Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Red is the colour of truth

Among all the colours of the rainbow, it is the one with the longest wavelength, meaning it is the colour sharpest from the distance

It is the colour of ambulance alarms, the colour of the cheapest wine in her cabinet, the colour of stop signs

neon lights in the downtown china

It is the colour of blood and the colour of sunsets

the colour of end

It had always been your least favourite colour though, always associated with your mother’s red lipstick sneers and your father’s bloody knuckles. The colour smeared across the street and your head right now, vivid and hateful.

See the thing is, you do not regret it, even when you knew you couldn’t possibly survive. Not by a long shot. There were children in the way of a speeding truck that just wasn’t stopping. You drive your car between in the truck and the children. Absently, you recall that he is still speaking to you on your phone, panicked now, begging you to tell him what’s going on. You do not, of course you don’t, you never were that cruel. Something shatters in your chest, and you whisper a faint I love you, forgive me, move on to him. You wouldn’t regret this decision, not when you could save someone. It was a good death. But you couldn’t leave him behind without setting him free. He deserved better, better than someone so broken like you were.

The shards of glass in your hands dig deeper, became more painful. You feel delirious, like a fever dream you keep falling into. You can hear only bits of conversations, panicked shouts and cries. The sirens blaring cover everything else. There’s static in your ears, buzzing that grows stronger.

Your eyesight grows blurry now, the shades of sunset, blending together, just about to melt away. It was a beautiful sight, the last thing you would ever see.

Your eyes close.

The last thing you ever hear, is a plea, “…hold on…” You wonder that if someone said those words to you before, way back when you needed them, if you would be at a better place.

The sky has turned red completely. It looks like a dream, beautiful and illusive.

You fade away.

The world spins, round and round, you spin with it. You try to stand but you have no legs, no hands, no face.

Memories flash at you, some yours, some not so much. Each second of your life, paraded around on smoky screens, in perfect detail. You remember again, that for you, your childhood was a long wish to be somewhere else. You are thankful you do not feel enough to be embarrassed. Then come those days, days that ruined your life after it barely began. You try to move away, close your eyes. You find that you have no eyes. Only thing left of you was a tangible impression, perhaps a cloud of regrets. You find yourself pitiful.

Soon enough, the memories are about him, the best man you have ever known, the man you had grown to love like a soulmate. He looks as happy as the day you met, always so kind, gentle even with the sharpened and raw edges of what was left of you. On and on it goes, until you see the road, the truck, the car, the children and the crash. You probably think it is not advisable to be so detached from your own death. It doesn’t stop, of course it doesn’t. It seems to you that when it actually matters, you always choose wrong. It goes past death, and fades to your funeral. Which, astonishingly, is attended by more than him. At this point, you are sure that you have never been as popular alive, as you are dead. The children you shielded stand around, quite a few of them crying.

Off-handedly, you notice that you have been cremated, nothing left of you but ashes. Good, you prefer that, prefer not being left as a corpse in the ground. Your eyes turns to him, and he looks barely alive. There is no joy left him in now, no spirit left in him. He looks like those statues of stone, no feelings on his face.

Voices echoes around you, a hundred tones ringing together.

Do you regret it, yet?

You don’t. You have always been cruel, and you knew you wouldn’t stay, in the end. He should have known better than to get attached to someone so untethered as you.

(You are a liar. You have always cared too much, felt too strongly. You miss him so much, and it hurts to see him like this. Like he has no longer anything to live for. You are so, so sorry, you never meant for this to happen)

Everything you ever felt starts vanishing, all resentment and hatred, scant traces of content and happiness, like pappus of dandelions flying away. You come to view your life from a stranger’s point of view. Your own life has stopped mattering to you. You don’t care at all.

You don’t.

So be it, little godling, says the enchanting voice that almost makes you shudder in delight. Almost, of course.

You dissolve to dust.

It feels cold.

No, not the chilly kind, on the edge of spring. It’s the kind that seeps under your skin and rattles your bones. The kind that leaves you hollow, leaves you dying. But it shouldn’t feel so cold. It shouldn’t feel anything at all.

You open your eyes to a red sky. Blood red, like the colour you hate, and not the soft colour of the sunset you would have preferred to see. You feel like you’re underwater, watching everything around you from the side-lines, enclosed in a bubble. As a matter of fact, you are on the side-lines, of what seems like an entire damn town? With streets and streetlights and beautiful houses from south-east Asian courtyards from the feudal eras. Thinking about that, it does look like those districts that belonged to nobles.   

Beside you someone is dying. A lot of people are dead, actually. Torn apart, cut open so methodically that it is almost as beautiful as it is gruesome. But that isn’t what catches your attention. You hear crying, a child’s cry, to be precise. You wonder what is it exactly you’ve done wrong that children always seem not alright, around you.

You get up, move. It takes a lot of effort, and hurts like hell even when it shouldn’t, but you move. There’s a lot of wandering done, and you keep bumping into zombies and corpses. You find the source of crying, and the blood seems literally flowing here. You walk towards the child, crying so harshly that you see yourself in their place for a moment. You notice soon enough there’s someone monologuing, standing around them as if they couldn’t care less about the child on the ground. Only that isn’t true, because really, by now you know when people lie. That the someone, who is a child himself, really, despises himself for what he is doing, loathes restricting himself from comforting them. You move ahead. The boy doesn’t notice. Nobody ever does.

You kneel in front of the child, ignoring the aching in your chest and they notice you. Well, it is nice to be remembered sometimes. They look at you, and in the corner of your mind, you notice they’re half dead, and fully wishing to be dead. The other boy still doesn’t see you, and you are thankful for it. You are pretty sure that you couldn’t even fight a cockroach with the way you can barely breathe with the throbbing in your chest. You open your arms, and hum a lullaby only half-remembered. The child scrambles to you, and hides himself. He rocks himself mumbling things you catch only half of. You hide him in your arms, and turn your eyes towards the elder one. Your eyes catch red ones

WHatShApPEnIng…leTMeGo…wHatsHaPPEeNinG… savemeplease… leavemealone… ithurts…ithurtssomuch…pleaseleaveme-aloNe…imsorry…idontwannadie…pleasedontletmedieagain…no…pLeaSeDoNtHuRtMe …

It stops. You still have the child in your arms, crying but less hurt. You push his face in your shoulders and cough roughly. There’s blood on your hands. You breathe again, once more, second time, once more.

It starts again.

You scream.

You die.

---

You drown and you choke and you burn and you die, over and over again, tearing yourself apart in the cycle. You’re delirious and wondering how many times a person can die before they wither away. There’s a child on your lap and you are covered with blood and you don’t even know if it’s yours.

It stops again.

You spot an opening, and push the child away, into the unnaturally dense fog that has gathered somehow. Somehow, you know he will be safe. But you also know that there’s no place for you anymore. You are left here, alone again, with this nightmare of an existence.

The child disappears into the fog and people get up again. The boy kills them once more and it is like a bizarre cycle, winding and rewinding time. You know what is coming for you now.

[MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT--]

You look him in the eyes again, masochist that you are, and barely have time to ask, “Why…?” before everything glitches. You do not know yet, but the world spins backward for a moment, time turns, tides stop, the moon turns red and the sun black.

Reality gLitCHeS

Amaterasu smiles and Tsuki-Yomi laughs.

[The Sage won’t see you coming at all, you are their child after all.]

The world fixes the faults in the matrix, time starts again, and everything moves as smoothly as it could, and no one realises anything has changed

(Oh, but it has, something has changed and nothing will ever be the same again)

Yamanaka Inoichi looks at the tiny boy in front of him, younger and by far smaller than even his daughter. There is still blood on his yukata and hands and small flecks on his face. For all purpose he looks like those glaze-eyed pretty dolls Ino used to play with. Somewhere, the father in him flinches at the very thought of interrogating the Uchiha, nothing more than the bystander to the massacre, found blood-soaked on the red streets, blank and cold. The only survivor. They all had known that tensions had run high in the village, since Minato’s death, and had even recognized, distantly, that the Uchiha were being systematically isolated. Not even in his bloodiest nightmares had he ever thought something would like would happen.

He breathes, and speaks, “What happened yesterday night, Sasuke-san?” He doesn’t speak, which was fair enough. But he does lift his face from the curtain of hair he was hiding it in, and the sheer agony and betrayal and distrust in his eyes cut at him. No child of Konoha should feel unsafe in their own home. But the boy in front of him does, and why wouldn’t he? He’s had his entire life torn apart in front of him, everything he’d loved and lived for snatched away in the blink of an eye. By his beloved brother, no less.

Everyone worth their clearance rank knew the adoration the Uchiha heir held for his brother, the way Uchiha Itachi, self-proclaimed Pacifist had almost slit the throat of a drunk man who had dared to touch his brother. It had caused a huge scandal among those with clearance high enough to wade past the red tape and S-Rank secret status stamped on it. Sasuke-kun, Uchiha-hiko, to be precise, because if Itachi had been the future emperor, then the boy had been the prince, kept closeted and away from the world by the clan, as the second-born child in the main life in decades, the last happening during the Shodai's reign.

Sage wept; everything has gone to shit since the Yondaime died. They wouldn’t even let him assign him a counsellor. They want him stuffed back in the very compound he was tortured and betrayed; his family killed in front of her. He wouldn’t be released until he had given them answers, answers he most likely did not have. The very thought of an innocent and terrified child, kept locked in T&I for reasons he had no hand in, made him want to hurl. And the Sandaime didn’t ever protest, not that he had any trust in the spineless man their Hokage had become. Kami damn the village elders to Jigoku.

“Where is Uchiha Itachi, Sasuke-kun?”

He doesn’t want to do this. Not even the cruellest in T&I want to do this. Interrogate a traumatised child, an innocent child. A child of their own village. But he will, because he is a loyal shinobi of Konohagakure.

[And when he goes home, he will hug his child to his chest, wave away her protests, and tell her over and over again that he loves her, that she’ll be safe]

Everybody knows that someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

This is how Uchiha Sasuke died, in whispers no one heard.

What took his place was a ghost, someone who did not die when they should have. A patchwork of memories, thread of gold and mended just enough to stop them from shattering. A shoddy job, if you will.

A   D Y I N G   S T A R

[darling, sleep now, I promise you’ll be safe with me]

Chapter Text

Their eyes open up to white. The colour works wonders for their insanity. Someone is around them, just standing by. Too bad they couldn’t bother to care. They close their eyes again. Perhaps if they ignore it all, and wish hard enough, everything will just go away and never come back. That would be wonderful.

The stink of disinfectant hits them harshly. It smells like cold alcohol and chlorine, the crisp aftertaste of the air bitter on their tongue. That’s not what matters to them, actually. What truly matters is the scent of copper they can smell, under everything.

Everything goes numb. Somewhere to the left, and straight centre forward, there are people hidden, most likely jounins by their chakra signature. The ventilator keeps count

Beep. Beep. Beep. Silence.

[they can’t breathe]

They panic, suck in air, and exhale harshly. The nails of their fingers dig into their palms, and blood wells up, red vivid against the off-white sheets. The beeping grows louder.

[flashes of silver, blood on his blade— “run, run as far as you can, cling to your pathetic life, imouto.”

the disbelief, the betrayal—how could you, Aniki, make it stop---

“Hate me, imouto, you are not even worth killing—

WHO ARE YOU?

Uchiha Seira? But that’s not correct, your name is [ReDAcTed]

(Make it stop— Make it stop, please —)

Kaa-Chan is dead, Otou-san is dead, everyone is dead

_{Why, Aniki?}

Who are you?]

“Breathe kid, shit, slowly breathe with me. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven—”

This person, whoever he is, is very warm. It feels good. It almost feels safe (you’ll never be safe again, stupid girl— everyone is dead). Someone is whispering to softly, like Otou-San used to when he came late from work. Back when everything was alright (everyone was alive, kaa-chan was smiling, and Aniki was still Aniki and not a traitor.)

“Sleep, kid.”

She drifts off.

Uchiha Sasuke looks like Itachi, is his first thought, quickly erased, instead, like Shisui. He's beautiful like a marble statue, moreso than any Uchiha that he knows knew about. He is also, in the end, a kid, a tiny child who saw things more gruesome than Genma himself has.

At this point of time, Shirunai Genma is tired. There’s no fight left in him anymore, hasn’t been any since Minato died. Since he abandoned Naruto, Kakashi. Konoha had mourned their beloved Yondaime’s death, but they hadn’t been left hollow, left without a purpose.

He could still taste the ashes, the acrid chakra on his tongue, from the Kyuubi attack, could still picture everything that happened down to the second. Kushina’s dead body, nothing left of Minato, nothing left of both of them but their son.

He would be honest to himself, and say that he had hated the Uchiha, shallowly believed in the pathetic rumours created to discredit them. He did not show it, of course he was a good shinobi and could remain cordial on missions, but the instinctive dislike didn’t stop. Now, not so much, when all that was left of the second founding clan of Konoha was a mad missing-nin and a boy barely old enough to go to the Academy.

He is just standing guard, face hidden by is ANBU mask. A precaution against Uchiha Itachi coming back as much as a show of warning towards interested parties.

The beeping of the ventilator spikes rapidly. Panicked Breathing. Oxygen deprivation. Textbook case of a Panic Attack. He moves towards the mission target and starts to employ ANBU methods to calm the target. Hesitates. ANBU Bear fades and Genma comes to the surface.

“Breathe with me, kid. One. Two….”

Uchiha-san is crying, eyes still closed. From a nightmare perhaps, and something in him clenches at the thought of a child suffering. Perhaps Aoba was right about him being such a mother-hen, not that he would ever admit it.

His eyes open faintly, still so tired. He’s becoming a literal mother. Oh Kami, he’s going on probation for this, isn’t he? Nevermind, still worth it.

“Sleep, kid.”

A glance at Tiger and Rabbit calms him down. They will not be reporting him.

He’s a good kid, deserved better than what happened to him.

Come before me when you eyes like mine, otouto, is what echoes in their head as they come to consciousness once more.

Immediately, they wish they hadn’t. Their head aches like a thousand gongs set off together.

Fucking hell.

“Uchiha-san, I need you to loosen your grip. It is hurting your injury.”

They repeat, fucking hell. Where are they and what are they doing here? Nevermind that, what injury? And what the fuck is Uchiha?

YoU aRe uNworTHy oF bEIng UchIhA, OtOutO

CoMe daNcE WitH uS, UcHihA-hIko

YoU aRe UcHiha sAsuKE, SoN, nOBodY cAN hUrT yoU.

Their name was [ReDAcTed]. His name is Uchiha Sasuke.

They repeat, once more, what the fuck?

Their hands feel slippery, wet. They lift their wrists, see red. Blood welling up from cuts along their wrists and forearms. Seven, deep enough to kill someone. They’ll scar, they know; they had learnt it from their mother. Had learnt it by experience, have seen their mother bleeding in their bathroom, razor strewn carelessly, dripping crimson on the spotless tiles as she breathed her last.

Their hand is so small. Practically a toddler’s. Calloused, but thin and delicate and white. They hadn’t been white. They’d been brown, a colour they had loved, had learnt to be proud of. Their wrists start hurting, palms bloodying up. Their nails dig in their palms, bringing them back from another nightmare of a thought. 

They feel like an imposter, a ghost trapped in the body of a porcelain doll of a child.

Someone comes near, a shadow falling on them. They try not to flinch.

“Do you know where you are, Uchiha-san?”

“I don’t know”

They recall having parroted the same answer half a hundred times, painfully aware of nothing but the cold steel and the smell of copper, the smell of dried blood. And that’s the fucking thing, isn’t it? They don’t know anything. They don’t know who they are, where they are, how did they get here, why are they here, and why in the name of all gods are they still alive.

“Uchiha-san, I need you to look up.”

They do, look up, that is; and see a kindly woman smiling at them like everything will be alright again. But her eyes, aren’t smiling, cold and full of pity, and they dislike her immediately. Leave me alone, they want to say. Leave me alone, and go away, lady, maybe if I stay still long enough, I might fade away like everyone did.  They don’t of course, they are not that out of their mind yet. The insanity may catch up to them someday, but as people say, not today.

“How do you feel, Uchiha-san? Any pain?”

They feel like a truck ran over them. They feel like someone stuck a sword in their gut and set them on fire, only to sink them into the sea, the saltwater stinging painfully, over and over and over again. They feel…

“Fine.”

“That will be all, Yuki-san. I would like some privacy.”

“Hokage-sama, of-of course, I will leave now.”

“Yes, thank you for your service.”

The man in front of them is old, and there is no kinder way to say it, about to keel over in a scant few years. But whoever said appearances were deceptive was a wise man, and underneath all the kind and old act, was a sharp, sharp person.

Wait, did the lady say Hokage? What the fuck does that mean? With the respect and reverence the lady paid to old man, he might as well be a saint.  Either way, he is most definitely an authority figure, and pity for them, they have never dealt well with authority. Let’s pray they don’t fuck it up.

The elder in front of them starts to talk… “It is my sorrow to inform you that all the Uchiha were found murdered at approximately 8:47 on the evening two days before. The murderer has been declared missing-nin and a bounty has been placed, acting under the assumption that the culprit was Uchiha Itachi—

Everything numbs and their hands go painfully cold. Eyes flash in their vision, blood red and spinning over and over again, hateful and dismissive. Mocking laughter echoes in his ears, as she feels as if he is dying over again and again once more, this time in reality. He is so fucking tired. Tired of it all, already, doesn’t want to go on any longer.

He is still a child, he thinks, an innocent he implicated when he allowed Danzo his leeway. Two hundred fifty-four civilians, thirty nine of whom were children. Eleven babies, not even out of toddlerhood. Fourteen pregnant mothers, some of whom were even unaware of their pregnancy. All slaughtered without a shred of consideration. And the worst tragedy of all were Uchiha Itachi and his brother Uchiha Sasuke. The boy, no, not a boy, the shinobi wielded as an emotionless tool and the child surrounded by the ghosts of people his own beloved brother has murdered. All these deaths on his hands, just adding to the countless rivers of blood he had shed for his paltry attempt at peace.

He should have done more, he knows, intervened earlier. Maybe he could have even prevented deaths, had he ordered Danzo to stand down. But the matter of fact is that it would have taken a long long time to heal such a rift in the village. The distrust that has alienated the Uchiha would have turned into outright hatred when people would have heard of their plans of rebellion. He couldn’t afford Konoha looking weak after Kumo’s kidnapping.

He's an old man now. And the only thing he craves is to keep Konoha away from war. Minato should have been here, wearing his robes and wielding his power. The Hokage hat lies heavy on his head, weighed down by the countless lives he has discarded, countless lies he has hidden for the sake of greater good.

As he tells the last Uchiha of the deaths, he watches his eyes, empty and utterly tired. The boy looks like a veteran survivor, looks like he wants to sleep and never wake up again. He would have to put him on suicide watch, especially since he is to live in the ghost town that was once Kagami’s beloved home.

“The Uchiha compound has been cleaned up. All the Uchiha assets, liquidated or otherwise have been allotted to you, with only a quarter available until you make genin. I am sorry to inform you that all your fallen kinsmen have already been given the last rites, but you are free to pay your respects. My sincere condolences.”

The boy says nothing. Just stares at him with blank eyes. He turns, perhaps to give privacy, perhaps to flee from the accusations he can read on his face. Just as he is about to leave the room, he hears a soft whisper.

“Were they burnt?”

And that stops him short, because he remembers well Kagami telling him that it is custom for an Uchiha to be burnt on a pyre, ashes scattered in the Naka river for it allows to the pure lands, otherwise they are left wandering as ghosts.

“No, Uchiha-san, they were buried.”

[Later in the privacy of his office, he will request the presence of Team Ro’s leader. He will find ANBU Captain Hound, Uchiha Itachi’s direct superior kneeling towards him.

“Uchiha Sasuke has been put of suicide watch. Your team will take over turns in the watch for 14 days from when he is discharged. Under no circumstances is he to be left unsupervised with anything he can use to hurt himself. You may show yourself as needed. Is that understood, Hound?”

“Copy that, Hokage-sama.”

“You may leave.”]

Minato, Biwako, my beloved wife, forgive me, there was nothing I could do.

It is all for the good of Konoha.

Chapter Text

Dear god, it’s an actual, hundred percent real ghost town                                     

The thought is amusing to them, and it is also the only thing that is stopping them from breaking out in hives. From both the still present flecks of blood on the street and the blatant so-called shinobi that felt like dying embers following them around, from the moment they had been escorted from the hospital.

Their attention is once again drawn towards the red stains on the grey walls, as they make a valiant and commendable effort to ignore the intruders. The red won’t come out, not unless they break down the whole damn thing. And they don’t think they really want, or can to do that.

Would laughing in hysterics get them politely escorted (read: dragged by their feet) back to the hospital? Perhaps this time in the mental illness ward, they haven’t had time yet to visit the one in this hospital.

Yes, the answer is yes, they would be dragged and handcuffed to the hospital, and perhaps even declared insane. From their current observation, they very well might be kept alive only for the sake of new Uchiha babies with their pretty red eyes.

Which, reminder to come back to the red eyes later (or better yet, never).

Where were they again?

Yes, the stains. They honestly don’t have the will-power to keep looking at the blood in HD with their brand-new laser eyes.

(Sharnigan, you idiot, the exasperated part of their brain whispers.

But hey, row, row, row my boat, dashing down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily, ignoring the voice in my head is the life-long dream)

Tenzo watches the Mission Objective walking slowly through the dead zone that is the Uchiha District. His focus is on the subject, but he cannot help but look around the district, for as far as he can, with his bird’s view.

Whoever they had chosen for cleaning the district, was lazy, incompetent, or deliberately held a grudge against the Uchiha.

The first two categories were out of question, the staff were veteran genin. And the last seemed more likely by the minute. He could count quite a lot of people with a bone to pick with the Sharingan clan, the Uchiha has made quite a lot of enemies, not just in Konoha, who were overjoyed at the prospect of their fall. One of whom was Shimura Danzo.

Shimura Danzo, who was the rotten branch of Konoha an extremely esteemed elder, one respected by many, many people.

Danzo-sama was a dangerous master, and an even worse enemy, this, Tenzo knows from experience. Even the thought of his past makes the null seal on his tongue burn with phantom pain, makes the surgically repaired part of his chakra coils threaten to burst of control, in anger, or perhaps in fear. His control over Ne, over Root was absolute, and his connections immaculate.

He would do anything and everything to keep Konoha safe.

(to keep Konoha in his control. The safest hands were your own, after all)

So yes, Tenzo understands pities Uchiha Sasuke

Steadfast in their ignorance of the red stains, they go through each house, one by one, room by room.

If there’s one thing, they can definitely state, it was that the Uchiha had good taste in style. Not colour, obviously, everything was in shades of red and black like the houses were Targaryen fanatics. Not that anyone here knew that what Targaryen meant. But the style was pretty brilliant, all rustic and old Japanese. If they hadn’t known this was reality, this would have been a pretty convincing cosplay.

(Oh, how they wish it was a cosplay)

But, back to the point.

The Uchiha, they were coming to understand, were somewhat a breed of feral magpies. A cross between feral cats and magpies, really. Prone to hoarding every shiny and interesting thing they come across, and defending their hoard like a feral cat, way more possessive than even a dragon.

For all their stoicism, and that bullshit about what they think was about suppressing their reactions, any Uchiha worth their whirly-eyes would have torn apart anyone who touched their collection without a thought.

And what a shiny hoard it was, a treasure trove to distract them from the breakdown that was barrelling towards them like a train with no breaks. They had gone through no more than three houses, and it is already late evening. And their hands are full with treasures and scrolls they gotta go through. No one would mind if they skip the shitty child-soldier churning machine they call the academy, would they? They’re traumatised, after all.

No? Well, it’s not as if they give a damn about others’ opinions.

Now to feed themselves. There might be something that ain’t rotting, after all. Probably stored under those runes that read like kanji to them.

(Isn’t that a relief, that they can read? If they were illiterate, they just might have slit their throat in sheer frustration, a chance of landing in a worse reality or not.)

And also, to see what they can do about the blood on the walls. There might be a hardware shop around here, right? They gotta make use of their hard-earned and freely downloaded skills, and stay as busy as possible to avoid the oncoming breakdown.

Where’s do you find a functional kitchen, by the way?

Jin, for all his bluster and scowls, is a tired old man now, an old man who lost all his family in the Kyūbi’s rampage. His son had been the first one to go, a freak of mistake no cared about because Reiji wasn’t a shinobi. Kazane, his beloved wife had passed away soon in her sleep, leaving him alone with all their grief. He had nothing but Hādou-easutoa, his hardware-weapon shop, Kazane’s pride and joy, and the only reason he didn’t go to sleep and never wake up again.

The store had an old routine by now, all his customers mostly regulars or shinobi who didn’t give a damn about his attitude. So, imagine his irritation when the store bell rings to show a tiny child, cute like all children seem to him these days, entering his shop. What fuck-up of a parent sends a kid to a weapon shop, especially for the shinobi? He is quite ready to shout at someone, preferably not the tiny idiot before he catches the sight of the kid’s face.

Dark curly hair that looked navy in the artificial lighting of his store, and those black eyes he’d recognise anywhere. An Uchiha, the last loyal Uchiha, they called the kid. More like the only one the madder Uchiha didn’t snap and murder.

Look, he does not care about any Uchiha, at all. Prefers to stay away from them and not have them even enter his shop. But for all the faults of the dead clan, this one is a child. A child that resembles his Kazane, who had the same curls and nervous tell of digging his nails in his palm.

 All his irritation fades away when he notices the gauntness of his face and the way his wrists are so thin. Huh, he’s going to soft in his old age, isn’t he?

“What is it, kid?”

The kid startles, understandably jumpy. Now if the boy is here, alone, without any supervision, and grand plans of revenge that need weapons, he just might fight old Sarutobi. He was a chunnin, and stood not a single chance against the Hokage, but he is so very sick of children dying so young.

“Do you— do you have some paint?”

That suprises him, and he whips around to face the boy. He is so obviously lost that it is almost painful to look at, hesitant and nervous. But he wasn’t even sure that he heard correctly.

“Paint?”

“Yes, Shopkeeper-san. All … all colours, except black, please.”

“What d’you need paint for?”

The kid’s expression twists, and then smooths out just as quick. This is starting to become suspect, now.

“Uh, to paint? Paint the walls. They didn’t clean them.”

Clean them, what?

Oh.

Jin is this close to fucking it all and fighting the Hokage. The man didn’t even have the decency to clean the compound? Konoha was not supposed to be like this, it was not supposed to be so negligent and cruel. He wishes yet again that that the Yondaime Hokage had not died. Kazane had been so sure and hopeful of his potential, and his beloved wife was always, always right.

His bones ache at the very thought of Kazane reading everyone the riot act and Jin is tired.

“Come, boy. Let’s find you some paint. And some food. For Kami’s sake, you look like you’ll collapse any second.”

The sunrise on what was once a grey wall looks beautiful, and it’s nice to know they haven’t grown too rusty in their art. It is soothing to paint once more. They had long left the hobby, out of spite or maybe they just grew up, but they had forgotten it was so relaxing.

They were thankful to have the original’s memory, or by now they would have been thrown into the T&I- again, if they started asking for god kami forbid– directions.

Most people stayed well out of their way, obviously pitying them. Some well-wishers, or nosy old women started towards them, but it was easy to dodge them. Or maybe they showed their big black eyes, blank and empty and guilted them into staying away.

Jin reminded them of someone, someone who was just as much of a grumpy grandpa. He doesn’t quite remember who… his memories are fading away from his forefront slowly.

Red Signal, turn immediately. You want to avoid the inevitable train of breakdown, not give it more fuel!

Their hand aches, but it is a pleasant kind of tiredness, one that doesn’t make them feel as if they need to fall into bed and sleep until the end of eternity.

Dear Reader, by now, it must have been obvious that they were a gen-z neurodivergent, anxiety-wrecked, artistically inclined nerd, not to mention their melodrama and angst. Which, tbh, is Not Ideal for a character in the- what was it again- shinobi world. Add to that the fact they barely knew what the hell was going on, disaster was imminent.

Wait a second. Weren’t they supposed to be the villain? The hell are they going to be a villain. That’s the easiest way to get killed in a world where toddlers play with knives. On second thought, maybe they should be a villain. This time, courtesy pain, death might even stick.

His hand ached from the sheer paperwork he goes through. It had only increased when all the complaints directed towards the Uchiha now go to him. If the clan had to field complaints this whiny or the scant vicious ones, he almost understood why they wanted to rebel. For Kami’s sake, his baby grandson is not that pathetic. Next time anyone has to be a martyr, it is going to be him, duty be damned.

“Hokage-sama”

Sarutobi Hiruzen did not look up from his paperwork, nor was he startled. If his ANBU could surprise him, he might as well give up being alive.

“Report, Tiger.”

He feels the ANBU bow.

“Hokage-sama. This one has not seen any trace of Missing-nin Itachi. However, the walls of the Uchiha compound were not cleansed properly, and this one suspects it was done in deliberate maliciousness. Should this one give an order of re-cleaning?”

Oh, Danzo, you never learnt to let go of your grudges. However, the blood would be a good incentive for the council to shut off the compound, not one of them would want to pay from their pocket. Hmm...

“No, let it be for now. How is Uchiha-kun? Any risk?”

Tiger hesitates. Hiruzen looks up, faintly alarmed. They would tell him if was something urgent, but Tiger is not one to bandy his words.

“The Mission Objective is … painting, Hokage-sama.”

Pardon?

“The subject has bought buckets of paints from Kazane’s Hādou-easutoa and is covering the walls with pictures. The subject does not seem to be at risk of self-harm or suicide.”

Oh, he said that out loud. Painting… is not as bad as plotting revenge, as they were expecting the boy to do. They have next to no information about him, who was kept cloistered in the compound when not at the Academy. Which put Ibiki in a snitch, and gave him yet another headache to deal with.

All they know was that the boy, while not the genius Weasel had been, was diligent in his studies, scant months a student that he was, and particularly beloved by the Uchiha clan. The clan had thrown a huge celebration on the account of a second child being born to the main-branch, which hadn’t happened since Senju Harishima-sama’s time. The celebration had been cut short by the Kyuubi’s attack, but would have continued otherwise.

They really needed better analysts, now that the Uchiha were dead and the other analysts lacked the perfect memory of Sharingan. Painting, for kami’s sake?

“Dismissed, Tiger. Send in the next report written.”

Might as well add to his paperwork. Still, he was glad that the boy was still sane. Otherwise Weasel might have gone of the handle and burnt down Konoha for good.

“Hai, Hokage-sama”