Tobirama laid out his supplies with brisk efficiency - ink and needles and charcoal-smeared paper to transfer guiding lines to his skin, a little bowl to mix the ink and another to clean the needles as needed - as Hashirama fluttered around him anxiously.

"Be quiet and let me work," Tobirama chided, transferring his seal to his left forearm with his paper, "I've had much worse injuries than gently stabbing myself a few thousand times, and besides, it's hardly the first time."

"Hardly the first - wait - since when - Tobirama, what are your other tattooes?" Hashirama shrieked.