KONOHA
“Uchiha Sasuke,” Iruka called, and we stood up and proceeded to the front of the classroom. “Here you are. You did very well.” A large circle was drawn around the score “100” at the top of the page we were handed.
“Once again, you’re the only one to get a perfect score on the test. Keep up the good work!”
Hearing this, our classmates devolved into an undignified, rambling mess as if they expected anything less. We bowed slightly to the teacher and then returned directly to our seat. Three weeks had passed since we resumed studying at the academy; eight since the weasel’s rampage. However, we had yet to stumble on any particularly valuable pieces of information. A few tidbits here and there we did find of course, but nothing substantial. The lack of significant progress was disheartening, but not unexpected.
Once Iruka managed to settle the rabble, class resumed and the man began a long, unimportant rant about Konoha’s history. We paid attention of course, solely for the purpose of cross-referencing what information he fed us with what we already knew. Similarly, we discretely observed the rest of the class, the noble scions most especially, in hopes of gleaning parasitic data from their reactions to the lecture. This wasn’t the first time we would be doing this, and over the past few weeks, we had observed a few minor discrepancies that might, or might not, prove important in the long run.
The final bell ran, signalling the end of the last class of the day and we spent a few moments sorting and archiving the data we had gathered. The human mind being what it was necessitated we wrote down the vast majority of the data we gathered before it was inadvertently wiped from organic memory. The notes were encrypted of course, in a tri-layered, multi-structured code we devised using four distinct root languages that we invented for this sole purpose. Should we ourself attempt to decipher this code with only fundamental knowledge of the components that went into its creation, we estimate expending between six to twelve years before making any significant progress in that regard. Essentially, for most, it would be an uncrackable cypher, and for the obscure minority that could possibly decrypt it, it would take far too long for it to be worth the effort.
As we packed up our belongings in preparation to return to our domicile, we noticed two auras lingering in the periphery of our vision. Three if you included the third standing farther off as it observed the two observing us. We recognised all three without having to turn around. The most valuable of the bunch was the third standing farther off. Naruto Uzumaki, A.K.A. The Demon Fox. Information on the child was vague and unreliable at best, but from what we knew he was some Nine-Tails fellow, an apparently malevolent being of unimaginable power trapped in human form.
The other two were Ino Yamanaka—the only child of the Yamanaka Patriarch, Inochi Yamanaka—and Sakura Haruno, daughter of a non-shinobi, merchant family. Passable skill for a child her age, but a civilian nonetheless.
Being observed wasn’t particularly strange, given how often we found ourself subjected to scrutiny. What we found strange was the fact that the three seemed to be approaching us for whatever reason. Three weeks since we resumed school and we still had not had anything resembling a conversation with any of our classmates. They naturally hesitated in the face of the outstanding grades we got in each and every one of our classes. All of them had turned ever-so-timid in our presence, apparently intimidated even when that wasn’t our intention. We desired to befriend a few, the nobles most especially. Even though people tend to subconsciously radiate information even whilst engaging in the most mundane of tasks, the value of said information could at best be debated. Mining data through dialogue would be so much more efficient. And easier if we possessed a tangible hold on the flow of the conversation. But we knew they were watching. ANBU. They always were. At least one was always within earshot of us. We knew that much given how proficient we were getting at sensing their auras. Actively trying to befriend anyone would set off more alarm bells than we were comfortable with. Or worse, leave us vulnerable to being fed malicious data via proxy should they discover our true intentions. This was a risk we weren’t willing to tolerate.
“Being a shinobi requires patience and foresight, especially when engaging in activities as delicate as espionage and counter-intelligence.” Paragraph one, page three of the “Introduction to Information Warfare”, volume thirteen, by Uchiha Koyoharu. Finally, the two girls approached us.
Is our patience finally paying off?
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“Uhm,” the civilian girl, Sakura, began, “You’re Uchiha Sasuke, right?”
We turned to face her, one eyebrow raised curiously. Her face flushed red with a furious blush which turned angry as her supposed rival smacked her on the back of the head.
“Duh, Forehead-chan!” the Yamanaka girl all but shouted as she grabbed Sakura’s collar. “How many other Uchihas do you know to attend the same classes as us!”
“Ino-pig! Mind your business!”
“Girls,” we called, ignoring the sting that came with the callous reminder of our clan’s demise. “Relax.” The two immediately fell silent. Then their eyes widened like saucers as they apparently realised that we were actually talking to them.
“What do you want?” we asked, hoisting our bag on our left shoulder.
“Uhm.” it was Ino’s turn to start stammering. We waited patiently as she tried to articulate herself. “Are you going home?”
We stared at her for a few moments in silence, watching as her face blushed so hard she nearly sweated blood. “Yes?”
“Uhm.” We glanced at Sakura who had spoken but seemed stuck on that particular syllable. The two girls glanced at each other, then seemingly coming to a truce they turned back to face us. “Excuse me!” the two said in unison, bowing before turning around and scampering off.
Guess not.
With a subconscious sigh, our gaze flickered towards the demon container in the rear, but he simply pointed at us from where he stood yelling some gibberish about a rivalry between us, and him becoming Hokage. His outburst lasted only a few moments before a group of girls rose to pummel him into silence. We cast one last glance at the assorted mortals in the room before leaving in disappointment.
***
After a quick stop at the farmer's market, we returned to our clan’s district carrying a bag of groceries. As per usual, a gloomy silence haunted the domicile and the sterile scent of soap and cleaning solution hung heavily in the air. We had long grown to appreciate the solemn ambience; in a way, it reminded us of a more peaceful time, a time when mortal emotions had no hold on us.
With a mental sigh, we pulled off our leather sandals, replacing them with a pair of indoor slippers as we entered the house. It was spotless of course with not a thing out of place, or a sign that anything had been tampered with. But snooping around without being detected was a generic skill amongst all competent shinobi. We entered the house with the assumption that it had either been investigated, or worse, bugged. The groceries were placed on the kitchen counter to be sorted later. We hung our school bag on the stand by the door to our room before entering to freshen up. After a shower and a change of clothes later we were back in the kitchen attending to the groceries.
It was peaceful and quiet. We liked it like that. Of course, we could hardly claim to be alone; an aura lingered just at the fringes of our perception in silent observation. We recognised her; it was ANBU number five again. She was here two times last week before disappearing for a while. Guess she’s back again. It wasn’t all bad, we supposed. At least our ANBU intelligencers were the quiet sort of neighbours, even if they didn’t pay for spending the night on our property and were nosier than we would have liked.
A small flock of sparrows chirped noisily on the fence outside. From the garden came the dry sound of the bamboo rocker arm of the shishi-odoshi clacking against a rock. The trickling noise of water filling the decorative garden implement filled the silence following each clack. At that moment, two unknown auras appeared in our field of perception. One confronted our ANBU friend while the other made a beeline towards us.
Barely a moment had passed since we perceived the interlopers when a blur smashed through our window, its long fingers curling around our neck. In a puff of smoke, the attacker—an auburn-haired, amber-eyed, masked fellow in a short red kimono and black jacket—found himself holding onto the mopstick we substituted with. By then we had jumped out the damaged window, racing through the streets of the clan’s district in the direction of the village. We skidded across the concrete floor on a layer of chakra, angling ourself so as to let a kunai from the side shoot past our head. With a kick, we righted our inclined body, but our assailant had already caught up, standing across from us.
Good. We were far enough now that it was less likely the fool damaged our home.
Our hands blurred through a series of hand signs, and with a guttural exhale we launched a fireball at the attacker. The inferno tore the street, shattering windows and toppling electrical poles. Almost instinctively we formed a tiger seal, flickering unto a rooftop. The unknown shinobi stood where we were just moments ago, stabbing his kunai through the head of our afterimage. We stared at him, our Sharingan flickering towards the shadow of a smile forming in his eyes. “Got you, you little bugger.”
We jumped to the side a moment too late, eyes flickering towards the shinobi’s main body on a nearby rooftop as the mud clone down on the street melted away. The fellow stood legs apart, his hair badly singed and fingers entwined in the technique-specific hand seal of the Yamanakas. A pulse of foreign chakra entered our body. In our mindscape, a figure appeared. He looked around for a moment before seemingly deciding he had better places to be as he turned tail, his ego fleeing back to his body.
“Sōzōamatsukami,” we whispered before the fellow could break eye contact, a line of bloody tears running down our right cheek.