Two weeks wasn't long enough.
Tatsuya sat in the cramped waiting area outside Yamamoto's office, watching medical staff shuffle past exhausted by too many patients and too few hands. The hospital's third floor was quieter than the emergency wing below, but that didn't mean peaceful. Research and administration happened here, the bureaucratic machinery that kept battlefield medicine functional.
He'd been summoned. Not the urgent kind that meant someone was dying, the administrative kind that meant someone was asking questions he might not want to answer.
The Kusa mission had been two weeks ago. He'd expected this meeting sooner, but a border patrol assignment had eaten a week, and Yamamoto's schedule had apparently been just as crowded. Now, finally, here he sat.
"Meguri." The door opened. Yamamoto looked the same as always—gray-haired, permanently tired, unsurprised. "Come in."
The office was small and practical. Charts on the walls, a desk buried in paperwork, two chairs that had seen better decades. Yamamoto settled behind the desk and gestured Tatsuya into the other chair.
"Your mission report from Grass Country." Yamamoto pulled a document from a stack, flipping it open. "The field treatment of the survivor, Sora, yes? Compound leg fracture, bone fragments in the tissue, significant vascular damage. Protocol would have recommended amputation."
"Protocol wasn't there."
"Clearly." Yamamoto's eyes didn't leave the report. "You stabilized the fracture with improvised splinting, managed infection risk with limited supplies, and preserved enough circulation to prevent necrosis over a three-day extraction." He looked up. "She'll walk with a limp for the rest of her life. But she'll walk."
"That was the goal."
"The goal of the protocol was to ensure survival. Amputation would have achieved that with lower infection risk and faster recovery time."
Tatsuya said nothing. They'd had this conversation before, in different forms, after the lightning damage case with Hayato. The argument hadn't changed.
Yamamoto set down the report. "You know why protocols exist."
"To prevent the average practitioner from making catastrophic errors."
"And you don't consider yourself average?"
"I consider results more important than process." He kept his voice level. "Sora walks. The protocol said she shouldn't. If I'd followed the book, she'd be learning to balance on one leg right now."
The senior medic was quiet for a moment. His expression was unreadable.
"You see protocols as obstacles rather than guidelines. You question, you adapt, you improvise." He leaned back in his chair. "That's dangerous in a hospital. A practitioner who doesn't follow established procedures creates inconsistency. Inconsistency creates risk. Risk kills patients."
"And inflexibility kills the ones the procedures weren't designed for."
"Yes." The word hung in the air. "It does."
Yamamoto opened a desk drawer, pulled out a different document. This one was thinner, official-looking, stamped with seals Tatsuya didn't recognize.
"Tsunade-sama authorized your Section Seven access. Basic clearance—combat medicine applications, field technique adaptations. You've been there almost every evening since."
"When missions allow."
"When missions allow." Yamamoto slid the new document across the desk. "This is an expansion of that access. Developmental archives. Research projects that were started and abandoned. Theoretical frameworks that never made it to implementation."
Tatsuya looked at the document but didn't pick it up. "Why?"
"Because dangerous is useful, in the right context." Yamamoto's gaze was steady. "Section Seven is where the hospital puts the questions it doesn't like. The practitioners who ask them, too." He shrugged. "Occasionally they find answers worth having."
"You're sponsoring me."
"I'm recognizing potential. What you do with it is your concern." Yamamoto stood, the conversation apparently over. "The developmental archives are organized poorly. Most of it is dead ends and failed experiments. But there are threads worth following, if you have the patience to find them."
Tatsuya picked up the document. Official seals he didn't recognize, and his name in someone else's handwriting.
"One more thing." Yamamoto was at the door now. "The work you did with Hayato, the chakra pathway bypass. I've been thinking about the theoretical foundations. The technique has applications beyond nerve damage. If you're interested in pursuing that line of research, there's someone whose work you should review."
"Who?"
"Kato. He died fifteen years ago, but he'd spent over a decade working along similar lines. Chakra-structured cellular templates—a way to provide healing information to damaged tissue instead of flooding it with regenerative chakra." Yamamoto's expression was distant, remembering. "The project was abandoned when he died. No one else could make sense of his notes. But you might."
He left before Tatsuya could respond.
---
The tea shop was small, tucked into a side street in the market district where foot traffic thinned and conversations couldn't be easily overheard. Jiraiya had suggested it, which meant it was probably one of his intelligence network's dead drops or something equally paranoid.
The Toad Sage was already there when Tatsuya arrived, slouched in a corner booth with a pot of tea and a distracted expression. The usual performance was muted—no boisterous greeting, no commentary about the serving staff. That alone said this wasn't a social call.
Tatsuya slid into the opposite seat. "You look serious, Jiraiya-sama."
"Rare occurrence. Don't get used to it." Jiraiya poured tea for both of them, the movements automatic. "The Yamanaka finished their work on your friend from Grass Country."
The Iwa jounin. Captured during the extraction, sealed, sent back for interrogation. Tatsuya had almost forgotten about it. The mission's aftermath had overshadowed the intelligence angle.
"And?"
"Complicated results." Jiraiya's voice was low, pitched not to carry. "No definitive evidence of a leak. The jounin's mission briefing included general information about Konoha's medical corps capabilities, but nothing that wasn't already public knowledge or reasonable extrapolation."
"But?"
"But he was specifically briefed on 'a Konoha medic with unconventional combat applications.' Direct quote. His counter-tactics weren't improvised, they were prepared. Someone told Iwa Intelligence that a medic who fights differently than standard would be in the field, and they developed response protocols."
The tea was bitter. Tatsuya drank it anyway, using the cup to hide the fact that his hands had gone still.
"That could be routine intelligence gathering. They see my techniques in one engagement, they develop counters for the next."
"Could be." Jiraiya didn't sound convinced. "Or someone is compiling information on shinobi with unusual skillsets. Tracking capabilities that don't fit standard profiles. Building a catalogue."
"For what purpose?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Jiraiya's eyes were sharp despite his casual posture. "Could be Iwa wants to know who's dangerous before they fight them. Could be someone else is selling information to multiple buyers. Could be a possibility I haven't considered."
"But you have a theory." Tatsuya set the cup down. "You wouldn't be telling me this over tea if it was routine."
"I have several. None I like." Jiraiya leaned back, letting the tension ease slightly. "The point is, you're on someone's list. Maybe several someones. Your techniques, your combat style, your survival against opponents who should have killed you, that gets noticed. And notice has consequences."
Tatsuya thought about the mission in Grass Country. The jounin who'd known how to fight a medical combatant, who'd recognized the forearm emission before Tatsuya had used it.
"What do I do about it?"
"First time I showed up in a bingo book, I was about your age. Maybe a year older." Jiraiya's smile was thin. "Spent six months jumping at shadows before I figured out the trick. You get strong to the point where coming after you costs more than it's worth, and they do the math and walk away." He poured more tea. "Usually. There's a sweet spot between 'worth targeting' and 'not worth the cost.' You want to find it before someone else does the math for you."
"Find the sweet spot."
"Or get so strong the cost is too high regardless." Jiraiya finished his tea in one long swallow. "You're doing fine, kid. Just... stay aware. The next time you face someone who knows your tricks, they'll have had time to plan."
He dropped coins on the table and stood. The serious mask cracked, just slightly, as warmth crossed his face.
"Minato's back, by the way. Got in this morning. He's complaining about sand again."
---
Minato was, in fact, complaining about sand.
"Three weeks," he said, sprawled across Tatsuya's floor like he lived there. "Three weeks of diplomatic escort duty in Suna, and I'm still finding it in places sand should not be able to reach. It's in my sandals. It's in my pouches. I'm pretty sure it's in my hair even though I've washed it four times."
"You're a jonin. Use a technique."
"I did. The sand came back. I think it's sentient." Minato rolled onto his side, grinning. "Missed you too."
It was good to have him back. Kushina had been by twice during the two weeks—once with food, once to drag him to training—but the apartment still felt emptier than it should. Even if Minato was currently leaving a fine coating of Suna desert on the floor.
"How was the mission? Besides the sand."
The grin faded, replaced by a quieter expression. "Productive. The diplomatic objectives were achieved—trade agreements renewed, border patrol schedules coordinated, all the surface-level stuff. But underneath..." He sat up, brushing dust from his vest. "The alliance is fracturing."