's command he unbent enough to allow his tail to touch the floor in the 'rest' posture. Even this was an enormous concession.

"The Condors are mobilizing again, Strike Leader." The amusement was gone, granite will grinding it away.

Pankurashun snorted. "After the pounding we gave those beakfaces the last time you'd think they would have learned their lesson."

"Indeed. Which intrigues me. We and the Toads and the Otters monitor their trade closely; their imports have remained constant, so there has been neither famine to make them desperate nor population boom to make them bold. Their neighbors maintain the same operational readiness levels that they have had for decades—nothing to offer fresh provocation or imply weakness."

Not having been asked a question, Pankurashun remained silent.

The amusement was back. "Come, Strike Leader. No speculation?"

"With all respect, Polemarch, I am not paid to speculate on the strategic implications of grain shipments. I am paid to kick ass and shred beak."

The amusement was stronger this time. "Too true, Strike Leader. More recently, however, you are paid to train the next generation. I gather you met with the Summoner recently."

Centuries of military service was all that kept Pankurashun from blinking in confusion. He was a Senior Combat Instructor, not an officer or a High Circle official. He'd been utterly baffled when a Speaker had come running into the training hall and pulled him right out of a class, telling him to report to the Polemarch 'at his earliest convenience.' Which, in the Pangolin army, was the polite way of saying "right the hell now and don't bother stopping to wash off the dirt first."

"Sir, yes, sir," he said, taking refuge in protocol. Was this because he'd taught that human punk the basic training jutsu? If he'd been called in by the Base Commander he would assume he was going to get a reaming and some punishment detail. If he was in front of the Polemarch himself...oh, Pantokrator this could be bad.

"Tell me your impressions, Senior Combat Instructor," the Polemarch said, no trace of reproach in his voice.

Pankurashun did not allow himself to sag in relief, but he did pause for a moment to get himself under control and organize his thoughts. "Sir. Please note that my personal contact with the Summoner is limited to one extensive conversation, a short evaluation on the training field after that conversation, and a brief interaction with her and her squad on the Human Path.

"Physical assessment: Her war skills are above average for a human of her age, above most of our fresh intake. Her strength and endurance are adequate for a human child. Her speed is above average, becoming quite impressive when she uses her 'chakra boost' ability. As with all humans her nose is utterly hopeless but her vision mostly makes up for it. Morale: She lacks confidence in herself, although in her encounter with the Naraka Rollers she was decisive and effective. She—"

"I didn't realize you were friends with the Naraka Rollers, Strike Leader. Such unplumbed depths behind that gruff exterior."

Pankurashun's tongue slapped at the air for just a moment. "I'm not sure they would describe me as a friend, Polemarch. Despite that, they were willing to explain the circumstances of Mori's visit when I asked politely."

"'Politely', hm?" The undercurrent of the Polemarch's voice had moved from 'amused' to 'suppressed laughter'. "I do hope that your polite conversation was not interrupted by the demolition of their headquarters."

"No sir, we were not disturbed, sir. I thank you for your concern, sir." For Pantokrator's sake, you throw one little scrub through a wall and they call it 'demolition'. There was just no justice. If he'd wanted to demolish the place it would have been a proper crater.

"Indeed. I interrupted you—you were saying?"

"Sir, continuing with my report on morale. The Summoner demonstrates admirable loyalty to her squadmates. She had interpersonal difficulties with one of them, Ishihara Akane. The Summoner was self-aware enough to recognize these issues and went far out of her way to mend them. According to my conversations with her liaision, Second Specialist Pandā, the effort was successful and the two of them are more functional.

"Mental: The Summoner is well educated and clearly intelligent, although poorly socialized. Our interaction was brief, but my impression is that she lacks imagination and self-direction. Report ends."

"Hmmm," the Polemarch mused, his far-off tail tapping thoughtfully. "Yes, that makes sense. It would also explain why she has had the contract for four months yet made so few contracts. Tell me, Senior Combat Instructor, what impact would it have on the Summoner were we to bring her here and line up some qualified summons for her?"

"Sir, I believe it would be an error, sir," Pankurashun said, snapping back to full attention. "The Summoner's largest weakness is her lack of self-confidence. It would be better to mark the trail than to show her the log."

"Hm."

Pankurashun waited at rigid attention. There were two kinds of officers; the ones who got angry if you were too direct in your speech and the kind who got angry if you weren't. He'd never before spoken with the Polemarch, or even with anyone who had spoken to the Polemarch, and he sincerely hoped that his ultimate commander was in the 'you should be direct' group.

"Be at rest, Senior Combat Instructor," the Polemarch said, seeming to finally notice Pankurashun's stiff posture. "Tell me, what are your personal feelings towards the Summoner?"

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Pankurashun smothered a grimace. Asking a Senior Combat Instructor to express feelings?! That was just unfair. He hoped word of this never got back to the base. Still, orders were orders and anything the Polemarch said was an order.

"Sir, she's a good kid. Young, inexperienced, with all the flaws I mentioned, yet she's trying. Her clan should have their snouts cut off for choosing a Summoner who can't protect herself yet, but she's on the right track. Give her a decade or so and she'll be a Summoner to be proud of. Better than Ui by a mile."

"I see. Tell me, Senior Combat Instructor, what would you say if I told you that she had no clan? That she was, in fact, on her own except for those squadmates you met?"

Pankurashun blanched. On her own? A Summoner that young and she had nothing between herself and the world other than that tiny little squad? How in the name of the Pantokrator's suppurating snout did that happen?

"Sir...if the Condors are moving again and the Summoner is that young and has no clan, she's in a lot of trouble."

"I agree. I believe we shall need to mark that trail quite quickly. See to it, Senior Combat Instructor. You are excused from any duty that would conflict with this tasking. I'll expect a plan on my desk first thing tomorrow."

"Your will, Polemarch." He spun on his heel, tail snapping through the turn with drill-ground precision, and trotted away. This was going to require some thought.

o-o-o-o

The chores were done, Inoue-sensei had finally gotten tired of Noburi making Hazō sing the 'I Am A Doofy Doofus' song and told him to knock it off, and Hazō was able to sit by the fire and eat in peace.

He was surprised to notice how generally happy he was. Twelve days of chores and hazing had greatly reduced the tension within the team. Inoue-sensei had been careful to ensure that the hazing was kept within strict limits but, in truth, none of the team had really been interested in pushing it even remotely close to what routinely happened during Hell Week at the Academy. It had been more along the lines of "Minion! Fetch me a beverage, minion!" and "You call that polished, minion?! Run fifty laps along the beach shouting 'I am a lazy doofus!'" instead of anything involving bugs or knotted leather. Really, it had only been bad for the first two days. After that even Noburi had mostly gotten it out of his system and was just having fun with it. And the thing with the fruit hat really had been funny.

Of course, there were also downsides to relaxing. Being kept constantly on the run had been nice, in a way, since it left him no time to think. Now that things were settling down he had the chance to really ponder on his mistakes and how bad things could get.

Staring into a fire after dark was a bad habit; it ruined your night vision and left you at a disadvantage if attacked. Still, it was comforting and relaxing on a primal level and if there was one place on earth where he was unlikely to be attacked it was here, in the middle of bloody nowhere with a jōnin sitting next to him and four concentric rings of traps set by a para—extremely thorough explosives expert.

The fire, of course, reminded him of Fire and the mess they'd left behind. Jiraiya hadn't killed them, or cut them off from his network, but it had been a monumental loss of resources. Definitely something to avoid the next time they had to interact with Jiraiya or one of his peers. Which they would have to, eventually; as the Sage had said, "A man may choose to leave the world behind, but the world may choose not to be left." The Elemental Nations weren't that big, and Jiraiya had already demonstrated the ability to summon them through the pangolins. Eventually he'd have another mission for them, another Arikada to deal with, and the team would be at risk again.

One of the logs popped and a shower of sparks whirled up into the night sky like tiny festival lanterns, burning hot and bright for an instant and then fading into blackness.

Hazō snorted softly, an ironic smile tugging at his lips. 'Burning hot and bright, then fading into blackness.' Wasn't that just a perfect metaphor for ninja life? Theoretically, the power to set the world ablaze but in practice far more likely to wink out in moments. Long periods of unrelieved tedium interspersed with moments of pants-wetting terror. Even simple things like traveling—hours and hours of struggling to keep your mind undulled by the pounding rhythm of your feet, occasionally interrupted by a few seconds of life-threatening explosions and flying steel when you ran into a border patrol or a chakra beast.

The chakra beast problem was pretty well solved for the moment; nothing non-sapient was getting through the myriad layers of Kagome-sensei's defenses. No, the real problem was that eventually they were going to need to go back to civilization and interact with other ninja again.

They'd actually been quite lucky with their ninja interactions so far. Things in Isan had been mostly calm...well, with a couple of notable exceptions. Their time in Konoha had been calm, with a couple of notable exceptions. Hot Springs....

Okay, maybe they hadn't been that lucky. Still, they were alive after more than a year on their own and that said something.

Eight years. That was what Akane's teachers had told her was the average lifespan for a ninja. Granted, that average was heavily skewed; on the one end you had people like the Hokage and Jiraiya who made it to advanced age. On the other end you had the massive numbers of genin who died in their first handful of missions. The ones who survived typically spent years being escorted around by jōnin or senior chūnin as the children gained in skill and power so that they could in turn escort the next generation of wet-behind-the-ears puppies.

The team didn't have that advantage. Sure, Inoue-sensei and Kagome-sensei were here to keep them safe, but most village ninja only went on missions every so often and they spent the rest of their time training with a vast array of expert teachers. The team was in the field constantly and although Inoue-sensei and Kagome-sensei were brilliant they could not compare for breadth of skill with the resources of a village. As a simple example, neither of them had an Earth nature so they couldn't teach jutsu that Hazō could use.

He frowned. Actually, what was Kagome-sensei's element? It had never come up.

Shrugging, he waved the issue off and finished polishing off the last of his stir fry while thinking. Where had he been? Right, vulnerabilities. The team lacked the training opportunities that a village could afford them. They lacked the easy access to supplies and weapons. They lacked the free passage through various nations that would be afforded to village ninja. They could build a secure base—certainly Kagome-sensei had done his best—but no static defense could protect against a serious assault by skilled hunter ninja.

He finished the last bite and set his bowl aside, chewing slowly on a piece of candied fruit from one of the Leaf ration packs. (They really did beat Mist's trail food all hollow.) His train of thought should have been depressing, but it actually wasn't. Sure, there were threats and yes, the team's growth was disadvantaged compared to that of village ninja. Still, that wasn't a death sentence, that was a challenge.

Well, challenge motherfucking accepted.

The fire crackled and popped as Hazō turned ideas over in his head for how he would protect his team. His team, who were busy enjoying the moment instead of dwelling on how dark their future could be and how to brighten it up. Keiko and Inoue-sensei were using long green sticks to toast slices of apple over the fire; Keiko held hers in both hands, apple slice down near the embers and a look of careful focus on her face. Inoue-sensei lounged back, arms folded behind her head and stick clasped between her toes as she lazily wafted her apple slice back and forth through the flames, clearly more interested in playing with her food than cooking it. Noburi was lounging against a log to one side, hands folded on his stomach and eyes drifting closed as he gazed sleepily at the stars. Kagome-sensei....

A quiet bang followed by a cackled "Ha!" announced that Kagome-sensei was busy cutting up logs for the fire. Hazō grinned; Sensei had started fiddling with the parameters of his shaped-charge seal lately—or perhaps had finally been comfortable demonstrating years-old variations, Hazō wasn't sure. By forming the angle of the blast into a very narrow 'cone' and cranking the intensity way down he'd created something that was basically a force axe. Chopping firewood was supposed to be Hazō's job but Kagome-sensei enjoyed it so much that no one had the heart to stop him as long as he agreed not to say, "See?! Explosions solve everything!" every time he brought in a new load.

The fire popped again, shooting more sparks into the sky along with several flakes of grey ash. Hazō's eyes automatically tracked them, a smile spreading across his face as the sight reminded him of his long-ago leap to the Mizukage's tower. The heat from Amatetsu's Thousand Yams Furnace had buoyed him up, letting him make the crossing from the ledge to the Tower that had seemed so impossible at the time, yet proven simple in the end. If only border crossings were as ea—

He sat bolt upright, mouth agape, as the answer appeared full-blown in his mind.