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The thing with throwing people in tight quarters and bloody murder and restricted flow, is that it makes an Other—and it makes an Us.
The oldest ANBU is Bear. Probably. She (and Shisui knows that’s who she is, whatever the rumors are these days) seems eternal: just as gruff the day Shisui was handed his mask as the day she’ll be when he hands it back in.
The youngest ANBU is… Itachi, now. Shisui hadn’t held onto the title long enough. Kage knows he tried. Itachi had pushed Shisui off the roster at that same time. This, at least, was to plan. If Itachi is to be in ANBU, then he’ll be with the team Shisui trusts to bring him back.
He doesn’t know how far that trust can take him.
Everything circles back to Councilor Danzou these days.
He leans against Tenzou, feels the warmth of his chakra and pulse. Knows he’s alive.
They drink soup in a room filled with nameless (he knows the names that matter), faceless (he won’t forget their faces) shinobi in various states of undress and awareness. A bare-chested woman that smells of poison snorts and grumbles as she slips off her bench and promptly falls back asleep.
He can bring Tenzou in. Kakashi might anyway, if Shisui pins him down long enough to warn him about the Councilor. He can tell Tenzou, who has never moved suspiciously (for an ANBU) and never moved to hurt Shisui. Only.
Only Shisui saw a bit of black ink on his tongue, the corner of a shape. And he’s seen that shape before. On a teammate that moved like a person, right up until they moved like a person. He could tell Tenzou. But Kakashi isn’t here.
And everything circles back to Councilor Danzou.