KONOHA
THE pain slowly seeped in, despair following closely behind. Rage came after, coursing through our veins as a writhing stream of corrosive chakra. We looked up, a shuddering exhale escaping our lungs as realisation dawned on us. A malevolent desire burned in a corner of our mind as a cold dark flame, scorching the very fringes of our being.
"...Why?"
The question slithered out of our maw as a guttural exhale. The accursed weasel remained silent, crimson eyes staring blankly at us. Itachi … We always wondered why Father named him after such an ignoble creature; tenjō no kotowari o shōakuseshi hitomi; heavenly eyes that see the truth of all of creation without obstruction. The myths of the Mangekyō's divine clairvoyance probably weren't myths after all.
"Why?" we asked again, our mortal form struggling to express the full extent of our ire; a splitting headache; a certain hollowness in the guts, afflicting us as a daemonic malediction. A pounding at the nape of our neck, and then something hot, like the sparks of a nascent flame, shooting up our spine and concentrating behind our temple. A warmth unlike that of tears wriggled and squirmed within our eyes. The world coloured red and the sparks became an inferno, enveloping our entire body. Our eyes, the core of the blaze, burned hot like magma.
"...Curiosity," the beastly thing replied, its gaze unflinching. "I wished to measure my vessel; my worth."
Our breath caught. A soft chuckle escaped our maw; laughter; cackling. "Your worth?" we asked releasing Mother's cooling fingers from our grasp. Woe onto us, stalwart lover of mortal things. The foul thing we once called brother stared blankly at us; we stared back with a hopeless heart and hollowed soul.
Our eyes itched as two lines of hot, viscous tears flowed down our cheeks. Our intent heaved, heeding our call; the universe heaved back in protest. They were not coming back. Not Mother, not Father, not Oba-san Uruchi with her penchant for gifting snacks nor her genial husband. Nobody. They were gone. Forever.
Clawed fingers struck forwards, the air screeching as it was parted cruelly by our chakra-coated digits. With a harsh crack, we disintegrated a wooden pillar across the room. Itachi stood to our right staring down at us. Mockingly.
"Baby brother," it said, "you're weak. Pathetic. Do you wish to kill me? Settle for hating me instead … Hate me, and live like the failure you are. Continue clinging unto your worthless existence for as long as you can; this little I grant you for the sake of my own amusement."
We were upon him the next moment, fist shooting towards his forehead; the weasel, true to his name, flickered for a millisecond before reappearing at the exit. Our gazes clashed and only then did we realise the extent of our folly. Crimson spun, twisting, morphing as it birthed a three-bladed shuriken.
"Tsukuyomi," the weasel whispered. The world around us sloughed off, melting as if drenched in acid, to leave behind a perverted replica of its essence.
"Kai!" We resisted but the Genjutsu refused to dispel.
"Sasuke!" We swivelled on our heels to see Mother on her knees, Father by her side, his countenance solemn. "Run—" The weasel struck; blood gurgled past Mother's parted lips; a crimson line formed around her pale neck; her severed head slid to the ground with a morbid thud: Father's followed immediately after.
We blinked, struck senseless by the inexplicable suddenness of it all. A cold gasp; we blinked again, eyes watering as we fell to our knees. Lies. A clinical portion of our ego reminded us. They were already dead. Then, mockingly, the bodies disappeared, replaced by another caricature.
…He was toying with us, we realised.
***
How long has it been?
"Pathetic."
How many times had it been now?
"Sasuke! Run!"
"Mikoto!"
We weren't sure, but did it matter?
'...measure my vessel; my worth,' he said. 'Curiosity,' he called it.
Steel.
Blood.
Bile.
Tears.
The spiralling crimson orbs.
Rinse.
Repeat.
…
Repeat
Repeat
Repeat
Endlessly, the caricature played. With a hint of dramatic flair, it evolved with each new iteration; mocking us; mocking our inadequacy; our resolve. But the first memory remained; the original untainted by his filth. The swaying—ruined—Uchiha logo hanging from Oji-san Teyaki's vandalised senbei shop; the cold corpses, young and old, littering the district streets; rivulets of the noblest blood pooling in the gutters. Our parents; murdered by a weasel.
The Weasel.
The door opened and in came a figure in white. Beautiful as mortals went. Dark-haired and lithe, the woman—a nurse, we realised after a moment of observation—stood frozen halfway into the room with a tray of medication in her arms.
"...Otousan," she whispered, quivering under our gaze. The tray and its delicate contents slowly slid from her hands, and with a metallic clatter and the tinkling peal of broken glass, it hit the ground. We stared into her eyes, her soul, for a moment—our reflection haggard. Undignified—before looking away.
"Leave me."
The nurse fled from the room.
A masked figure donning a flak jacket—ANBU—jumped onto the window sill in a display of superhuman agility as he drew a kunai from a pouch attached to his thigh.
"Sasuke?"
"I said, I want to be left alone," we croaked, voice hoarse. We had been screaming, we realised. The rage still simmered within us, unabated, but we were far too exhausted to continue expressing it.
A brief pause.
"...Very well," the ANBU said into the ensuing silence before leaping away.
***
"Sasuke."
"Yes?" We replied, blinking away the haze in our vision.
"Are you listening?" the Hokage asked staring down at us.
"Yes."
"...Sasuke-kun, your brother, Itachi—"
"Murdered my clan out of curiosity; 'to measure his vessel, his worth,' he said."
"...Has been placed in the bingo books," the Hokage continued after a momentary pause, "as an S-rank criminal, to be brought in dead or alive."
A pause
"...Is that all?"
"Itachi will face justice for his crimes, Sasuke-kun, I assure you that."
"...And how do you expect me to believe that?" we asked, tilting our head in curiosity as we turned to face the man. "You failed to protect my clansmen from his wanton lust on Konoha's soil; how do you expect me to believe you are capable of bringing him to justice? What use is the fanciful Kasa you wear on your head if even an entire clan is not safe in your care?"
The Hokage grimaced; we looked on, expression morphing into one of disappointment. The man disgusted us. His attitude, so replete with self-righteousness and hypocrisy. Undignified. Spineless. Weak…
Pathetic.
"You need not worry yourself, Hokage-sama," we tell the senile, old thing. "I will sort this matter out myself."
"...Forgive me, Sasuke-kun," Sarutobi said with a sigh, eyes downcast, "I wasn't strong enough. I know you must be feeling hurt but remember, it doesn't matter what you do; if you live and die as you like. However, no matter what road you end up taking, again, remember, the village always comes first."
I wasn't strong enough. The words stung. With a painful exhale, we ignored the Kage, turning away to look out the window at the rainstorm brewing outside. The air was thick with the scent of cleaning solution, ethanol, and rain—undertones of copper and salt.
It tasted of blood. Our blood.