The boy is a threat. He possesses the Mangekyō. His brother hadn't awakened it until twelve. He is only six.
Danzo...
He’s a risk to the village, Sarutobi.
He is a child.
Exactly. Which is why he cannot be left with such power.
What would you have me do?
The boy cannot be left with those eyes. We must seize them. I’ve seen the anger in him. Those are flames that can only be quenched in blood. We cannot, must not, let that seed take root.
You’ve obsessed over Itachi’s talent for years. Every time you came to me it was the same talk. What’s so different now? We should be grateful. A shinobi with twice the genius Itachi had can only be an asset to Konoha. Crippling him out of fear is foolishness. Talk less of his brother's reaction if he discovers such a betrayal.
This is different. Even Itachi would understand the danger.
First, you had his brother massacre their clan. Now you want to maim him for crimes he hasn’t yet committed? You’re too hasty to judge, Danzo. Why? Does the boy frighten you?
You would risk the village’s future for an Uchiha brat? Tobirama-sensei would be ashamed of you, Hiruzen.
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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 now. The medics seemed loath to discharge us but we left nonetheless. The trek home was irritating; we could hear them; the peasant folk. Their miserable attempts at being discreet. Some spoke with pity, others in gloating schadenfreude. We committed those faces to memory. At every whispered slight, the urge to silence them rises like bile in our throat, but we choke it back. The ANBU are always watching. Always. Except, of course, during the massacre that is.
We left the bustle of Konoha behind, entering the silence of the Uchiha compound. An enclave turned mausoleum. Cast aside at the outskirts of the village, now abandoned. Only the caw of a crow overhead broke the silence. Its shadow cast across us like a grim omen.
In a flicker, we drew a kunai, sent it hurtling through the air. The crow burst in a rain of viscera and iridescent feathers. Foolish. Impulsive. Horrible traits to possess as a shinobi. Father had always warned against such things. And now we forget his teachings? We shook our head, letting the thought die.
As promised, the bloodstains had been scrubbed, the bodies buried. Only the faintest reminders of the weasel's rampage remain: a broken window, a slashed doorframe. The streets are empty, the air cold. They were gone. All gone. And we, left to guard the legacy of our clan.
Sarutobi believed we would forsake this responsibility and accept a domicile governed by the treacherous village like one of their dogs. He is a fool.
I saw now what my clansmen failed to see. Konoha was not to be trusted. Not now. Not ever.
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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. The funeral that followed was a farce. We threw down the rag we held into the bucket, watching the water turn pink. Blood and soap, swirling together. Red. It was tinged with the overwhelming red that seemed to define the Uchiha. Red blood, Red eyes. Red fan. Red fire.
Red.
Pathetic—
The metal handle in our palm snapped, and the water splashed across the floor as we lifted the bucket. We stared at the flowing liquid for a few moments in stunned silence. Red, again. Hunger, some part of us rumbled. It was late afternoon, but we hadn’t eaten. We shuffled back to the kitchen.
Inside, we found a bowl of hoshiume-dried plums from days ago, speckled with mould. There was a stale cracker on the counter, some milk that might still be good, and noodles tucked away in a drawer. Hardly a meal. 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. It was edible, just. Mother’s cooking had always been better.
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The breeze whispered through the leaves of a sapling outside the compound, and we sat in silence, letting our mind empty. In silent meditation, our mind achieved clarity. We could feel the muted aura of their life force. Suppressed, like a dim flame in the dark expanse of the void. We could hear them, Konoha's watchdogs. Their relaxed breathing and decelerated heartbeats made detecting them all the more difficult; Jōnin, most probably. One to our left in our periphery and the other directly in front, hiding in plain sight. For what it was worth, even the weasel held our sensory skills in high regard. Father could find no higher praise to describe our talent at it.
Soon enough, though, we would be beyond them. We had to be. To find the answers we sought we had to exist well outside Konoha’s scrutiny.
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We loathe remembering the rush of pride we once felt at being accepted into this… institute of learning. Now, it seemed pointless. Everything the academy offered, our clan had already had in surplus. In terms of knowledge, there was little we did not already have or could not acquire from our archives. Everything from the history of the shinobi world, continuing from the Sage of Six Paths. The alliances, treaties, and laws of uniformity among the different lands. Fundamentals, advanced techniques, practical strategies in fighting. Theory on physical shinobi arts, kekkei genkai. Introduction to chakra. Tailed beasts, ninja beasts. Even an overview of sagehood and the fundamentals of natural energy sat tucked away in Father's study.
At least they did until the Hokage had the ANBU confiscate everything for “safekeeping” until we were of age. Thankfully, we had long memorized the texts. Our losses would have been unimaginable otherwise. The academy as a place of learning was of little value to us. It now served a different purpose. Intelligence. That was what we sought.
Whispers buzzed as we entered 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 estimated importance and potential. Most names we did not know, having never bothered to find out in the first place. They were just that unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Now? Not so much. A few were rather easy to deduce though; Hyugas, Inuzukas, Akimichis, and Aburames.
We glanced at the instructors in front of the class. The two had snuck in while the students were distracted. "Ahem," the one to the left with a scar across his face said, clearing his throat. "Uchiha-san, I am glad to see you finally join us. For the duration of your stay here at the academy, I will continue to be your homeroom teacher and he would be my assistant"—the scarred one gestured towards his grey-haired partner. "You will refer to us as Iruka-sensei and Mizuki-sensei respectively, or simply, sensei. Understood?"
"Good. Now, if you don't mind, please introduce yourself to the class."
Our gaze panned around once more at the students observing in silence, not once pausing on a single figure. They knew who we were. How could they not? "Uchiha," we said, the name hanging heavy in the air. Then, after a pause, "Sasuke Uchiha."
And that was all.