Village Restoration [M]

[Naitome]

_{Clean-up Time!
Rank: D.
Shinobi Required: 1-4.
Mission Information: The Shinobi World War was devastating, not just for the population but for the hidden villages as well. Some volunteers are required to pick up debris—such as broken glass, rock, and more—around Sunagakure no Sato. If there is time, some might consider replacing any windows that were shattered in the conflict.
Special Information: Repeatable.
Reward: 25 EXP & 500 Ryo.}


--|

<sub>He stood atop a rectangular black wedge of iron sand balancing on nothing at all. He floated; high above Sunagakure No Sato but still beneath the heavily overcast night, while a sandstorm batted itself furiously between a few dark clouds. A stirring of magnetic force bloomed out and searched the area, a feed-back loop of pressure that pushed and pulled while keeping his body stationary on a makeshift platform of powder. Down below, where the Hidden Sand Village stretched before him, Naitome's vision flickered from one site of destruction to the next.

He was in the poorest and most dilapidated district of Sunagakure, an area called Nirashi, where once monuments had stood but were now merely broken conflagrations of rock. The area was a wasteland. It had been evacuated months before, but the ruined caverns and abandoned buildings, the dust-filled ruins of homes and offices, the dome shells now disturbed only by rats and roaches were empty and filled with the ghosts of a great tragedy. It was his responsibility to rebuild. The iron sand platform descended in the wake of his own personal magnetic field, and he landed in an outcropping that at one point had been a hospital.

Most of the things broken in this pit were the very metal girders that had held the high structure together, and with the tiniest indication of Naitome's hands, 30 foot iron beams lifted themselves into the air. He directed them with his mind, his eyes taking on an unnatural glow that seemed to spread to encompass his body itself in a vibrant outline that struck a sharp contrast to his dysphotic surroundings. Around him, things settled into purposely organized place, as a cross section of metal stacked and re-stacked, forming rows in the pushed aside sand.

His right hand gestured at the air before him, and one of the iron girders that had been near pulverized in an explosion whose burns still marred its surface with soot, broke apart. It scattered in the wind. Grasped together as if held by an invisible fist; it was prodded and poked by the oldest power on earth channeled through Naitome's small frame as it became simply more powder. He closed his open hand into a tightly balled fist as the re-arranged iron became a sphere. Another movement of the genin's hands, and the sphere flattened to form a 90 foot by 90 foot inch-thick plate of iron.

It moved as if of its own accord, though it was still a slave to Naitome's mental commands, and made a large sweeping motion to clear the field of unwanted debris. Glass bottles, old food, containers and contraband and the skeletons of citizens lost to the war were brushed aside. The iron plate crashed into the ground, crushing everything beneath it, and perhaps serving as the base for some new structure.</sub>

[Naitome]

<sub>The night drove on, with the sounds of industry renewed for one brief moment, in one small section of the place he called home. The work was tiring, and as he felt minute collisions of magnetic energy coalesce into particles that broke into sound with a low hum, he lowered his hands, and let the collection of girders and metal braces sink with finality into their final arrangement. With his efforts, the first floor of what could now be a renovated building was done. He exhaled with his eyes closed, before opening them again and re-assessing what he'd been able to accomplish.

It was nondescript; a bare bones hollowed out frame with all the inviting sterility of a cage, but it was something. The mountain of trash garnered from many months collecting in a wind-blown pit was gone. The sand around the structure had been swept neatly to all sides and in some way, Naitome felt a distinct connection to this particular patch of the village. He had done this, made this into a slightly better place. He felt more...significant somehow. Proud that he'd contributed to the improvement of what he'd failed to defend.

I was still in the academy. He thought, reminiscing on the warning bells and chakra infused sirens that roared through the streets while the war punched through Sunagakure without remorse. Even if i had gone, I would only have gotten myself or someone else killed. And now its too late and the war is over and we are weaker than ever. But I am not just a wanderer, a nomad. I am...Zantetsuken. He bristled slightly with pride, shuffling through the vacant semi-walls of what he'd built, kicking garbage out of his path and staring up at the moon.

He'd learned of his kekkei genkai clan only recently, having wandered Kaze No Kuni the entirety of his life. He'd never known what to call the strange force of nature he'd always seemed in touch with, and even now, as he called a new construction of iron sand to form a 5 meter wide plate beneath his feet and rise in the air, he marveled at the wealth of history that had made such a mark within the village and its people. It made him feel regret that he must repair and remake, when it was his own ancestors that had first carved this village into the wild desert confident future generations would protect it from harm. As he rose on the plate of iron, tiny nervous flutterings of magnetic charge erupted in the ionized air, and gathered left-over shards of metal into a neat ball that followed him as he climbed higher and higher.

A block and a half away, he came to a stop near a grouping of homes that appeared permanently frozen in a distinct slant. Some incredible power had driven back the very brick and earth, and almost charred it into place. His personal magnetic field allowed him to 'taste' the residual chakra warping the space around the area. Naitome flew by an assemblage of broken out windows, desecrated hide-aways, and the remains of concert halls all dead and twisted in on themselves. He extended his dominion as far as he was able, as around him, the metal barely holding everything together began to sway.</sub>

[Naitome]

<sub>He pulled; a curvature in the magnetic spectrum that delayed a few precious seconds. Before commanding the metal sub-stratum of the distorted buildings to right themselves, it sparked with energy. He heard the groaning of their foundations rearrange. Stale air moved 'round brick and iron siding caked with sand. Spider-web thin cracks worked their way across several windows before they shattered, only adding to the debris complicating his task.

He sighed and moved closer, the metal plate below him broke off into a teardrop shaped globule of powder. The tiny iron sand cloud broke apart while Naitome stared with concentration, eyes squinting. It was broken down to its smallest component parts, until it seemed finer than the dust stirred by the sudden movement. This particulate cloud was pushed out. It impacted against each broken shard of window in a thin layer.

Embedding perhaps one or two tiny grains into each fragment of glass, his iron spread, coating everything in a metallic chakra. Following his silent command, the broken pieces rose in the air. They shakily assembled themselves into whole forms, appearing almost as if they'd traveled back in time. While he could not mend the pieces into their seamless former state, the iron-sand windows held.

He paused to observe his work. Minus their mosaic-like puzzle construction, they were for the most part transparent and functional. A makeshift solution, but one that worked for the time being, and made the process of restoration seem far more possible, if only cosmetic for the time being. The iron plate beneath his feet shifted, and he rose up and away yet again. He headed back towards the tower, dipping from one moment to the next to emit a surge of repelling force that swept away whatever detritus was in his path.

Near the old library, a grouping of incendiary grenades had reduced the third floor to a twisted curl of partially melted rust. In his wake, it straightened, shelves of renewed iron forcing themselves into rows and columns and pillars. The rows of cheap metal chairs and chains barricading the door were pushed away and arranged and Naitome jumped down to land on its cracked tile roof. He sat like this for a while, simply to survey what he'd left behind, to test if he'd made things better, or simply held back the inevitable destruction of Sunagakure. Looking out at a village now more whole from his presence, he was no longer sure if destruction was the Hidden Sands only destiny.

It's destiny could be shaped by its inhabitants.

It already had been.

[exit]</sub>

[Apple]