One more day....
One more day and he'd be assigned a new squad. Most genin are excited to be placed with a new team. That initial excitement, the dread, anxiety of it all, ho would be the new jounin mentor, would he like his teammates? The mind of a new genin was a strange one indeed.

Tashima how ever didn't fall into this catagory. He had been a genin for some time now, he went through teams like tissue paper. Stubborn and arrogant, Tashima wouldn't cooperate with any member of his squad if he deemed them weak or unfit. Time passed by and he was punished forced back to a special academy course to learn how to properly cooperate and learn to build the strong bonds required of any team. After all of that time he finally fond a team, one he could tolerate. They weren't ideal but they weren't unworthy of his trust or even his friendship, something he rarely gave out willingly. For over a year it seemed perfect, mission after mission, moment after moment, sweat and trial all leading to a bond and an attachment no one had ever seen from Tashima before in his life time. Life was good for him.

However the cold reality of the ninja world took his team from him and left him without his friends and his mentor. The only survivor of that mission. The whole mission still haunting him, filling him with dread and dismay. What happened that day? It was just a simple courior mission, get one document from one village to another. Nothing special right? Then out of no where the attack. A kunai with an explosive tag attached to it fell from the sky, giving them just enough to leap back before the explosion. Everything began to get hazy from there. He tried his best to recall it but all he could remember was hearing the sounds of metal clashing against metal and the cries of his friends. An image he'll never be able to wipe clean from his mind. Their mangled bloodied bodies pinned to the ground, kunai sticking out of the blood drenched clothes. His jounin leaping in front of him to deflect kunai and repeatedly telling him to run. Then he couldn't recall anything other than blackness. When he awoke he was in the hospital being treated.
Under orders, he took a leave of absence for recovery. Then just a week ago, he was informed that he was being assigned to a new team and he'd be resuming work. The idea seemed nice enough, but was he really up to it? Tashima couldn't say one way or another. He knew he had to return but would he allow himself to trust this new team like the last one. What if they too die? Old memories stirred up inside of him like a cinema.

He had no choice. If he was going to get back into the swing of things he might as well leave the safety of his dwellings. He hadn't left his home for over two weeks now. "If you dull, then as a weapon you are useless, trash to be discarded..." he said aloud as he looked in the mirror. His cold eyes met with his reflection. "Enough playing pretend. Get going" he spoke to his reflection as he tightened his headband and walked to his door. He placed his hand on the knob hesistating to open it.

He could fell the sweat from his palm coating the handle. His body shook without his command. He paused for a moment just starring blankly at the door before him. The scar on his back stung a constant reminder of his failure. If he had been stronger, they would've all survived. He clenched his other fist as he looked over at the portraits hung on his wall. His eyes focused on one. The painting that hung over the small shrine of incense and candles that had burnt out and melted covering the wood beneath. His old team all smiling and embraced by their sensei who held his arms over them. To date, the only picture ever drawn by him with eyes. He let a solemn nod and a faint smile before turning to the door. He took a deep breath and opened it slowly. The light from the outside world stung as he squinted his eyes taking a step forward. The cold damp air filled his lungs as he inhaled. The mist covered the environment before him.

He slowly moved off his families estate making his way towards the training grounds. The feeling of dread clawed into him. To anyone who saw him, he simply wore the same facial expression they knew him for. A comforting coldness he shielded himself with. By sealing away his emotional responses, he protected himself from the pain, at least, to a degree...