Chapter Text
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It rains, it pours, it rains, it pours.
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It was raining.
Of course it was raining. Because if there was one thing Hound’s missions guaranteed- other than mortal peril- it was miserable weather.
Otter sloshed through knee-high mud, soaked to the bone, trailing behind the rest of the squad like a wet and resentful duckling.
“You know,” he said cheerfully, “if I die of trench foot out here, I hope someone writes that on the memorial stone. Just- ‘Otter, beloved menace. Perished via swamp rot.’ Has a poetic ring to it.”
Ahead of him, Hound- infamous mask, slouch, and all- gave no indication he’d heard. But Otter knew better. That slight twitch of the gloved hand? Oh yeah. Hound heard him. And was ignoring him. As per usual.
Otter loved a challenge.
“Honestly,” Otter continued, voice just loud enough to carry over the patter of rain on leaves, “I feel like this whole ‘don’t step on the paper tags or you’ll explode’ part of the mission really could’ve been in the briefing. Because, like, I definitely stepped on two. Maybe three. Is there a countdown?”
“Four,” murmured the team medic- Raccoon- without looking back. “I counted.”
Otter squawked. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?!”
“We were hoping natural selection would kick in,” Badger said. She was limping slightly, but still had the energy to sound deeply, soulfully tired of his voice.
“I can’t believe you’d all just let me perish. You wound me,” Otter gasped.
“Otter,” Hound said suddenly, voice low and even. “Eyes up.”
Otter froze.
Immediately, his flippant posture dropped, and he straightened- shoulders tense, fingers brushing the hilts of his kunai. They were close to the rendezvous point. The black market caravan was late.
That was never good.
Otter activated his chakra-sensing technique- basic, just above chunin-grade, but enough. He didn’t get much. That was the problem.
“I’ve got dead air,” he muttered, scanning the treeline. “No movement, no chakra spikes.”
Raccoon frowned. “Could be suppression seals.”
“Could be an ambush,” Hound muttered.
It was.
—
Anbu Otter was perhaps the most… average ANBU out there.
He wasn’t flashy like Falcon with his Genjutsu flourishes, didn’t have Cat’s regenerative cells, or Snake’s charming little vials of death. And unlike Hound- who could track a moth on a moonless night through a mudslide- Otter’s tracking was just “above average” enough to find his missing sock in the laundry room.
He did his job. Turned in his reports (on time, like, 60% of the time). Got along well enough with his squadmates. Kept his locker tidy- he even alphabetized his kunai by grip texture.
He had his quirks and was a bit twitchy like every other well adjusted shinobi.
He was a regular, reliable cog in the massive chakra-fueled death machine known as ANBU.
Okay. Otter might have lied a little bit. He had one special ability. It was great, really, he had the great, great, great ability to be unequivocally, absolutely, fantastically-
Annoying.
Otter was able to be annoying to anybody, anything. He can shut up, if he really wanted to. But he had the ability to be annoying in an irritable, nose itching, aggressive way that just-
Pissed. You. Off.
And when people got pissed off, they got sloppy.
Otter used this, as any good shinobi would, to his advantage.
—
Like most of Captain Hounds field missions, something always had to go, well, not according to plan.
Fifteen minutes later, the squad was split. The trap had been elegant- genjutsu layered over real terrain, chakra-flare mines disguised as wildlife. They weren’t the target; they were bait.
Otter landed hard against a tree trunk, ribs groaning, as a barrage of kunai pelted the bark above him. He ducked, rolled, and came up beside a rogue nin twice his size and covered in red tattoos.
The man grinned. “You the decoy?”
Otter smiled.
“Oh, you wish I was just a decoy.”
(Otter was definitely just the decoy. But the enemy didn’t need to know that.)
He dropped a flash bomb- not to blind, but to irritate. Otter had swapped the powder with powdered wasabi. It filled the air with a nose-stinging fog that made eyes water and throats seize.
The rogue coughed, snarled, and slashed wide- sloppy. Good.
Otter sidestepped it, flipped onto the man’s back, and grabbed hold of both ears.
“WHAT’S YOUR OPINION ON ARTIFICIAL FLAVORS IN INSTANT MISO?” he yelled, inches from the guy’s ear.
The rogue screamed. More in confusion than pain. He twisted, trying to throw Otter off.
Otter held tight.
“I’M JUST SAYING, IF IT DOESN’T FERMENT FOR SIX WEEKS IT’S NOT REALLY MISO!”
The man tripped over his own feet, slammed backwards into a tree, and Otter rode him down like a demonic backpack.
When the others found him five minutes later, the rogue was tied up with his own pants and sobbing something about “fermentation lies.” Otter was crouched beside him, doodling little sea otters in the dirt with a stick.
Hound squinted at the scene, unreadable. “What did you do?”
Otter looked up, blinked sweetly. “Just bonded over food preferences.”
Raccoon leaned in toward Badger. “That’s the third one this week who surrendered after thirty seconds with him.”
Badger just sighed, shaking her head.
—
Otter is average. Delightfully, infuriatingly average. So why is he in Torture & Intelligence ?
He’s currently handcuffed to a chair in Konoha’s T&I Division, with the department head glowering at him across a very intimidating metal table.
“Otter,” said Morino Ibiki, voice like gravel soaked in sake. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Otter blinked, big violet eyes innocent beneath his cracked porcelain mask. “Free dental?”
Ibiki didn’t blink. “Try again.”
“Because I’m too beautiful and the rest of the ANBU are jealous?”
Ibiki cracked his knuckles. “Third try.”
“Okay, okay,” Otter said, lifting his cuffed hands in mock surrender. “Maybe I slightly infiltrated a minor- tiny- black market ring during my patrol yesterday. No big deal. There were like three guys. Four if you count the unconscious one in the barrel. But he was fine! Probably .”
Ibiki’s eyebrow twitched. That was his tell. Otter took note.
“You weren’t assigned to infiltrate a black market ring, Otter.”
“No, but it was there, and I was there, and honestly they were so rude. One of them said my mask looked like a possum.”
“It does,” muttered one of the junior intel officers behind the mirror.
Otter beamed. “See? I told them it looked like a possum too when I was first assigned. I was actually kinda excited thinking I would be called Anbu Possum, ya’ know? Possums are so cute. But then no- its an Otter? Like who even painted this mask.”
Ibiki exhaled slowly like an exasperated mother yelling at her children. “Explain how you managed to take down an entire criminal network with nothing but a crate of cucumbers and three sets of wind chimes.”
“I improvised,” Otter said proudly.
“You improvised a headache, Otter,” Ibiki growled. “You psychologically wore them down until they were begging to be arrested.”
“Exactly,” Otter said brightly. “Strategic psychological warfare via interpersonal irritation. It’s a legitimate tactic.”
Ibiki gave him a stare that could strip paint off a scroll. “You sang the same chorus of ‘99 Dead Rouge- Nin- on- the- Wall’ for eight continuous hours.”
“I hit the high notes.”
“They wept, Otter.”
“I made grown men cry. Honestly, I’m kind of proud.”
Ibiki leaned forward slowly. “Do you want to be transferred here?”
“Oh no,” Otter said quickly. “You guys are great but your coffee is terrible. ”
Ibiki let his head fall into his hand.
“You see, Agent Otter. “ he said, voice pitch-perfect professional. “Some shinobi use chakra-enhanced taijutsu. Some use poisons. You weaponize the power of being Absolutely Insufferable. When people are annoyed, they get reckless. They slip. They make mistakes. You are the shinobi equivalent of a pebble in a shoe during a 40-kilometer march.”
Ibiki looked up with the deadest of eyes.
“We can use someone like you on the team.”
Otter let out a nervous laugh.
This wasn’t the first time T&I tried to recruit him.
“We can clear that mark off your record Otter- clean slate.” Ibiki bribed.
“I didn’t even do anything bad!” Otter whined childishly. “Are you still on about that one time? It was a harmless joke! For moral!”
“You used a S-level transformation jutsu to turn into a police station vending machine.”
“I blended into my environment. Classic shinobi technique!”
“You then repeatedly denied them their snack requests.”
“Would’ve been unethical to accept ryo from fellow members of the workforce.”
Ibiki stared.
Otter blinked. “Okay, and maybe I replaced their coffee with spicy tea. But only once.”
Ibiki stood up, walked to the door, and said over his shoulder, “You’re being re-assigned to Hounds squad for field deployment. Effective immediately.”
Otter’s grin faltered. “Wait- Hound?”
Otter felt his vibe crash. Hound was such a slave driver. His team missions always had the highest possible chances for death. Ugh.
Ibiki smiled grimly. “Get out of my sight.”
—
The squad barely had time to regroup before the second wave hit.
This time, it wasn’t just rogue shinobi. It was the caravan itself- an armored monstrosity of chakra-treated steel, rolling through the forest like a centipede with wheels. Mounted seal turrets on its sides began hissing to life, priming with a distinct crackle that screamed explosive tags in bulk.
Hound gave a hand signal. ‘Engage. Disable only.’
Badger vanished with a flicker, Raccoon flanked wide- silent and fast. Otter didn’t move.
He just stared at the caravan.
And grinned.
“Oh-ho no. You don’t get to be the one normal part of this mission,” he whispered, cracking his neck.
He dropped to all fours and scuttled into the underbrush like a demented forest creature. A moment later, there was the telltale pop of a smoke tag going off- but instead of smoke, a thick black gas spilled out and stuck low to the forest floor.
“What did he do now?” Badger hissed through comms, covering her mouth.
Raccoon coughed twice. “That smells like- wait. Is that… ?”
“Spoiled fish oil and cat shit,” Hound muttered, deadpan. “And mixed with skunk glands. Probably.”
Otter’s voice crackled cheerily into comms. “I call it Mist Technique: Stink Variant.. Let’s see who’s got a weak stomach!”
Inside the caravan, the mercenaries began shouting- gagging- one even tumbled off the side, clutching his throat and wailing.
That’s when Otter made his move.
He didn’t go for the front. Or the back. Or even the wheels.
He rattled underneath the vehicle, clinging to the undercarriage with chakra-sticking soles like a particularly stubborn barnacle. Then, as it rolled forward sluggishly, he began humming to himself.
A true battle tune. A chakra focus mantra.
Inside the caravan, someone shouts, “What is that sound?!”
A precious melody of konohas favorite bedtime lullaby ‘The Little Kunai.’
Otter began slapping paper bombs on the underside in time with the beat.
The entire vehicle rocked.
Boom.
The tires burst. The front seal turret exploded sideways into a tree. Someone launched themselves out the side window, coughing and crying. Raccoon darted in, tranquilized two of the panicked mercs. Badger took down a third with a silent jab of a pressure point in the neck.
Otter jumped out from beneath the wreck, landed in a soggy skid, and rose- absolutely drenched, gear sloshed with mud.
“Target disabled,” he said cheerfully.
A hatch at the top of the caravan slammed open- and out crawled a final figure. Tall. Armored. Glowing with sealing tags stuck to his arms that sparked with stored chakra.
Otter sighed. “Oh good. A mini-boss.”
The man snarled, forming hand seals. “You’re dead, you freak!”
Otter pulled out… a slipper.
“Listen,” he said, calm as a tea ceremony. “I was gonna hit you with a kunai. But then I remembered this thing’s got Velcro grip on the bottom and shame in every fiber. It’s what my mom used when I used to talk back. So.”
He charged.
The mercenary threw a fireball.
Otter dodged- barely- and chucked the slipper like a shuriken. It smacked the man square in the face.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Hound body slammed the enemy and tackled him.
Otter joined in for the assist.
What followed was not a graceful fight. It was not even really a fight. It was an onslaught of petty distractions.
Otter threw wet leaves in the guy’s mouth.
Hound punched the solar plexus.
Otter tied his shoelaces together mid-grapple.
Hound broke one of the guy’s arms.
Otter broke the other arm, and shouted an endless stream of trivia about sea otters’ mating habits- deeply disturbing trivia.
By the time the man was subdued, gagged, and tied to a tree with the torn-up remains of his own cursed scrolls and military grade ninja wire, Hound simply walked over and nodded once.
“Mission complete.”
Otter gave a finger-gun. “No fatalities. Five surrenders. One emotional collapse. And I only used two real weapons. That’s a record.”
“Otter,” Badger said, rubbing her temple, “we’re not measuring this in emotional collapses.”
“I am,” he replied brightly. “It’s the only way I beat Hound’s kill count.”
Raccoon patted Otter’s shoulder. “Let’s get home before you start singing again.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Otter warned, already humming.
—
Later, when the squad returned to the village (mission success: partial capture, no casualties…., target achieved ), Otter was summoned once again to the Hokage Tower.
Not T&I this time.
No, worse.
Mission Control.
Otter slouched into the office, still damp from rain, holding a paper bag of sweet bean buns.
Leopard rubbed their temples as he entered. “Otter.”
“Present!” he chirped, saluting with one hand and kneeling diligently in front of Leopard's desk.
“I received a report that you neutralized a jōnin-level rogue by screaming condiment theories at him.”
“I was also hanging off his neck like a haunted baby sling,” Otter added helpfully. “Tactical advantage.”
They sighed. “And the spicy fog bomb?”
“100% organic. Eco-friendly warfare, Leopard-sama.”
Otter snuck a bun under his mask and took a bite out of the delicious goodness.
Leopard stared at him. Then they opened a file, glanced down, and closed it again with a thunk.
“You’re getting field-certified for subversion and psychological ops,” Leopard said flatly. “Effective immediately.”
Otter choked on his bun. “Wait, that’s real? That exists?”
“It does now,” Leopard muttered.
He grinned wide, crumbs on his mask. “I always knew I was special.”
“Get out.”
—
Mission Debrief, Classified ANBU Records:
-Target secured.Contraband confiscated.
- Four mercenaries now requesting psychological counseling.
- One rogue shinobi reportedly refuses to eat miso ever again.
-Otter recommended for commendation. Again.
-Recommendation tabled. Again.
Addendum:
Hound’s only post-mission comment: “He’s effective. And deeply unsettling.”
Which, for ANBU… was probably the highest praise.