DISCLAIMER: I do not own Naruto.
CHAPTER 1: A MAN
Today they are burying a man. A small, crooked man, who have seemingly lived a long life. He is a man among others and is now to be covered by moist dirt and left to decay. Food for the next generation of beetles. He will be forgotten soon by everyone here.
Some days ago this man's pale, parched fingers generously tapped the old pastel-green plastic desk (bought during a less prosperous period for Konoha) creating a sound that echoed out of step with the clock beside the door on the opposite wall. That clock as been dug out of debris and mud too many times. It had too many scratches on the surface, dimming it, making it impossible to reliably tell the time from it. Yet the man tapping the desk kept it. For the same reason he kept the old desk. Despite the fact that he could had traded them at any time, get some more impressive, beautiful new furniture, he kept these. They reminded him of what was important. It was important to remember. And to use those memories. That and to never give up.
The aging man in the room stretched his whole body up in an arc before swinging his arms down in a full-arm wave, touching the narrow walls of his office. A stranger to this room would note the worn marks from this exercise on the walls with part humour, part distaste. How long has a person have to be locked in before there are worn marks on the walls? How long before one starts to appreciate the prison instead of hating it?
After a strangled sigh the aged man turned to the bleach white papers on the desk. Some were addressed directly to him for translations, others were documents and official papers that needed to be looked over and commented upon. Some were more interesting than others. Some were just a waste of good paper. Those were the ones he saved in a special pile. He would later put them on fire and had the younger kids on a random street use them for grilling something. Some of them would only found them useful as a brief, but warming fire. After scribbling a few things down on one of the papers waiting for translation the man sighed once again and let his withered head bury itself in the crock of his arm. A silent and cold wind brushed his rather short, white-specked blonde hair gently, making him look up and out the small window behind him. A window that would never be able to provide an escape route as it is too small for most people beyond their teens to crawl through. Luckily, it also means that nobody can get in. Not so lucky is the fact that no matter how one twist and turn inside the room the only thing you will see clearly from that window is the crushed face of what used to be the 6th hokage's on the small mountain. Or nowadays; cliff. Ninja's with nothing better to do had spent many hours on trying to peel that face of the rocky surface and away from everybody's memories. 'Trying' being the keyword.
Years before that was the face of a man most thought they knew and adored. The aging man's memories of the ceremony where the 6th got his much desired coat and hat, ring hauntingly like the laughter of the hopeful mass who gathered that otherwise watery, cold autumn day. In hindsight most would, if they found the inner strength to joke about it, say that the weather had been warning them.
There was a brief fight with the ill fitted door before a lanky secretary made his way into the small office with a porcelain kettle and parcels on a shiny tray. No words were spoken but the older man looked away from the window to frown at the unannounced intrusion. This only caused the boy's fingers to slightly twitch as he smoothed out a part of the desk to put down the kettle, the cup and the new jar of pills. All of this was done without asking for permission since most employees in this building have no idea of who the aging man is. Nor really cares. He's been hiding too much in the shadows of others to be recognised for anyone more than a simple man who somehow survived the hard times since the death of the third hokage. Nobody is interested in this "somehow". They all assume he got his position because he somehow passed a line where age could give him any position he wanted to aid him in his goal of spending the rest of his life comfortably. He had after all served his country. Though some suspected he had been hiding when the air got too hot to handle. Nobody asks an old man questions when there so many more interesting war heroes to admire. The aging man took three pills under the supervision of the secretary as he had been known to chuck those small things out the window the minute one looked away. When it was done the boy leaved.
So he stayed alone in that office, checking the inner workings of Konoha for cogwheels that needed greasing or that had gotten spoilt or rusted. He took the pills he needed to take in order to avoid pain and sometimes he would go home to the street were everybody know what person he is but not really who he is. He enjoyed this life. Had craved it for years, craved it ever since "adventure" got synonymous with a long period of struggle followed by somebody's funeral. He could still find a sort of adventure in walking through the village and getting involved in what was happening. But he had gotten too tired lately. He just could not find the power to do anything these days. Every limb was heavy and moving it made it sting with pain. The stronger painkillers were not working anymore. The power nestled inside of him had broken him into too many pieces to fix. He was only 55, but was still old. He aged fast these days.
Suddenly the whole room lunged to the side, bringing with it a splitting headache. To any other man this would be a cause for panic. But to this man it only stirred up a wrinkled forehead. He had had these symptoms before. It happened every time he had gotten poisoned. But as the fire in his belly spiked out and wrung into his shoulders he quietly mused that this could possibly be it. He mused that running outside of his office for help would amount to nothing as his secretary was the only that could have poisoned him. And he is probably not even out there anymore, escaping the consequences as the aging man mused on. He mused that surely something new will happen soon. Would he go to hell? Possibly, it's not like he has not walked down that road many times. However. If possible he'd like to argue for his case. Just so he could at least get the chance to strangle the fucked up person who had probably given him his cards to play with. Three fucked up cards: a nine-tailed demon, orphanage and a body fit to be a ninja. He did not like them at all. But he is kind of happy that he could play them so well anyway. He hoped that he gets to see his deceased co-players soon.
And he tired to doze off. Tried to bite down on the pain. But he still had a seizure five minutes later when the poison took down its victim.
And some in Konoha will mourn him greatly as they start to tell the truth of him. Some will shrug their shoulders despite that. Konoha has been at peace for too long to appreciate the deeds done under the wars as they perhaps should. But the man who they buried today would like them to do nothing more than go about with their lives as they have done for some odd years. He would like them to forget that there was ever war. Like them to forget how it's done. Forget that It was ever a road to something at all.
But he thinks none of this as he opens his eyes only to be blinded by a blazing summer sun and realising something is poking him in the leg. But besides that, a sweet sensation of grass tickling his exposed flesh and a rank smell of burning rubber enters his nose. As he rolls over and shields his eyes he sees a vast Konoha in the distance. Were it really that huge before?
Today Naruto arrived in the after life. God has a funny sense of humour.
Author note: If there's any questions just review them to me so that I can include them in the next chapter.