At the entrance to the Konoha Mission Assignment Office, a grizzled old man stood, clutching a half-filled bottle in his hand. He peered around, looking at the different Chunin sitting at the various desks, waiting to accept new mission requests. After a moment, he made his way in, red bloodshot eyes darting about, as if he were afraid of attack at any moment.
Many of the people in the office looked up to regard him, as he lumbered up to the nearest Chunin. This one in particular, a young tanned man with a sharp scar across the edge of his mouth, looked up from the desk he had been working at.
"Hello, may I help you?" the man asked pleasantly. The older figure looked around with a nervous expression, before bending in close.
"I… I need to speak the Hokage," he whispered urgently. "There's an emergency."
"And what would be the nature of this emergency?"
"Look. This is personal business. I'm sure if you'll just give me a second to talk to-"
The Chunin's eyes flashed dangerously at this. "I'm sorry sir, but you'll need to go through the proper registration. The Lord Hokage is very busy. Now, if you'll submit your request to the mission assignment board-"
"That could take days!" the man shouted angrily. By now, the entire room had turned to watch him.
"My people are starving on the streets right now, and you expect me to sit around and wait?"
The Chunin's expression looked worried. "Sir, please calm down."
"CALM DOWN?" He slammed his open palm down on the desk, sending papers flying off in a storm.
"MY GRANDSON IS DEAD, AND YOU'RE TELLING ME TO BE-"
Whatever the man had been about to say, he was cut off by the appearance of a sudden blurring over his figure. If one had looked closely, they might have seen the fringes of a matte gray cloak.
If they were a shinobi, they might have even seen a white mask, flat and unblemished, in the swirl of motion surrounding the older figure.
Then he was gone, with nothing to mark his passing aside from a small clink, as the bottle he'd been holding hit the floor and rolled. It spun wildly for a moment, before it too disappeared, along with the few splashes of sake that had hit the wooden floor.
There was barely a beat before the Chunin turned back to their work, but the same words echoed in each of their minds.
Hokage Decree #137: There are to be no public disturbances in Konoha.
"Lord Hokage," Iruka said nervously. He held in his hand a stack of papers, and stood facing the oaken desk said to have been created by the First himself.
Behind it sat a bandaged man. He was clearly crippled, but radiated a sense of control and regality, with stiff posture and an intense expression.
A single visible eye, dark and flat, turned to regard the newcomer.
"I assume those are your latest recommendations?" Even his voice seemed to echo with power. It was the tone of a man who had seen death many times, and still remained to tell about it.
Iruka held out the papers slowly. "Yes, Lord Hokage."
The un-bandaged arm lifted up with deliberation, and grasped the papers firmly. He set them down on the desk with a light thump, before turning his eye down to regard the first page.
"That will be all," he said with clear dismissal.
Iruka turned to leave but then, after a pause, turned back, and once again approached the oaken desk. The old shinobi looked up from his papers, to meet the teacher's gaze levelly.
Finally after what seemed like hours, Iruka spoke.
"Lord Hokage, I would ask that you consider Sasuke in the context of his achievements," he said firmly. "He's been working very hard, and I'm sure that if you take a look at his progress-"
"That boy has already been under my consideration for some time."
The Hokage's voice was quiet, but nevertheless filled the entire room. His single eye held a dangerous glint: a glint that clearly said Iruka had come close to crossing the line.
"Your dedication to your students is commendable. Now, if there is nothing else?" He said with finality.
Iruka quickly gave a formal bow, and strode out of the office, making sure not to go too fast. As soon as he stepped outside of the room, the Chunin fell against the wall, gasping for breath, and clutched his chest.
After an eternity he regained his composure, straightened his vest, and started his walk back to the Academy.
That had been much too close for comfort.
The orange washes of sunset fell lively on the village of Konoha. Over the Hokage Monument, the last rays of light shone as the sun set behind it.
Down in the worn streets, few were still up and about to admire the sight though. Most were locked away in their homes, already making their preparations for the next day.
One woman, an elderly figure, slowly packed up her fruit stock off a simple wooden stand.. Her face was lined around the edges of her eyes, and in her focus she seemed to hold a small content smile.
Then, the sound of footsteps aroused her from her work, and upon seeing him, her face twisted into a grimace.
The boy in question had black silky hair that pointed at odd angles where it reached the back of his head. Thin hands were thrust unceremoniously in his pockets, and he stalked down with an air of detached apathy.
Around him, other looks of discontent matched with hers. He walked past them without sparing a single glance, seemingly focused on the sunset crowning over the Hokage Monument.
In his right hand were clutched three orange flowers, open and inviting to the crisp afternoon air.
The boy, no older than thirteen, continued walking down the winding streets, paying little attention to the looks sent his way. He walked until his shadow was stretched longer than he was, and his face was half shadowed in darkness.
Finally, he came to a stop outside a massive white building.
After a quick nod to the woman at the reception desk, he marched up the staircase until he reached the third floor. He paused before a white door, collecting himself, before softly pressing it open. A figure was revealed, lying still in his bed.
Charcoal hair fell parted over the patient's face. Under both of his crimson eyes, one could see deep lines of fatigue, on the otherwise unblemished face. The man in question was looking out contentedly at the sunset clearly visible outside the window.
When he heard the click of the door closing, the man gave a small smile.
"Isn't it beautiful?" he asked simply. Sasuke gave a shrug, and sat down on the chair that had sat loosely against the wall.
They sat together in contented silence, until the younger boy fidgeted uncomfortably.
"I think I was accepted," he said after a pause. The older man gave a nod, his eyes never once leaving the scene outside his window.
"Iruka is very understanding. I have little doubt that he will vouch for you if necessary."
Sasuke's face twisted into the scowl that had been threatening to break out all afternoon. "If those bastards would just pay attention to the things I've done," he muttered.
The man let out a simple sigh, and closed his eyes slowly.
"Sasuke. You know how I feel about this," he said, obviously weary.
The boy abruptly stood up, his chair flying off the ground with the force of it. His eyes were wild and full of rage, and fists clenched tightly with anger.
"How can you defend them?" he demanded. "How can you defend them after all they've done to us?" He stalked around angrily, radiating displeasure and resentment with a quiet passion.
"You've done more for them then anyone else in the village, they treat you like, like you're diseased," he said, the words biting coldly.
The prone figure gave a small chuckle. "Ah, Sasuke. Are they wrong?"
He hated the way his older brother looked at him. That stare, full of something like pity: as if he was the one in the hospital bed.
It was maddening how he could act so accepting, as though the world hadn't done enough.
That was just the sort of person Itachi was.
The sort to take all the pain of others, never once minding for those who cared about him: those who hated to see him collapsing under the weight of it all.
Honestly, sometimes Sasuke wished he could hate the man, just to make it ache less seeing him like this.
"Sasuke."
Itachi looked concerned, his eyes tinged with worry. Sasuke sat down again, and with his free hand, gripped the armrest of his chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
"You know they are merely afraid. For themselves, for their families and loved ones. For what would happen if they were to associate with us. You should not blame them for their caution, not when they have so much to lose."
Sasuke's anger began to evaporate, and he slumped against the back of his chair. Nevertheless, the rigid scowl remained.
"It's not right though," he said miserably. "At the very least, you deserve to be seen as a hero. Let them hate me instead."
Itachi reached out with a thin arm, and placed his hand compassionately on the boy's shoulder.
"I have you little brother. That is enough for me."
Sasuke looked down to see that in his anger, the three flowers had been bent like a pile of straws. Yet, even crippled, they seemed so happy. So warm and forgiving.
He supposed gloomily that they were perfect for his brother.
The boy stood up, and carefully put the flowers in the nearby vase. Itachi looked over, and smiled warmly at them.
"Tell me about your day."
And so, Sasuke spoke. He talked about how he'd hit every target right in the center, just like he'd been practicing. How he'd defeated every other student in Taijutsu, even the Inuzuka and Akimichi boys who had special training.
He spoke of how Iruka had smiled at him, and said that he was going to be a great shinobi someday, even as the others regarded him mutinously.
And all through it, Itachi listened contentedly, never once letting his smile falter, or his gaze dim. He listened with the complete attention that a painter gives to a landscape, and the endless compassion that only he was capable of.
By the time the boy had finished, the sky was dark and overcast, and the village only lightly illuminated by those few lights left on throughout the settlements.
That night Sasuke dreamt of black flames.
Long after his brother had passed, Itachi summoned his doctor. After a couple moments the woman in question, a short figure with a curved nose and straight hair, appeared before him.
"Still hanging in there, are we?" she asked, looking up over her glasses from the clipboard she held.
Itachi inclined his head respectfully, and she moved forward to examine him. With a wave of motion, the blanket that had covered him was removed.
The sight was cruel.
His limbs had grown thin and weak, collapsing from lack of use. His chest was little more than skin knitted tightly over a ribcage. The body was a patchwork of bandages and scars, with a single long thin one curving from hip to shoulder.
And over it all, there lay the burns, giving scarring patches of skin a graveled texture.
The woman regarded him sadly.
"I'll give you this much, you're dedicated," she said, looking over his body with undisguised discomfort. No matter how many times she saw him like this, the sight never ceased to amaze her. "You shinobi, always so sacrificing, leaving us to clean up the mess that you are."
Itachi smiled slightly, moving his gaunt form ever so little, and the woman found herself smiling as well.
"How long do I have?"
The question was said with a quiet intensity. The man's eyes were filled with concern, but not for himself. Not with fear.
No, it was the quiet guilt of one who feels he has failed, even after all of his efforts.
The woman let out a small sigh.
"If you were anyone else, I'd say less than a week," she said, her tone turning grim. "But considering how long you've lasted, I'd say a little over a month. Three if we replace your heart."
She looked him in the eye unflinchingly. They both knew what would come next.
"Please, do whatever is necessary," he said.
She looked unhappy, but not surprised in the least. "We'll do it tomorrow morning." The woman sounded resigned. "While Sasuke's still in school. I know you don't like it when he sees you like this."
"He won't be going back to school," he said, with the tinges of pride in his voice.
The woman looked at him questioningly.
"Danzo informed me earlier. He will be promoted tomorrow."
She smiled at him warmly, and tucked the blanket back over his form.
"You must be very proud of him."
He looked her in the eyes.
"I have always been proud of him."
And with that, she turned off the single lamp, sending the room into darkness. The light of the hallway briefly illuminated Itachi's face, before it shut again, leaving him in the shadows.
That night Itachi dreamed of peace.
Deep underneath the sewers of Konoha, a small boy sat rigidly.
His face was covered with a white mask, with narrow slits revealing nothing about his expression. He was small for his age, with spikes of blond hair sticking up from behind the porcelain.
He sat patiently, waiting for his next orders to arrive. The boy had done so for many hours already, never once moving or flinching from his position. One might have called what he did "sleeping", since it served the purposes of rest well enough.
That night, the boy dreamed only of darkness.
In the cellar of a simple smithing shop, a grey haired teenager made his way slowly down a stone staircase. His round glasses brilliantly reflected the light of the single torch in the room.
In his hand was clutched a small scroll, barely longer than the width of his hand.
With purpose he knelt down near one of the stone walls, and out from a crack, a snake crawled out to greet him. The teen grinned slightly, and laid his scroll on top of the curled creature.
There was a silent puff of smoke, as the being disappeared off to its true master.
His job finished, he stood up, dusting off his knees with a few quick motions, and left back up the stairs.
That night the young man dreamed of family.