The corridors of the fortress didn't smell like a castle; they smelled like a dying engine. The air was thick with the scent of burnt ozone and sulfur, an acrid, oily chemical tang that coated the back of Yomu's throat.
Clang-huff-clang-huff.
They weren't sneaking. Sneaking was for people who wanted to live. They were sprinting, a chaotic stampede of film equipment and terrified civilians, their footsteps echoing off the polished grey metal of the hallway.
Yomu clutched the heavy 35mm camera to his chest like a life preserver, his lungs burning in the thin, recycled air. He wasn't running for art. He was running because Makino was behind him, and the Director was currently scarier than the ninja.
"Move, Yomu!" Makino bellowed, his voice echoing with manic distortion. "The climax waits for no man! The ambient light is fading! We are losing the emotional temperature!"
A squad of Snow Shinobi burst from a side junction ahead of them. Yomu flinched, nearly dropping the lens bag, expecting a shuriken to the neck.
One guard stopped, raising a kunai. Yomu squeezed his eyes shut.
"Forget the civilians!" another guard screamed, shoving the first one forward. "The Generator Room is breached! The pressure seal is critical!"
The guards ignored them, sprinting past the film crew toward the distant boom-thrum of explosions echoing from the lower levels. They were ghosts running toward their own haunting.
"See?" Makino cackled, shoving Yomu forward. "Even the extras know their cues! To the stage!"
They reached the massive double doors of the Frost Sanctum. The seals had been blown open, the metal twisted outward like peeled fruit. Through the gap, a sickly cyan light spilled out, carrying the sound of high-voltage combat.
Zzzzz-CRACK.
"Go!" Makino commanded.
Yomu stumbled into the room, and his brain simply stopped processing.
It was a war zone. The "Throne Room" was dominated by a towering screen of ice that pulsed with a frozen, nervous energy. In the center of the room, on a dais that looked like a sacrificial altar, a hulking nightmare in black armor was holding a boy in an orange jumpsuit by the throat.
Dotō Kazahana.
He had stripped off his robes. He was encased in a skin-tight black body glove, his chest plated in matte-black steel webbed with luminescent blue tubing. A central core over his sternum pulsed with a sick, rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum—the heartbeat of a machine god.
To the left, Kakashi was a blur of silver and steel, holding off three armored ninja—Nadare, Mizore, and Fubuki—with a desperate, sparks-flying defensive pattern. Koyuki was on the floor, screaming something that was lost in the roar of the chakra exhaust.
It was terrifying. It was lethal. It was the end of the world.
"HOLD IT!"
Makino's voice cut through the violence like a director's megaphone. He didn't scream for help. He didn't scream in terror. He screamed with the offended authority of an artist who had spotted a boom mic in the shot.
"THE FRAMING IS OFF! YOU'RE BLOCKING THE KEY LIGHT!"
Silence slammed into the room.
It was an impossible pause. The violence suspended itself in sheer confusion. Kakashi froze mid-parry. The Snow Ninja lowered their gauntlets. Even Dotō, the tyrant of the ice, turned his head slowly, the blue tubing on his chest hissing as the pressure regulated.
"Setup! Now!" Makino barked, pointing to a spot ten meters from the dais. "Tripods! Reflectors! I want a low angle! Make the villain look titanic!"
Yomu's body moved before his mind could catch up. It was pure, adrenaline-fueled muscle memory. He slammed the tripod legs down onto the cold tiles—clack-clack-clack—and mounted the heavy camera. His hands were shaking so hard the locking screw rattled, but he tightened it.
"Reflector!" he croaked, his voice cracking.
The female crew member, tears streaming down her face, snapped the silver reflector shield open with a loud thwump. She held it steady, bouncing the cyan light from the ice screen back onto the dais.
Yomu glanced around. The samurai extra—the guy in the cheap armor—was gone. He had vanished somewhere between the hallway and the door, but nobody noticed. The crew worked with the frantic, terrified efficiency of people who knew that if they stopped moving, they would die.
Dotō looked at the lens. Then he looked at Makino.
The tyrant released his grip on Naruto's throat. The boy dropped to the floor, gasping for air, the chakra device on his stomach sparking angrily.
"A dedicated audience," Dotō rumbled. The sound was amplified by his suit, deep and resonant.
He reached up with a massive black gauntlet and brushed an invisible speck of dust from his breastplate. He adjusted the high collar of his body glove. He smirked. It wasn't a look of mercy; it was vanity. He liked this. He wanted the world to see him crush the rebellion in high definition.
"How fitting," Dotō purred.
Makino dropped to one knee, ignoring the deadly ozone smell of the chakra armor. He cupped his hands around his eyes, framing the shot.
"The lighting is harsh," Makino whispered, a manic grin stretching his face. "The mood is apocalyptic. Perfect."
He looked up at the dais.
"Dotō, you are the inevitable winter. Cold. Unfeeling. Absolute."
He pointed a shaking finger at the gasping boy on the floor.
"Naruto, you are the desperate spring. You are the weed cracking the pavement. Do not look at the camera."
Yomu checked the focus. The image in the viewfinder was sharp. The cyan light haloed Dotō like a demon. The red tally light blinked on.
Makino raised his hand, trembling with ecstasy.
"ACTION!"