The hideout beneath the Sound Village didn't have a time of day. It only had a constant, oppressive hum.
It was the sound of air filtration systems rattling in the walls, the drip of condensation hitting limestone, and the low-frequency buzz of chakra containment units. The air smelled of sterile antiseptic fighting a losing war against the ancient, earthy stench of a wet cave.
The fluorescent strip lights overhead flickered with a rhythmic zzzt-zzzt, casting strobe-like shadows that made the specimen jars on the shelves seem to twitch.
Kabuto Yakushi stood at a stainless steel table, pipetting a neon-green enzyme into a centrifuge. His movements were precise, robotic. He was a medical prodigy. He was a spy who had infiltrated the Great Nations. He was one of the most dangerous men in the world.
A single drop of condensation fell from a stalactite, hitting the metal table with a hollow plink that sounded like a metronome counting down his patience.
"Kabuto."
The voice rasped from the shadows, dry as old parchment.
Kabuto didn't flinch, but his eye twitched behind his circular glasses. He capped the vial.
"Yes, Lord Orochimaru?"
GURRRR-SQUELCH.
The sound didn't come from Orochimaru's throat. It came from his abdomen. It was a wet, churning noise, like a large animal moving through a sewer pipe. The vibration traveled through the floor, a tremor of hunger that rattled the glass beakers in their racks. It echoed off the cold stone walls. It smelled faintly of acid and raw meat, a scent that bypassed the nose and hit the back of the throat directly.
Kabuto's face went pale. He knew that sound.
"I require sustenance," Orochimaru stated, sitting on his stone throne. His arms hung uselessly at his sides, dead necrotic weights wrapped in bandages—the lingering curse of the Third Hokage.
Kabuto sighed, a sound so quiet it was barely an exhale.
"Of course, Lord Orochimaru."
Five minutes later, the cave smelled of boiled chard and disappointment.
Kabuto stood in front of the Sannin, holding a ceramic bowl filled with a greyish-brown liquid. He blew on a spoonful of the soup, watching the steam curl up into the gloom.
A film of congealed protein skin was already forming on the surface, wrinkling like an old scar every time he blew on it.
Cooling it, Kabuto thought bitterly. I am cooling soup for a legendary ninja like I'm a mother bird.
He held the spoon out.
Orochimaru leaned forward. He didn't open his mouth like a normal person.
Slither.
His tongue emerged. It was unnervingly long, pale pink, and muscular. It didn't just lap at the soup; it wrapped around the handle of the spoon like a prehensile tentacle. Thick, ropy saliva bridged the gap between his lips and the metal, glistening under the harsh lab lights like a spiderweb.
Snatch.
The tongue retracted, pulling the spoon into Orochimaru's mouth.
Slurp. Gulp.
Then, the tongue shot back out, holding the empty spoon, and offered it back to Kabuto. It was wet with saliva. A trail of digestive enzymes sizzled faintly against the stainless steel, etching a microscopic map of his hunger onto the utensil.
Kabuto stared at it. His face dropped into an expression of sheer, existential fatigue.
He took the spoon. It was warm and slimy.
The heat of the Sannin's internal body temperature lingered on the handle, an intrusive, biological warmth that made Kabuto's skin crawl.
"All these scientific instruments," Orochimaru hissed, wiping his chin with the back of his tongue, "and not a single straw?"
Kabuto froze. He looked at the centrifuge. He looked at the cloning tanks bubbling in the distance. He looked at the scroll containing the secrets of the Impure World Reincarnation.
"We... we focused on breaking the laws of nature, my Lord," Kabuto murmured. "We may have overlooked the... supply chain for bendy straws."
The hum of the air filtration system seemed to grow louder in the silence, judging him.
"Inefficient," Orochimaru grumbled.
Kabuto sighed in relief, turning to place the spoon back in the bowl. "I'll fetch one now from the upper levels. I shouldn't be lon—"
"No," Orochimaru commanded. "Continue."
Kabuto stopped. He closed his eyes. He silently screamed into the void of his own mind.
Then, he turned around, adjusting his glasses. The "Loyal Medic" mask snapped back into place.
"Okay!" he chirped, though his eyes were dead.
I hate my job, Kabuto thought as he dipped the spoon back into the slurry. I am a genius. I could be running a hospital. Instead, I am hand-feeding a snake man who refuses to chew.
The feeding continued in silence, punctuated only by the wet shhh-luck sound of the tongue.
Suddenly, Orochimaru stopped. His golden eyes narrowed.
"This lacks sodium."
"It is a nutrient slurry designed for optimal cellular regeneration, Lord Orochimaru," Kabuto recited, tapping the side of the bowl. "It is balanced for your current necrotic state. It's not supposed to taste good. It's supposed to keep your vessel from rotting off the bone."
He stirred the gray sludge, the suction creating a wet shhh-luck sound that was aggressively unappetizing.
Orochimaru stared into the broth as if it had personally insulted him.
"This flavor is... lacking spirit," the Sannin mused. "It reminds me of Yugakure."
Kabuto paused, the spoon hovering mid-air. "The Hidden Hot Water? Shall I send a team to secure resources? Do they have... salt?"
"No," Orochimaru hummed, a dark amusement coloring his tone. "Just a curiosity. I hear rumors of a boy there. A delightful little sociopath who claims to have found immortality through... prayer."
Kabuto raised an eyebrow. "Prayer? Like... a monk?"
"Like a fanatic," Orochimaru chuckled darkly. The sound was dry and rattling. "Imagine that, Kabuto. Immortality without science. Just blood and faith. Jashinism, they call it."
Orochimaru leaned back, looking disgusted.
"How messy. How... unrefined. To rely on a deity when one could rely on genetics. It offends me."
Orochimaru sneered, the motion cracking the dry, pale makeup around his eyes, revealing the raw, un-shed skin beneath.
Kabuto waited. "So... you don't want the boy?"
"I want nothing to do with him. He sounds tedious."
Orochimaru looked at the bowl in Kabuto's hand. He looked at the "lack of sodium."
WHACK.
The tongue lashed out. Not to eat. To strike.
It hit the bottom of the bowl.
The ceramic flew out of Kabuto's hand. It hit the stone floor with a wet CRACK.
SPLASH.
Grey nutrient slurry exploded across the floor, coating Kabuto's sandals and the hem of his pants. A piece of boiled chard landed on his toe.
The warmth of the soup seeped instantly through the fabric of his sock, a damp, sticky heat that felt like a betrayal.
Kabuto stood perfectly still. He looked at the mess. He looked at Orochimaru.
Orochimaru looked back, his expression one of bored malice. It was the look of a cat that had pushed a glass off a table just to see it break.
A piece of chard slid slowly down the wall with a wet drag, leaving a snail-trail of broth on the limestone.
"Oops," Orochimaru hissed. "My motor control... it slipped."
Kabuto took a deep breath. He held it for three seconds. He exhaled.
He pushed his glasses up his nose, hiding the twitch in his eye.
"...I'll find some salt," Kabuto whispered.