So about two years ago, when we got to the epic Naruto and Sasuke fight in the manga, I had the idea for this story. But as I was in the middle of school, I had no time to write it.

Then, last week, the anime began the fight and I was reminded of this story. And I just had to answer the question, "What if Sasuke won?" I'm experimenting with a lot of new elements here, and I hope you will enjoy it.

Special thanks to my beta, fanofthisfiction. I don't know if I would have had the guts to publish this without her. :D


Chapter 1: Revolution Day

I'm staring out the window at the steel-gray sky, waiting for the rain that has been threatening for days, when a banging on the door makes me jump out of my seat. I knock over an end table and my cup shatters, splattering cold tea on the linoleum floor.

"Sakura Haruno?" barks a voice on the other side of the door.

I freeze. My heart lodges in my throat. Do they know? How could they? Everyone has been so careful…

Then I start at my own nonsensical thoughts, my eyes wide, my hands trembling. I'm not a part of the Konoha Underground. I have nothing to hide. Right?

The banging on the door continues, louder this time.

"Hold on!" I shout, rushing to the door. I gaze through the peephole and what I see makes my mouth go dry.

The two masked men outside have white circle insignias on their uniforms.

I stand stock still for a moment, the blood draining from my face. I could escape out the back, I think desperately. I could climb out the bathroom window, flee down the alleyway—

"Haruno Sakura, open the door," one of the guards booms.

I open the door. If I run now, these two will kill me before I even make it to the street. My eyes flit to their bone-white masks: one, a hawk, the other, a fox. Naruto… My heart twists at the sight of the fox mask, on today of all days. I want to weep, but I do not. Not a twinge of unease shows on my face; I wear a mask, too.

"Leader-sama orders your presence," says the fox-masked nin, his monotone making me buzz with anxiety.

I bow my head, avoiding eye contact. The White Circle Guard are known by a different, whispered name: The Death Guard. They were the first reprogrammed shinobi Sasuke created. I ball my hands into fists as I realize this happened exactly three years ago today—on Revolution Day. They are failed experiments, according to Sasuke; he says men lose the edge of their abilities with the loss of their memories and emotions.

I shiver, though the day is hot and humid, stifling and reeking faintly of mold. The guards gesture to me sharply and I slink behind them down the steps of the apartment building.

Every unit we pass is the same: one small bedroom with a tiny hallway for a kitchen. White plaster walls, white linoleum floors. Fluorescent lights that flicker when you first turn them on. They could almost be nice apartments if it didn't feel like an institution. A prison. I never thought I would miss living with my parents. I bite my lip at the thought, shove down my rising emotion, and smooth my features. Get it together, Haruno, I admonish myself.

On the street, we pass apartment buildings that are the perfect replicas of my own, tall white towers with one hundred units each, all identical, all silent. It's like walking through a giant catacomb.

The guards march down the street without looking back. I keep my eyes trained on their shoes. Their boots are the same as mine, standard issue, black as coal and stiff as wood. Even their black slacks and matching collared shirts are the same as my uniform.

But where they have a white circle on their shoulder and lapel, I have a red cross, marking me a medical nin. It's the only splash of color on my uniform. Even my hair has been dyed black according to standard regulations.

If Ino could see me, she'd tease me about how pale my black ensemble makes me. But I haven't seen Ino in a month. Or has it been two?

Every day is the same in the First Republic, one day bleeding into the other until it is hard to say when one ends and another begins. Surely it hasn't been three months since Ino went away? I glance up at the gray sky, wondering if Ino has made it underground without getting caught. I wish I knew…

The guards come to a halt, and I realize I've been lagging behind. I quicken my pace and they resume their methodical march, down past the residential quarter and into the industrial zone. Short, squat buildings with tiny windows like beady little eyes seem to watch us pass. I wrinkle my nose at the acrid smell, wondering if it is from weapon or chemical manufacture, when something catches my eye. I come to a standstill and gape.

Written on the second story of one of the warehouses, red scrawl in huge looping letters proclaims:

DEATH TO DEATH CITY!

The guards follow my gaze. I school my face in the appropriate, horrified expression which they note—I can see the gears turning in their heads—before they continue onwards.

I worry my lip with my teeth. The First Republic City. Death City. My heart aches for Konoha, now buried beneath my feet. That's the first thing Sasuke did when we returned: pulverized the village with one blink of his Rinnegan eye, then ordered us to build row upon row of buildings lined up in a grid, arranged like soldiers ordered by rank and file. And standing at the city's mechanical heart, the White Tower.

I lift my eyes to see the tower looming above the city, so tall, its pointed tip seems to pierce the clouds. The windows lining every side glint in the steely light like prying eyes.

I lower my gaze and fix my attention on the guard's shoes once more, my footsteps dragging me closer and closer to Sasuke.

Could he possibly know? I think. Then I shake my head, my brow furrowed. Does he know what? I ask myself. I have done nothing wrong. If anything, I should be afraid for my friends, but I am not. My fear is all for myself. He can't possibly know…

I wipe my clammy palms on my pants and school my features back to a mask of calm. Even if he reads my memories, he won't find a single scrap of treachery—

Will he?

#

I'm always struck by his beauty, every time I see him. Even though his features are sharper now, sterner, and he is missing one of his arms. His eyes—well, I don't look into his eyes if I can help it. Still, to me he will always be beautiful.

I, Sakura Haruno, am a fool, a worthless, useless little fool. But I cannot help myself. The gods know I love him even now.

I kneel on one knee and offer a formal bow, bending straight at the waist until my torso is parallel to the floor. My hand forms a crisp salute to my forehead. "Leader-sama," I say, cursing my tremulous voice. Sasuke-kun…

"Leave us," he commands the guards, waving them away. I listen to the retreating footsteps echoing on the marble floor, hear the door snap shut. I remain frozen, still trapped in my formal bow, a bead of sweat falling from my forehead onto the floor.

"Rise," Sasuke orders.

"Thank you, Leader-sama," I reply automatically, getting to my feet.

He tsks. "Just Sasuke."

I nod and remain silent, my eyes tracing a vein of marble on a fluted column. It is never wise to initiate a conversation with Sasuke-kun. Still, unable to help myself, my eyes flicker to his face, then to the floor.

"There's been another assassination attempt on my life."

I gasp, my eyes wide as I lift my gaze. "Are you hurt, Sasuke?"

He chuckles, but the sound is hollow. I shiver. "Hatake Kakashi has been sent to Reform."

Reform, with a capital R. The internment camp in what was formerly known as the Village Hidden in the Sand, now called Second Republic City. I open my mouth, but no words come out. Not Kakashi. Anyone but him…

"I sent orders not to kill him," Sasuke says with an offhand wave. His boots do not make any sound as he stalks forward.

A tremor runs through me. I hold my breath. He reaches out and tilts up my chin, forcing me to meet those eyes. Those eyes, hard and black as volcanic rock, sharp enough to draw blood. There is a flash of red and a wave of dizziness washes over me. "And I won't kill him," he murmurs. "If I can expect good behavior."

Good behavior from me, it goes without saying. Another moment of vertigo as he searches my eyes, then a whimper escapes my throat. "Y-yes."

"Good." He releases me, his fingertips leaving my skin as cold as ice. He strides to a nearby chair and sprawls in it, like a cat that's done stalking a mouse. "I see you haven't made any progress with your experiments," he says. It is not a question.

Sweat beads my brow and runs down the back of my neck. I hate having my memories stolen from me, especially when a report would have sufficed. "No, Sasuke. I'm sorry. I've tried everything. If only…" I bite my tongue until I taste blood.

If only Tsunade hadn't been murdered. And even, if only Orochimaru hadn't been executed. Either of those geniuses could have figured out the intricacies of in vitro fertilization. As for me, I have been pushing around test tubes for months with nothing to show for it but a mountain of failure.

Sasuke settles back in his chair, his face an unreadable mask as always. A single bead of sweat rolls down my forehead and into my eye where it burns, but I don't move a muscle. My eyes are trained on his long, elegant fingers.

He doesn't clutch the arms of his chair; surely that's a good sign? Then he runs one finger along the arm, as if idly tracing the wood. He's considering. I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

"Dammit, there's not enough time," he mutters to himself, his face dark. He turns to me. "We'll keep the Shinobi Genetic Program for the time being. Continue your work."

"Yes sir." I try not to sag with relief. I haven't outlived my usefulness. Yet.

After Orochimaru's experiment with clones—which turned out to be an army of mashed up human experiments, programmed with one goal: destroy Uchiha Sasuke—the sannin had been brutally executed, dismembered limb from limb, his head stuck on a pike in the city square to serve as a reminder for traitors. The Clone Program had been abandoned. Instead, the Shinobi Genetic Program was instituted, for the purpose of replenishing the depleted ranks.

So far I've been exempt from the program, though whether this is a sign of Sasuke's respect or a sign that my genetic stock doesn't count for much, I've never been able to ask. It's a "voluntary" program, except not really.

Those shinobi who decline an invitation are sent to the front lines if they are men, or to Reform if they are women. Given the low chance for escaping underground and surviving, most shinobi participate.

The allowances for contraband during the night of conception—sake and cigarettes mostly, though I've heard of stronger stuff being procured on the black market—do little to make up for the fact that if a child is produced, it enters the communal schools at the tender age of one, never to see its mother again.

Needless to say, the parents are forbidden from future meetings with each other and are given no information on the child. Then again, words like "mother," "father," "son," and "daughter" have been discarded. We are all equal citizens now. Equally alone, I think. But it's better to be alone than to deal with the Genetic Program. I think I'd slit my wrists too.

On my clinic days, sometimes I see these hollow-eyed women who are in the program. I prescribe antidepressants. Some of them commit suicide anyway. There is never a shortage of sharp objects laying around, after all. Even the White Circle Guard can't figure out how to prevent the deaths, having been engineered to create it instead.

The children are brought in to the clinic on occasion too, tender babes between the ages of one and three. Sasuke can't understand why the children are so thin, why they constantly cry and wet the bed. Some of the worst cases stare into the darkness without seeing, their eyes clouded over with a thick film.

They are like plants that grow without the benefit of light: pale, almost see-through creatures that stretch out to reach for the sunlight and, upon not finding any, curl up on themselves and molder.

I think humankind is doomed. We can't even manage procreation anymore. All we can do is create more death. One day soon that wave of darkness is going to surge up and take us all under. Maybe that's Sasuke's idea of peace and justice for all under the law, I think, my hands balling into fists. I hate him so much right now, I'm shaking with it.

"Sakura?" he asks, his voice like a knife through my thoughts.

"Do you require healing tonight?" I practically bite off the words. I watch his hand: the fingers drum against the wood in a single cascade. He's studying me closely now. I take a deep breath and try to tamp down my surge of emotions.

"Please," he says at last.

The word "please" startles me—I'm used to orders, not polite requests from Sasuke. I realize a few tears have escaped my eyes. They feel hot and sticky where they cling to my cheeks.

"You're upset about Kakashi," he says.

I nod. No sense in lying. I pull out a handkerchief and, with all the impassivity I can muster, I blot my face. It's not just Kakashi, of course. It's everything. It's everyone.

It's Ino, who has been gone for months and I don't know if she's alive or dead. It's Choji and Shikamaru, who left years ago to go underground. It's my own parents, dead along with the majority of the civilian population of Konoha, their bones crushed in the rubble. It's Tsunade who was slain while still in a human pod ensconced in Infinite Tsukuyomi, as helpless as a babe. And today, it's Kakashi.

I wonder: Will Kakashi survive Reform? Not everyone does. And if he does come back alive, will his eyes be as vacant as those of the White Circle Guard?

A lump rises in my throat as the person I miss the most of all comes to mind, even as I struggle to shove the memory away. Today of all days, I cannot chase away his ghost: Naruto. Three years ago today, Sasuke murdered him.

I couldn't save you, I think, unable to dispel his image in my mind: his messy blond hair, his idiot grin.

Sasuke clasps my shoulder and I start, freezing like a rabbit caught in a wolf's jaws. "Forgive me," I whisper. Now my face is slick with tears, my kerchief soaked through.

Wordlessly, he withdraws his hand. A moment later, he offers one of his own handkerchiefs, the twin to my own standard-issue square of white linen.

Not knowing what else to do, I take it in shaking hands. I try to blot my face but it's difficult because my hands won't stop trembling.

Sasuke tilts my chin up. He's gentle, but the contact makes me freeze, every muscle knotting with fear. He captures my eyes and the breath leaves my lungs all at once. His black eyes glint blood red with the Sharingan.

"You're thinking of him," he says.

I take a step back, struggling to find breath. I know he doesn't mean Kakashi. "Forgive me," I say in a ragged whisper. "I know it's restricted. But my thoughts…"

He squeezes my shoulder again and I wince from the unexpected contact. "It's restricted to speak of him," Sasuke says, returning to his chair. "Not to think of him. I don't own your thoughts."

Don't you? I want to ask. I bite my lip and smother the words. With a shuddering breath, I still my tears through sheer force of will, a thin veneer of calm settling over my features once more. I wipe my face, pocket the sopping kerchiefs, and crack my knuckles.

"It's all right if you're not up to healing today," he says. "It is a holiday."

Inside, a dry, humorless laughter bubbles up inside of me. Revolution Day. It's less of a holiday and more like an unending funeral.

My eyes flicker to his hands, then travel to his face, but his expression reveals nothing. "I'm already here," I say, my voice flat. As I've done every day for such a long time I no longer know when we started, I stand before him. I place my hands alongside his temples, my fingers trailing in his black hair. It feels like the finest silk. I want to twist the strands around my fingers but I do not. I close my eyes and delve into his chakra network.

"You have a headache," I say, a hint of reproval in my voice. "You've been overusing your doujutsu again." My eyes flicker open long enough to catch the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

His eyes are closed and he makes no effort now of hiding the pain and fatigue. It makes my heart ache for him. And at the same time, my fingers tighten imperceptibly around his scalp. I could kill him. I should kill him. I could do it too. With my bare hands.

Instead, healing chakra pulses out from my fingertips, soothing his raw network of ocular nerves.

"Sometimes," he says, so softly, I wonder if he is talking to himself, "I wish he had won."

The only thing that betrays my startlement is the wideness of my eyes. I stare at him for a long time. Then I bow my head and let my hot tears fall.

I keep my concentration on his chakra network, on the healing, until his nerves are restored. I pull away quickly when I finish. My tears have fallen on his face; he doesn't seem to notice.

A flash of memory hits me then like a grenade: Sasuke laying pale and bloodied on the rocky battleground, the ruined stump of his arm profusely bleeding. Naruto is nowhere to be found. Instead, a pulpy mess of blood and mangled bones soaks into the earth. Nothing is recognizable except for a few blonde hairs scattering on the wind.

I should have let him die, comes the thought. I should have killed him myself.

But I could not have let Sasuke-kun die. If I hadn't healed him, the Infinite Tsukuyomi would never have ended. And I wanted to heal him! I loved him! I love him still.

That's why I heal him now. Even though he has taken everything dear from me. He's also the last dear thing left to me.

A breath shudders through me and I come back to the present. He's studying me again, and those eyes see right through me. I curse my unguarded moment and turn away from him, wiping my face with my sleeve. Without another word—without his dismissal—I leave.


Thank you for reading. Please review:)