Notes: In which Itachi is an ANBU Root division captain, possibly haunted, and definitely insane. (Shisui may be able to tip you off.)

By the way… it also suddenly makes sense to me why Itachi might not have been able to explain himself, even if he wanted to later. It's very likely that he was part of Root in canon, and doesn't Danzou seal everyone's tongue in that organization to guarantee their discretion?

Disclaimer: Not mine. Japanese suffixes are used when they sound less clumsy. Some scenes/quotes taken directly from the manga. There's also an obscure song reference.

Other warnings: Achronological. There are some time-markers in each section, some subtler than others. Also, I would assume that Itachi abroad (in canon) would have picked up many new things and approached his problems differently; he is not entirely/at all the same person here.

…

In this scenario: On the surface, it's about what might have happened if, instead of leaving Konoha after the Uchiha massacre, Itachi had remained behind as a captain in Root. Below the surface, this could be titled Ode to Uchiha Shisui.

Erm, this is even more character-driven than most of my other ANBU!Itachi scenarios, and I'll try to keep each chapter mostly self-contained while advancing a larger plot so that the (few/loyal/persevering/awesome) readers won't tear their hair out between each update. I also just realized that this chapter and "Reset"'s latest have a lot in common. I guess I play with the same things a lot. Hope you enjoy anyway!

Chiaroscuro

Yakushi Kabuto's hand slashed through the air so quickly that the naked eye would only see the afterimage of chakra. But to Itachi's Sharingan, he moved about as fast as a fly in amber. Kabuto's hand was even slower than the sluggish blue glow rippling after it. Easily avoided.

"I'm honored if Danzou sent his best," said Kabuto. "But it won't make a difference."

The boy – or man; he was, after all, nineteen years old on the dossier, while Itachi himself had recently turned seventeen – had a smooth tenor voice, unruffled and conversational. It was quite different from the panicked shouts or pleading that one might expect in this line of work. Then again, Itachi usually completed assassinations before the target had the chance to say anything at all. It also rarely involved ninjutsu or genjutsu; often taijutsu alone sufficed.

"You're slipping," muttered Shisui in his ear.

"You should have brought at least nine more friends with you," Kabuto went on, so mildly that he didn't sound boastful, only as if he'd been remarking on the weather outside – which was a still, clear night, though moonless. "All I need is to touch you once with these chakra scalpels and you might as well be born handless. It's better than any tenketsu-sealing technique of the Hyuuga Clan. But I'm sure that you already know how to copy this technique, with those eyes."

Perhaps Kabuto had caught a glimpse of the crimson irises in the glow of his own chakra. Either way, he didn't seem that surprised to encounter an Uchiha who was also Konoha ANBU, though Itachi had killed every Uchiha but one, to the best of public knowledge.

The fact that Kabuto was better-informed than most could explain why Danzou wanted him dead.

"That was my chance, wasn't it?" said Kabuto, this time sounding vaguely wistful. "You're too professional to speak, and a bit too fast for me to capture."

Itachi's tanto sliced through Kabuto's middle. The man's dark outer vest tore open as his back bulged with a sudden tumor, or rather, what appeared to be a rapidly swelling blister that gleamed slickly like a frog's throat. Tendrils of chakra flickered inside the tautly stretched skin, illuminating blue-black veins.

No genjutsu, this – some form of ninjutsu, a hybrid of water and fire that shouldn't have been possible. The closest visual comparison Itachi could recall was that of a corpse fished from the water hours after death. The bloated growth burst without warning, expelling a scalding, tinted mist. Steam.

Itachi was no longer there, but slashing at the sudden displacement of air in front of him as his shadow clone closed in simultaneously. Kunai struck away shuriken with a harsh ping of metal. For several heartbeats, their fight was as insubstantial and fleeting as the shadows that pressed thickly against them, a whirl of sharp edges and surfaces that didn't quite meet.

It couldn't last – and it didn't. Itachi's tanto dug into the solid flesh of a hand, and when Kabuto's depthless black gaze snagged on Itachi's Sharingan, the killing blow became mere formality. The only incongruence was the tensed muscle on the pale-haired man's face. He had died smiling.

Shisui spoke a single word in the dense silence: "Odd."

Itachi didn't answer his cousin. Cool night air slipped in through the holes of his mask as he flipped himself onto the roof. He caught his breath as he crouched atop of a defunct lamp, concerned in a detached, clinical way about the stab of pain in his side. It was the kind of ache that used to come from pushing himself too far in taijutsu practice or endurance training. Itachi hadn't experienced any sort of sensation – physical or emotional – for a number of years. Since no one saw him, not even his targets, very few people actively sought to inflict wounds on him, let alone actually landed one. Well, there was Sasuke, but he had only the will, not the strength. Perhaps in a few more years…

The room where Itachi reported to the commander of the battalion had once served as an interrogation chamber. Now the single desk had been pushed against one of the shorter walls. The rest of the entire basement level was pitch-black. It could house five hundred inmates, but no one used it for that purpose anymore, now that the entire level had been struck off the secret maps of the underground complex beneath the ANBU barracks.

Only those who were forgotten themselves walked these corridors.

Itachi knelt on one knee before the commander.

"The mission is complete. There were no complications."

Liar.

He sensed rather than saw the other man's shoulders relax minutely. "I have another assignment for you. 9720 has been stirring up trouble of late. Start surveillance on him. While you're doing that, follow Code 5 protocol and take over from Torune on 11850 from 0500 to 1900."

Itachi inclined his head to show that he understood. Now he waited for the subtle flick of fingers, the signal that he was dismissed to begin the next task.

"No complications," echoed the commander. "Your breathing seems louder."

Itachi said nothing.

"Perhaps it is quieter tonight," murmured Danzou. He dismissed Itachi with a slight wave of his hand.

Proper procedure was to head straight to the separate barracks of the Root subdivision and avail himself of what sustenance and medical supplies were in their stores. He didn't feel that he needed either at present, though Shisui's voice nagged him down the full length of the corridor and the ache had crawled up his side and between his ribs, closing its fist somewhere in his chest region.

He did know that he wanted space to breathe. Instead of retiring to the barracks, Itachi bounded from one enormous hewn face on the Hokage Monument to another until he reached the hollow recess behind the Shodaime's enormous ear. Tucked in its shadow, he looked out on the silent village, imagining the familiar outline of tenements and buildings that the night rendered invisible. He wished Konoha would actually be as it appeared – serene, whole, undisturbed by its own inner workings.

Another scene flashed before his eyes – a summer twilight, someone slicing open a passion fruit in the kitchen: Try this, Itachi. Do you like it? Itachi hadn't had any particular opinion about it, his mind occupied with other things; that, too, he remembered. Or maybe he'd had an opinion, but had since forgotten everything but the knowledge that he had recalled that evening as "pleasant" long ago. Years later, he found himself disposing of No. 11981, whose name he hadn't needed to know (though he did know; Tsurugi Misumi was perfectly preserved in his memory like everyone Itachi had ever killed). Then he had looked at the spillage from the gash in the man's stomach, and thought of the pulpy innards of passion fruit on a warm, dusky evening.

"You didn't recognize that mist trick Kabuto used," Shisui mused, so that his memories shivered and dissipated like a breath in winter. His cousin alone remained. "It could be nothing. Or it could be everything. How effectively are you going to protect Konoha from the shadows, Itachi, if you're wheezing loud enough to scare all the birds within a meter radius? Your next target will probably complain that you're disturbing his sleep. Humiliating."

"I don't care about that," Itachi said, goaded into speech.

He heard his cousin snort, a noise at once fond and derisive. "We both know you're not doing any of this out of pride, at least. Or are you?"

Itachi couldn't very well skip into Konoha's main hospital and request a medic. For one, appointments over there usually required the patient to identify himself – and unlike more conventionally recruited ANBU, he didn't have a more acceptable public persona. Genjutsu worked well in terms of confusing the enemy, but a medic-nin under genjutsu wouldn't be able to do the job.

"Just hold on to that thought," said Shisui, "and see if you come up with a better alternative. It's not serious yet."

If it made Itachi weaker, it couldn't have come at a less convenient time. According to his latest orders, Itachi would be watching 9720 in addition to 11850. 9720 was a jounin who had once held the rank of ANBU captain. His second resignation from the division spoke volumes about his opinion of the current regime. Itachi could have deduced it on his own. Kakashi, unlike Umino Iruka, had been a personal acquaintance.

"He may have a Sharingan, but he's no Uchiha," Shisui remarked, the xenophobic clan prejudice bleeding through. "It'll make things slightly more interesting."

Itachi hadn't found anything interesting in years, except… "He's Sasuke's new instructor." Even saying the words aloud stirred deeply-buried emotions. He thought of sunlight slanting in through a window and picking out the texture of clean tatami mats. The gentle, warm clasp of Mother's hands. Sasuke's laughter as he dashed forward, fueled by the misguided belief that today was the day Itachi would give him tips on kunai throwing.

"Well, don't make a big deal out of it."

"I won't." Left unspoken was the knowledge that it was too late not to. Danzou would never forgive that one detail that marred the totality of his wishes for the Uchiha Clan, even though he himself had been the one to offer to spare Sasuke.

"And what was that today, with Yakushi? You don't usually let them get chatty with you."

"Perhaps I'm tired of listening only to you every waking moment," said Itachi, remembering a time when he had felt more charitable toward his cousin.

One afternoon several years ago, Itachi walked home with his fate branded on his shoulder.

Although he wore the usual, somber colors of his clan, Itachi attracted little attention from the other, generally more brightly-dressed pedestrians. After all, the Uchiha were a common sight in the village, being both numerous and often busy with their work in the police force even if they were not out on missions.

Only a few cursory greetings came his way. The owner of the dango shop looked up from sweeping the storefront as he passed and called out to him. "Itachi-kun, are you going home now? Would you let Uruchi-san know that we have a new kind of sakura mochi for her to try?"

"Yes, I'll let Aunt Uruchi know."

That was the longest exchange he had before turning down the street that was labeled on all the maps of the village as the Uchiha compound. Only other ANBU operatives, in addition to the Hokage and the village elders, had been permitted to attend the ceremony earlier that day, with the result that none of Itachi's family had seen him receive the tattoo.

Not for lack of trying on Fugaku's part. Itachi's father had followed his progress closely, not realizing that Itachi's induction into the black ops had been decided nearly half a year ago. In capitulating to his father's wishes, Itachi sparred with many of his relatives on a regular basis, antagonizing them in the process. At this point, only one or two of his cousins – including Shisui – really had a sporting chance against him. Wounded pride bred hostility, but his father acted oblivious to the simmering resentment – or relished it as a sign of his son's prowess.

In a rare moment of selfishness, Itachi put off the talk with his father by taking the scenic route back, approaching the compound from the east rather than the expected western end near the ANBU headquarters.

It was a humid spring day. Latent heat radiated from the ground. He imagined it seeping through the soles of his sandals, like summer fighting to burst through ahead of its time. An indolent air hung over this end of the compound where it bordered the civilian district. Shadows draped in inviting swathes from overhangs and, farther up, laundry lines that sagged under the weight of uncountable articles of clothing, many stamped with the red and white fan.

There, within the shadow cast by the awning of the closed senbei shop, leaned his cousin.

As Itachi came up the street, Shisui stepped out of the shade. Sunlight painted dark blue glints in his hair and threw a warmer tint on his fair skin. Itachi's coloration was much the same. Outsiders often mistook them for brothers.

"Let's see it, then."

Ignoring the advice of the kunoichi who had inked the tattoo, Itachi unpinned the bandage around the upper part of his left arm, exposing the unraveling spiral on his skin. It had the rich, dark red of blood drawn directly from the vein, but all Itachi could think about at that particular moment was how much it itched.

At the end of a brief, silent appraisal, Shisui crossed his arms. "So, you know what you can do now?"

Itachi tilted his head, waiting.

One corner of Shisui's mouth quirked up in an unfinished grin. "Stop worrying that you're crazy. Because your induction into ANBU has just officially confirmed it."

Itachi started to rewrap his shoulder. "Thanks. My sanity has always been my foremost concern."

Shisui snorted. "As well it should be. Uncle Fugaku's going to throw a party for you when he hears – or what passes for a party for him, anyway. 'Least Aunt Mikoto will be in charge of the food."

"I have to go on one more mission before the enlistment becomes official," said Itachi. Once his father heard, he'd doubtlessly insist on more training and sparring sessions.

Shisui nodded, giving him a sympathetic pat on his other shoulder. It was either in answer to Itachi's unspoken thought, or offered as some kind of condolence because Itachi had joined the ANBU. No words of congratulation from Shisui – Itachi could always count on his cousin to be truthful.

In tacit agreement, they turned and started down the street to the heart of the clan houses. A flicker of life darted past, so unexpected that Itachi activated his Sharingan without conscious thought. The small shadow skittered behind rice-paper walls, tearing past the very person whose homecoming he had anticipated so eagerly. Sasuke ran so loudly that Itachi could practically count his footsteps. He felt a smile tug at his mouth even as his cousin's laugh fell on his ears.

"Pride of the Uchiha, that one. But he's fast enough for his age… and for a boy who hasn't learnt chakra control yet."

He narrowed his eyes in warning at Shisui. "Just remember, I'm the only one allowed to torture him." Sometimes it took effort to remember how to turn dire words into lighthearted banter, but with Shisui, Itachi could still make a fair attempt.

"Brother's prerogative, I know." Shisui turned, starting to head down the street where the clan elders waited, implicitly herding Itachi along. Itachi followed – this time. "He's been harassing everyone all morning to train him in kunai-throwing, or asking them when you'd be back. You'll shut him up, yeah?" Despite the harsh words, Shisui said all this with a hint of a grin, the way everyone did when they spoke of Sasuke, the youngest and best-loved member of the clan.

More and more, Itachi felt uneasy about training his brother in anything. A heaviness settled in his stomach when he remembered his last mission. He could still hear the screams – that boy hadn't been much older than Sasuke, though Itachi technically wasn't so old himself.

The Uchiha depended on their own family and cousins to pass on special techniques long before they entered the village academy. The last thing Itachi wanted to do, though, was inadvertently teach Sasuke a skill that would give him the same nightmares, or worse: convince the clan that he should be sped through his academy years, losing in the process the chance to form friendships with his peers. "I'll see Sasuke later. I need to practice by myself."

His noose seemed to tighten a little every day.

"He's going to feel neglected, you know."

"It should be a reprieve," Itachi pointed out, "if I'm only going to torment him."

"Yes, but he's a masochist." Shisui shrugged, hands in his pockets. "I'd show him a few things, but I've got a date – and I'll already have to end it early for whatever your father's planning tonight."

"I'm sorry." He was, too, though about other things – things he wasn't sure would happen, but felt heavy and dark like the tattoo on his shoulder. Subjects not meant to be voiced on that sunny afternoon.

"Hana will understand. She's blown me off for family functions before."

Itachi gave his cousin a sidelong glance, knowing Shisui had been angling for this date ever since he'd seen the Inuzuka take her chuunin exams. Itachi had never quite understood how dating was supposed to work. He had observed ninja his age meandering in pairs during the spring flower-viewing festival, said hello to Hana once or twice when he crossed paths with her, mostly when she was with Shisui, and had even suffered the attentions of a few girls himself earlier that month, at the same flower-viewing festival. Towing Sasuke along had saved his skin from a number of difficult situations, even if Shisui had mocked him relentlessly ever since. He'd finally dropped the matter when Sasuke, who had no idea what it meant to be called a "cock block," repeated the word to his parents. Fugaku had not been amused.

"Sure," Itachi said. "Or you could invite her. Mother wouldn't mind."

Shisui looked at him as if he had just turned into a giant vermillion unicorn. As was obvious to them both, Fugaku and the clan elders wouldn't take the intrusion nearly as well. Then he smirked. "I could, couldn't I? Just for you, Itachi."

They had arrived at the back gate of the main house where Itachi lived; Shisui and his parents occupied the next one over. Sasuke's voice, ringing with excitement, carried through the open windows as clearly as if he were shouting in their ears. "I'm gonna be the best in my class! I can't wait!" In the background, they heard Mikoto gently reminding him to use his indoor-voice.

"On second thought," said Itachi, "save that for another day."

"You don't want me to bring Hana?"

Itachi shook his head. He had just remembered that Sasuke would enter the academy in a few days, probably on the same day that Itachi had to go on his special ANBU mission. He knew his father too well not to guess which one he'd prioritize, despite how obviously Itachi didn't need his supervision and Sasuke wanted it. "It's best not to antagonize Father yet."

His cousin's eyebrow floated up to his hairline. Yet was code for Itachi preparing to antagonize the head of the Uchiha Clan another way. "Somehow," said Shisui, "I have the feeling that your rebellious teen phase is going to be a lot more destructive than mine ever was… and I'm not even out of it yet."

By his twelfth birthday, Itachi had joined the ANBU, got a girlfriend, and coerced his father into attending Sasuke's academy entrance ceremony, not necessarily in that order.

In that same year, he met Shimura Danzou.

Just as dawn broke over Konoha, Itachi sat up, mask still on his face. The sun's first rays had barely spilled over the village wall, but a stray beam of light had landed squarely on the Shodaime's left tear duct, where Itachi had fallen asleep.

Normally, if the wind didn't blow too strongly and wake him by triggering one of his perimeter traps, the chirping of the birds nearby – two nests in Shodaime and Niidaime's nostrils, respectively, and a newer one tucked behind the Sandaime's right ear – would have roused him from sleep an hour earlier. His limbs felt sluggish as he went through a brief stretch, mostly to check if he had acquired any injuries he'd missed the previous night.

Though the air felt pleasantly brisk on his bare arm, Itachi made his way down to the ANBU barracks, where he had stowed his regulation black cloak. Most of the Root division members chose their own uniform underneath the cloak; Itachi had simply traded in his old ANBU gear through Danzou for a better-fitting set. It hadn't prevented Kabuto from drawing his own conclusions, though, and Itachi felt a little exposed.

His chest also felt tighter as he sprinted past the various administrative buildings to the hidden entrance of the ANBU compound, making him wonder if he was outgrowing his current set of armor. As he inhaled a little more deeply, a strange itch tickled the back of his throat. Sheer willpower held the cough at bay, and even then he had to pause to steady his breath, one hand braced against the pitted concrete wall. Trust his body to contract a cold at the worst possible moment.

Other ANBU flitted past him in the large chamber like minnows around a catfish. Once, Itachi had gone on a mission to Kirigakure and hidden in an underground lake for hours. The unearthly blue ripples of light, the slight brush of unseen creatures swimming around him, had plagued his dreams for two nights until Itachi took medication that ensured he didn't dream at all. Being in the Root barracks reminded him of it in flashes.

Itachi slipped into the moving stream of ANBU, seizing the cloak folded on top of the few possessions he kept in the locker and throwing it around his shoulders.

Returning aboveground was a disorienting experience. During that short interval, the sun had dragged itself all the way into the sky, and now dangled near the horizon behind a thin screen of clouds. Itachi pulled up the hood of his cloak and withdrew to the woods on the eastern side of the Hokage Monument.

He had his orders – relieve Torune during the daytime, maintain twenty-four hour surveillance on 9720. It was time to look in on his targets.

Maintaining the kage bunshin throughout the night had prevented Itachi from getting true rest, but that had been forfeit from the moment he had received the ANBU tattoo anyway. When he checked on either of his targets, he could dismiss the clone in charge and let his chakra levels recover, which they did at a slower rate because of the other kage bunshin. This trade-off would go on throughout the day and continue for weeks even when Danzou found another assignment for Itachi.

Where he had once walked boldly to the Academy doors to his lessons or, occasionally, to pick up Sasuke, Itachi now had to approach the building indirectly. First, he had to locate Torune.

A quick scan with the Sharingan helped him find the man at once. Even then, Torune was barely detectable; thanks to his clan's symbiotic relationship with the kikai insects, his chakra levels appeared unusually low for a shinobi. Each of the venomous bugs that lived on him followed the natural flow of his chakra, making it appear as though Torune's chakra traveled in distinct beads throughout his body.

"For all the problems our eyes have given us, I can't imagine being an Aburame," commented Shisui in undertone.

Itachi held his tongue. He made a point of not responding to his cousin's remarks while on duty. Then again, there was no such thing as being off-duty for members of the Root division. Nor for any of the ANBU, if he was being honest.

He dropped lightly onto the branch directly above Torune's and let a single leaf drift down. A furious but silent swarm of kikai converged on it, shredding and consuming it with startling violence. The leaf never touched the other man's head, but the message had reached him. Torune fell back into shadow as Itachi dismissed his bunshin.

He took a moment to sift through the memories he had just acquired. Not much had occurred. He remembered Umino Iruka walking into the grubby apartment that his chuunin wages barely covered; Iruka flipping through TV channels, laying out some ramen coupons as he reheated the rice; Iruka frowning at a photo on his wall – probably his family, since they looked so alike, and presumably dead; Iruka jotting down lesson plans and finally turning in for the night. The life of an academy teacher seemed strangely domestic, bordering on surreal.

It wasn't the first time Itachi had been ordered to keep an eye on Umino Iruka.

Itachi, fourteen-years-old and notorious mass-murderer and village traitor for all of one year, watched as the chuunin instructed his students through a routine shuriken-throwing practice in the yard. When Iruka stepped back, his students tried to mimic his stance with varying degrees of success. Some shuriken flew so wide that one of them would have reached the base of the tree where Itachi had taken position, if the student had more strength in his arm. From the far corner of the yard, however, came the regular, thudding sound of shuriken hitting the wooden target dead-on. It didn't take long for the other students to take a break from their own, less fruitful attempts and cluster around the dark-haired boy with a red and white fan on the back of his shirt. Soon, his shuriken was the only sound in the entire yard.

As he exhausted his holster, one of his admirers, a slender girl with bright blond hair, broke the awed silence with a cheer. "Sasuke-kun, you're amazing!"

Suddenly, clapping and sounds of effusive praise filled the schoolyard. It was all Sasuke, how did you do that can you show me please and That was so cool and He must be a genius in disbelieving envy, until a brash, angry young voice snarled, "He's not that cool! I could do that!"

"Oh yeah? Prove it!"

A circle of space cleared around the sandy-haired boy who had spoken. He tugged at the collar of an offensively orange jumpsuit that was slightly too large for him and marred by a few broth-stains on the front, narrowing his brilliant blue eyes. One of the other boys – not Sasuke, who had simply crossed his arms and was eyeing him sullenly – started to jeer, but Iruka stepped in.

"Naruto, go ahead and give it a try if you want." Iruka sounded resigned to the scene, from which Itachi gathered it was a regular occurrence. Yet the blonde boy seemed to interpret it as a lack of faith and scowled even harder.

"I can do it, easy."

He stomped over, retrieved one of the shuriken that littered the ground near another target, and took up a throwing stance behind the line marked out for the students. Elbow too high, wrist too stiff; if he gripped the shuriken any tighter, he would cut his fingers on it. Despite all these indications, Naruto glared with such determination at the target that anyone looking only at his face would count on that shuriken flying true.

Just as Naruto prepared to throw, a tiny but audible giggle escaped one of the girls. His concentration splintered, but his grip had already slackened. The weapon flew drunkenly through the air on its flat side. Air resistance brought it down nearly two meters short of the target.

Laughter erupted from all around him.

"Ha! I knew it! As usual…"

"What a loser…"

Face burning, Naruto tried to grab another shuriken, but another boy blocked his way, sneering that That's my shuriken, dumbass, go back to using the wooden ones. A fight threatened to break out. Ultimately, Naruto and the other boy got sent to separate corners in the yard to practice. Instead of obeying Iruka, Naruto left the yard, not without a backward glance.

The reason Iruka was under surveillance became clearer as the day wore on. During the lunch break, Itachi observed as Iruka watched Naruto sit alone at the swing set, a conflicted expression pulling his brows together. The chuunin instructor obviously sympathized with the boy, and the fact that Naruto happened to be the Kyuubi's vessel made this problematic. Ostracism and failure appeared to be the norm for that boy. Perhaps it would keep Naruto harmless, limited to childish pranks. If Iruka acted on his compassion and actually helped Naruto through his lessons, that would be an entirely different story. Different was unpredictable. Danzou didn't like unpredictable.

If I were Danzou, thought Itachi, watching Iruka watch Naruto, I would take Naruto out of Iruka's influence and give him to someone strong who doesn't know how to deal with young boys. A jounin who might otherwise cause trouble, for instance, could be bogged down by the nerve-wracking responsibility of limiting whatever damage a jinchuuriki could do. Graduating Naruto might seem counterintuitive when one wanted to contain him, but the false hope might make him more amenable to instruction, and either way, he had already begun to defy the authority of his academy teacher.

But Itachi wasn't Danzou. Even as he remained a stone's throw away from Naruto, he caught sight of Sasuke coming round.

Itachi's brother was already starting to get skinny around the knees and ankles, preparing for that abrupt spurt of growth during puberty. Like most boys who trained to be ninja from childhood, he would go through a period of frustration as he adjusted to arms and legs suddenly much longer than he was used to, but in a relatively short time, Sasuke would be enjoying a much longer reach and greater strength. Until then, he had to wait in this awkward state, straining and full of restless energy.

Itachi felt, rather than consciously moved his hand. A loose bit of bark the size of his thumb came away from the trunk. The fragment of wood wasn't exactly aerodynamic, but he infused his fingertips with a little chakra and flicked it at Sasuke's messy dark hair. The fragment struck Sasuke squarely in the back of his head, nearly snagging on the irrepressible tufts that his mother had once tried to tame with water and comb.

Sasuke spun on his heel, alarm and embarrassment morphing into anger. "Hey!"

Naruto, unsuspecting, looked up and stuck out his tongue anyway. To Sasuke, that was as good as an admission of guilt.

Itachi could hear Shisui chuckling beside him. "Is this how you amuse yourself now, Itachi?"

He watched as the two boys started to bicker. No fistfight, though – Sasuke was too dignified to resort to that, Naruto too delighted that someone had initiated any sort of interaction with him. Itachi hadn't misjudged them.

After everything he'd done to Sasuke, flicking a bit of bark at him was the least Itachi could do. What Sasuke made of Naruto's mysteriously good aim didn't say much about his deductive skills, though.

That was the only interaction Itachi had with his brother for the next three years.

Towards evening, Itachi left a kage bunshin to monitor Iruka and sought out Kakashi. To avoid leaving the jounin unmonitored for any length of time, Itachi had sent a second clone to track down the first one while he had still been keeping an eye on Iruka, so that he could simply dismiss the clone that had been watching Kakashi overnight and immediately know the man's location and previous activities without wasting extra time.

Hatake Kakashi's activities were much less structured than Iruka's, though well within the range typical of a jounin of Konoha. The unfinished mission report on his desk was soon neglected in favor of napping, reading some questionable literature, sauntering out to order some broiled saury and rice, ignoring an obnoxious man in a green jumpsuit – 10252, Maito Gai – and taking a stroll with his nose buried in the orange book he had brought along with him.

Although he seemed immersed in the small volume, Kakashi appeared to have a destination in mind. His feet carried him, with no particular urgency, to the Konoha Memorial. Itachi lagged behind, tracking his movements with the Sharingan. It seemed, however, that Kakashi genuinely intended to stop at the cenotaph.

Kakashi put away his book and stood before the memorial in silence for a long moment. Hidden in the dense foliage to Kakashi's left, Itachi could see how his only visible eye – the pilfered Sharingan covered by his forehead protector – immediately latched onto one point on the cenotaph. One name.

"I told you I'd be fine," Kakashi drawled. "See, Obito, I'm in one piece. No broken bones, no bruises. Learned a few interesting techniques, though, thanks to you."

Obito's name called up an indistinct impression in Itachi's memory – a guileless face, a vaguely contagious smile – mainly just the syllables themselves, U-chi-ha –O-biii-toooo, shouted in exasperation by not a few of his cousins and aunts. Itachi hadn't had the Sharingan yet, so his memory of Obito was imperfect. Obito had died during the Third Shinobi World War. Got himself killed in Iwa, what did I tell you? had been the words, until the clan found out about his legacy. And then it had been traitor, idiot, dregs of the family, how dare he – how could he do that – the Hatake have no honor and that son, I hear he's a prodigy but he's not one of us, he doesn't know – doesn't deserve that eye.

With all that, Itachi was surprised the elders hadn't scratched Obito's name out on the heroes' memorial and consigned him to oblivion.

"I can imagine what you'd advise," said Kakashi conversationally to the cenotaph. "You always had stupid suggestions, because you always believed the best of people." The corner of his eye crinkled and the mask covering the lower half of his face stretched; Itachi imagined that he was smiling. "I suppose now's as good a time as any for me to do something just as stupid."

It occurred to Itachi that Kakashi was slightly mad, but that fell within the typical range for jounin, too. Rumor had it that post-mission psych screenings tended to go a little easier on ninja after ten years of active duty.

"So let's not beat around the bush or pretend any longer. Why don't you tell me why you've started watching me instead of actually looking out for your brother, Itachi?"

Itachi's breath hitched. It was barely noticeable, but the tickle in his throat returned.

Count to ten, count to twenty, go through everything you know – a ninja does not give in to physical discomfort – complete your mission - 'but he's a masochist' - fifteen – sixteen – seventeen – eighteen –

The tickling sensation went away. Itachi could breathe again.

Kakashi kept staring at the cenotaph. Wise of him. On the other hand, he had pushed up his forehead protector to reveal the long scar over his left eye, which he seemed to keep shut through willpower alone.

Before Itachi had become a captain himself, he had carried out ANBU assignments under Kakashi's leadership once or twice. They had known each other in the past, so Danzou's latest mission would have been less risky for another operative. But no one questioned the commander's orders.

Kakashi's Sharingan would have allowed him to see through the genjutsu employed by Itachi's clones. It had been a low-level technique to avoid attracting attention through excessive chakra usage, and the Sharingan would have seen through it easily when Kakashi noticed the bunshin.

"Why don't you come out?" said Kakashi.

Why should he? Kakashi already had a good idea of where Itachi was, after all.

Or not; perhaps he only suspected Itachi was somewhere in the vicinity.

"I'm a loyal shinobi of Konoha. You can tell that to the Tsuchikage for all I care." Kakashi adjusted his forehead protector so that it once again covered his left eye, and then sat down with his back against the cenotaph. Out came the little orange book. "Sorry, Obito – I read ahead without you. You can just fill in what you missed."

Itachi imagined what he would say later that night as Kakashi's cool voice burned his ears with vivid tales of intimate acts, all of increasing physical improbability. For all that the orange book looked pocket-sized, it seemed that the litany would never end.

Nothing to report. Nothing to report at all.

Shisui wisely held his tongue.