The boy is a threat. He possesses the Mangekyou. His brother had not awakened it until he was twelve; he is just six.
Danzo…
He is a risk to the village, Sarutobi!
He is a child.
Exactly why he must not be left to possess such power!
What would you have me do?
…The boy cannot be left with those eyes; we must seize them. I have seen him; the anger that burns in him is one that can only be quelled in blood. We cannot—must not—let that seed germinate!
…First, you massacre his clan. Now you desire to cripple him for crimes he has yet to commit? You are so hasty to sentence him, Danzo. Why? Does the boy terrify you?
…You would risk the village’s future to shield an Uchiha spawn? Tobirama-sensei would be disappointed in you, Hiruzen.
***
Time, ever the swindling crook. He steals the trustfulness of youth, changing it for the bitter truth. Joys he steals and also tears; pilfers hopes and filches fears. It’s been three weeks since the… incident; the medical-nin in charge of our case suspiciously reluctant to have us discharged. The trek home was irritating; we could hear them; the peasant folk; their miserable attempts at being discreet failing quite reprehensibly; some in pity, others in gloating schadenfreude. We committed those faces to memory. At a few foolishly whispered words the urge to wring certain necks rose in us but we stomped the feeling down. We knew they were watching; the ANBU. They always are; unless, of course, during a massacre that is.
The bustle of the village we shed behind us as we slipped into the haunting bubble of silence that was our clan’s district. The Uchiha compound was devoid of life. As promised, the bodies had been cleared out, the only reminder of the weasel’s rampage being the occasional bloodstain or vandalised property. As we walked through the empty walkways and vacant cobblestone roads a sense of melancholy befell us. They were gone, we remembered sorely. For good.
Our clan’s legacy was now our’s to care for and protect; all attempts by Sarutobi to forsake this responsibility and accept a domicile governed by the treacherous village we thwarted and will continue to thwart quite mercilessly. Those unworthy Konoha dogs were not to be trusted with anything. Not now. Not ever.
***
Time, ever still the swindling crook. He steals our hope, our daring bold, leaving nought but wisdom’s yellow gold. A week goes by. Then another following the charade that was the funeral service prepared in honour of our clansmen. With a sigh, we drop the wet rag we held into a bucket by our feet. The tin container jiggled noisily as we carried it to a nearby drain, the bloody water within swaying with a soapy swish. Our gaze flickered to what had previously been a bucket of water and cleaning solution. Red. It was tinged with the overwhelming red that seemed to be the hallmark of our clan. Red blood, Red eyes. Red fan. Red fire.
Red.
Pathetic—
The metal handle in our palm snapped spilling the contents of the bucket onto the floor. We stared at the flowing liquid for a few moments in stunned silence before sighing. Hunger, some part of us rumbled. With another sigh we discarded the shorn metal band and returned to our pare—no, our domicile to have breakfast, finally; the sun felt hot on our back. It was already late noon.
With somewhat of a lazy shamble, we entered the kitchen and began looking around for anything and everything that might still be edible. After a few moments of searching, we came up with a bowl of hoshiume-dried plums from three days ago with signs of mould on it, a carton of milk that might or might not be good, a half-eaten, palm-sized senbei sitting on a covered plate on the kitchen counter, and a box of raw soba noodles in one of the upper drawers. Disappointed, we tossed the dried plums, bowl and all, into the sink, filling it with soapy water. Taking a bite from the desiccated cracker we flicked the cooker’s dial a few times to confirm if it still had fuel. It did.
Twenty minutes later, we dropped our spoon in the empty bowl before us and drank the last droplets of milk in the carton. The meal could at the very most be considered passable with its strong, earthly tones and mushy texture; nothing like the way mother used to make it. The milk was still good. Maybe. We were not certain. Then again, we did not care as long as the hunger was sated. We tidied the kitchen, making sure to reorganise it exactly the way we met it.
A few minutes later, we sat at our favourite spot by the exit watching as a sapling swayed, its leaves rustling with the gentle breeze. In silent meditation, our mind achieves clarity. We could hear them, Konoha’s watchdogs; their relaxed breathing and decelerated heartbeats serving to make detecting them all the more difficult; ANBU, most likely. One to our left in our periphery and the other directly in front, hiding in plain sight.
With time and practice locating them was getting easier, but not by much. Still, this has to be done; if we ever truly desire to find the answers we seek we need to be beyond Konoha’s scrutiny.
***
We loathe remembering the rush of pride that we once felt at being accepted into this… institute of learning. Now that we look back we realise the academy offered little that our clan did not already offer in surplus. In terms of knowledge, there was little we did not already have or cannot acquire from our archives. Training partners the academy did offer as replacements now that the ones we had previously were all now dead, but the offer in itself was a moot point given our reluctance to expose ourself further to scrutiny. Yet that didn’t mean attending the academy was meant to be a waste of time. Our goal here was simple; information gathering.
Whispers ran amok and numerous eyes waxed over our groomed form as we crossed the threshold into the classroom. For a few seconds, the mutterings continued, slowly pittering until an uncomfortable silence finally descended on the class. Our gaze panned around at the gathered assortment of children, noble and peasant-born alike, as we carefully catalogued each and every one of them, sorting and ranking by importance and potential. Most names we did not know but a few were rather easy to deduce; one Hyuga, an Inuzuka, an Akimichi, and an Aburame.
Our gaze subtly increased in intensity as we glanced at the instructor in front of the class, the man having snuck there while the students were distracted by our entrance. “Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat as we walk towards a vacant bench. “Uchiha-san, I am glad to have you here with us. For the duration of your stay here at the academy, I will be your homeroom teacher. You can refer to me as Iruka-sensei, or simply, sensei. Understood?”
We let the question hang in the air for a few awkward moments as we took our time to settle in before replying with a curt nod.
“…Yes. Sensei.”
“…Good. Now, if you don’t mind, please introduce yourself to the class.”
Our gaze pans around once more at the students observing in silence, not once pausing on a single figure. “Uchiha,” we say simply, letting the weight of the word permeate the atmosphere as we turned to look out the window. Nonchalant.
“Sasuke Uchiha.”
