We are training and NOT (not) defecting

So here he was, the strongest genin in all of the village hidden in the mountains because of training and hallucinations and a troll from a world that existed in a universe ran by an old guy who liked men in tights and a fucking dead beat who disappeared from his fatherly duties. Yes, this man was an accomplished one and all of that was shoen through his outrages actions, like joining a group of criminals as a genin and being a genin at the age of nineteen but both of those things were of the utmost irrelevance now as the situation at hand begged his attention in every way form and fashion. It was not like he liked to do bad things but as bad was opinionated what he was doing now as a business could be good and the business of killing civilians was always good in a village as overly populated as kumogakure where everyone usually shoved their heads up their own asses. There was only one person of this village that didn't make Apostolos wish to end his own life instantaneously and that person was joining him in this venture and wasn't there just yet. There was a code, or an honor to the way their unison of this venture worked, but for now it was back to being time for business, and again, business was very very good. It had to be done though, in the fashion that made their intents the clearest and in a fashion that made them both look as eloquent and elegant as they truely were. His hands were fried from their ties within his cloak, the ones called pockets, and instantly placed upon the nearest of old men's necks. This old man specifically was one of very grissled status that reminded him of the first life he took on a mission not too long ago, or at least one he had invisioned himself taking due to the look and feel of all that happened with what was going on now and the image that this man's face took. His fucking eye, that one fucking eye was the same as it was in the story and in his life similarities usually meant tragedy, but he was the man to turn tragedies into melodies and place them over gruesomely overcatchy beats. Like the one of this man's heart. But now here he was calling out to the man whom he was here to meet. And the call out was an intense one." From the besieged Ardea all post, Borne by the trustless wings of false desire, Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host, And to Collatium bears the lightless fire Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire And girdle with embracing flames the waist Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste. Haply that name of chaste unhapp'ly set This bateless edge on his keen appetite; When Collatine unwisely did not let To praise the clear unmatched red and white Which triumphed in that sky of his delight, Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties, With pure aspects did him peculiar duties. For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent, Unlocked the treasure of his happy state; What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent In the possession of his beauteous mate; Reck'ning his fortune at such high-proud rate That kings might be espoused to more fame, But king nor peer to such a peerless dame. O happiness enjoyed but of a few! And, if possessed, as soon decayed and done As is the morning silver-melting dew Against the golden splendour of the sun! An expired date, cancelled ere well begun: Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms, Are weakly fortressed from a world of harms. Beauty itself doth of itself persuade The eyes of men without an orator; What needeth then apology be made, To set forth that which is so singular? Or why is Collatine the publisher Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown From thievish ears, because it is his own? Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sov'reignty Suggested this proud issue of a king; For by our cars our hearts oft tainted be. Perchance that envy of so rich a thing, Braving compare, disdainfully did sting His high-pitched thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt That golden hap which their superiors want. But some untimely thought did instigate His all too timeless speed, if none of those. His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state, Neglected all, with swift intent he goes To quench the coal which in his liver glows. O rash-false heat, wrapped in repentant cold, Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old! When at Collatium this false lord arrived, Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame, Within whose face beauty and virtue strived Which of them both should underprop her fame: When virtue bragged, beauty would blush for shame; When beauty boasted blushes, in despite Virtue would stain that o'er with silver white. But beauty, in that white entituled, From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field; Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red, Which virtue gave the golden age to gild Their silver cheeks, and called it then their shield; Teaching them thus to use it in the fight, When shame assailed, the red should fence the white. This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen, Argued by beauty's red and virtue's white; Of either's colour was the other queen, Proving from world's minority their right; Yet their ambition makes them still to fight, sovereignty of either being so great That oft they interchange each other's seat. This silent war of lilies and of roses Which Tarquin viewed in her fair face's field, In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses; Where, lest between them both it should be killed, The coward captive vanquished doth yield To those two armies that would let him go Rather than triumph in so false a foe. Now thinks he that her husband's shallow tongue, The niggard prodigal that praised her so, In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, Which far exceeds his barren skill to show; Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes. This earthly saint, adored by this devil, Little suspecteth the false worshipper; "For unstained thoughts do seldom dream on evil; "Birds never limed no secret bushes fear. So guiltless she securely gives good cheer And reverend welcome to her princely guest, Whose inward ill no outward harm expressed; For that he coloured with his high estate, Hiding base sin in pleats of majesty; That nothing in him seemed inordinate, Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, Which, having all, all could not satisfy; , poorly rich, so wanteth in his store That cloyed with much he pineth still for more. But she, that never coped with stranger eyes, Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies Writ in the glassy margents of such books. She touched no unknown baits, nor feared no hooks; could she moralize his wanton sight, More than his eyes were opened to the light. He stories to her ears her husband's fame, Won in the fields of fruitful Italy; And decks with praises Collatine's high name, Made glorious by his manly chivalry With bruised arms and wreaths of victory. Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express, wordless so greets heaven for his success. Far from the purpose of his coming thither, He makes excuses for his being there. No cloudy show of stormy blust'ring weather Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear; Till sable Night, mother of dread and fear, Upon the world dim darkness doth display, And in her vaulty prison stows the day. For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, Intending weariness with heavy sprite; For after supper long he questioned With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night. Now leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight; And every one to rest himself betakes, Save thieves and cares and troubled minds that wakes. As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining; Yet ever to obtain his will resolving, Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining; Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining, And when great treasure is the meed proposed, Though death be adjunct, there's no death supposed. Those that much covet are with gain' so fond That what they have not, that which they possess, They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less; Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain. The aim of all is but to nurse the life With honour, wealth and ease, in waning age; And in this aim there is such thwarting strife That one for all or all for one we gage: As life for honour in fell battle's rage; Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost The death of all, and all together lost. So that in vent'ring ill we leave to be The things we are for that which we expect; And this ambitious foul infirmity, In having much, torments us with defect Of that we have; so then we do neglect The thing we have, and, all for want of wit, Make something nothing by augmenting it. Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make, Pawning his honour to obtain his lust; And for himself himself he must forsake: Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust? When shall he think to find a stranger just When he himself himself confounds, betrays To sland'rous tongues and wretched hateful days? Now stole upon the time the dead of night, When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes; No comfortable star did lend his light, No noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries; Now serves the season that they may surprise The silly lambs. Pure thoughts are dead and still, While lust and murder wakes to stain and kill. And now this lustful lord, leaped from his bed, Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm, Is madly tossed between desire and dread; Th' one sweetly flatters, th' other feareth harm; But honest fear, bewitched with lust's foul charm, Doth too too oft betake him to retire, Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire. His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth, That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly, Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth, Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye; And to the flame thus speaks advisedly: 'As from this cold flint I enforced this fire, So Lucrece must I force to my desire.' Here pale with fear he doth premeditate The dangers of his loathsome enterprise, And in his inward mind he doth debate What following sorrow may on this arise; Then, looking scornfully, he doth despise His naked armour of still-slaughtered lust, And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust: Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not To darken her whose light excelleth thine; And die, unhallowed thoughts, before you blot With your uncleanness that which is divine; Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine; Let fair humanity abhor the deed That spots and stains love's modest snow-white weed. O shame to knighthood and to shining arms! O foul dishonour to my household's grave! O impious act, including all foul harms! should have; Then my digression is so vile, so base, That it will live engraven in my face. 'Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive, And be an eye-sore in mygolden coat; Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive, To cipher me how fondly I did dote; That my posterity, shamed with the note, Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin To wish that I their father had not been. What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy- Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down' 'If Collatinus dream of my intent, Will he not wake, and in a desp'rate rage Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?- This siege that hath engirt his marriage, This blur to youth,' this sorrow to the sage, This dying virtue, this surviving shame, Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame. 'O what excuse can my invention make, When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed? Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake, Mine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed? The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed; And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly, But coward-like with trembling terror die. 'Had Collatinus killed my son or sire, Or lain in ambush to betray my life, Or were he not my dear friend, this desire Might have excuse to work upon his wife, As in revenge or quittal of such strife; But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end. 'Shameful it is-ay, if the fact be known; Hateful it is-there is no hate in loving; I'll beg her love-but she is not her own; The worst is but denial and reproving. My will is strong, past reason's weak removing.- Who fears a sentence or an old man's saw Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.' " Maybe he had the wrong situationalized poem, but that unimportant for this situation. IT DID NOT MATTER AT THIS POINT. He had to get here and get his part done, despite Apostolos talking to himself.