Chapter 1: sunshine corridor
AN: Written before the events of chapter 599, but I'm kind of pleased with how easily this could fit into the newer info.
Memories of his time spent in captivity are patchy, to say the least.
Obito remembers the sharp pain of kunai slicing through his skin during his rare hours of consciousness, superficial wounds, they said. Those and the blunt force were the worst of it.
– [but he feels as though he's stomached pain ten times as intense; like the right half of his body being crushed under earth,] –
Their genjutsu left something to be desired, though. The idea of Kakashi acting plyingly genial made him burst into laughter in the beginning – their tactics changed, to say the least. During many of his waking moments, Obito used to wonder how they made the carnage smell so real, before registering the raw gashes along his face, and along the rest of his body. The cell smelled of rust and decay, and then he wondered how many others had been here, faced with the same fate and—inevitable death.
– [thoughts heavy at the sight of misplaced guilt.] –
Affairs were kept neat in Iwa. "No sentimentality. None of that Konoha bullshit", he recalls overhearing. At that, Obito spat into the face of a captor, positioned in a mockery of a sitting position, wrists bound apart and ankles chained to the floor, earning himself a bloodier nose and a slash to the ribs. Methodical.
No use in handing back prisoners…and risk raising enemy morale; eyes carefully trained on him, watching for pre-emptive signs of action, weakness, anything and everything.
He's never entirely sure whether he kept his mouth shut (about Kannabi Bridge, his mind supplies in hushed tones), but the interrogations spanned from hours to days to months and Obito's pretty sure he lost track of time after that. Knowing that asshole-Kakashi with his perfect memory, he would have kept perfect track of time for years. Can't fault a guy for making an effort, right?
Time passes, and his body changes with it. The remnants of his ninja garb were ill-fitting, sleeves ending before his wrists and lower calves bare and caked with grime.
Despite this, the fantasies of escape, of rescue – a common delusion during times of captivity, remembering an academy teacher's haunted and impartial words – never truly ended.
Obito remembers (dreams of) Rin arriving, along with Minato-sensei and that jerkass-Kakashi, all clamouring with relief (because he was obviously the lifeblood of Team Seven. Rin and Minato-sensei would have aged ten years in the span of a month with windbag-Kakashi sucking up all the air) – and then Rin would rest her forehead against his and tell him everything's okay now, Obito… and everything would be awesome and romantic. And he'd come back to Konoha! The. End.
(He wakes up to a dimly-lit cell, hopes and relief smouldering to ash.)
-v- -v- -v-
On rare and daunting occasions, he would see a familiar face beyond the bars, weary eyes (—a disgrace to the clan, that Obito—) squinting with effort. They came in with fresh faces, racing spirits and fierce determination. The Will of Fire.
They all died, one by one. Eventually. Disposed of by their captors because iwa lost the war, he hears from the newest arrival.
– [he might be a ninja, but he'll never enjoy the sensation of killing someone, Obito resolves, feeling the iwa ninja fall back with a schlick of his kunai. The tomoe of his newly-activated Sharingan are swirling, Kakashi's gaze boring holes into his back] –
Nearing Obito's turn, they advance to a now-distant childhood friend, Kamina. His name becomes a silent and, sometimes, not so silent mantra.
Remember me, remember yourself, and tell them I'm sorry, Obito.
They begin with an upward slice, and for a split-second he sees Kakashi taking the very same blow, and something snaps in his mind—
Obito's eyes are helplessly drawn to the sight as the body drains of energy, spasms and exertions dulling in vigour. From the silhouette, a dark pool spreads and reaches, gleaming red in the lowlight. Eyes grow vacant and hands fall to the side like lead. If these are a ninja's dying moments, rehearsed and without commotion, then he hates himself for being so weak, unable to protect his village, comrades, or Rin, for that matter.
His fists are shaking, clenched bone-white as frustration and despair war at eachother in equal parts, spitting flames and soot. The world feels wrong and off-beat, his vision resolving a penumbra of grey against near-monochrome.
With this, the scene is branded into memory, detail by detail. Sharingan, hisses a black and festering Pride, upon registering the chakra signature of a nearby guard.
Obito hears the name of his kekkai genkai whispered by his captors, and vomits.
(Whether it was out of respect or trauma, Obito finds it frighteningly easy to pull up an image of warm, determined eyes, glinting gold in the lamplight (—they're going to come back for us, Obito—) when he barely remembers the walk to his favourite dango shop. Konoha is slipping through his fingers, the people like water and landmarks like sand.
Iwa honours its namesake, cold and unchanging. There is nothing to remember other than an omnipresent stone cell, surgical precision, and ruthless interrogation.)
-v- -v- -v-
Apparently, possessing the Sharingan entitled you to an (underground, he assumes) facility of scholars and researchers; almost a hospital. A welcome change, if the prior tang of putrefaction had anything to do with it: even in the sparingly illuminated cell, Obito found it difficult to ignore the stains that bloomed across rough sandstone.
That is, until he arrives barely conscious and drugged up on sedatives. Beneath white and sterile coats, the kunai holsters looked almost out of place.
Lightly bound and with an escort of two iwa ninja, a chuunin and jounin, his mind offers in some lonely attempt at familiarisation, Obito nods off to a thankfully peaceful sleep.
(He dreams of delicious, nutritious dango and Team Seven, a perpetually awesome combination because it meant an ad hoc date with Rin; Minato on the backburner; and, with some major pains to Obito's saint-like patience, Kakashi being an ignorable element.)
Obito's hands are later bracing his forehead, newly-awoken and vaguely frustrated as he slumps across a thin mattress. Admonishments resonate through his mind, borrowing his father's voice: Another wasted opportunity. You'll never escape, and the clan will be better off because of it. The train of thought continues until he sneezes from a brief chill, realising his change in clothing from bloodied ninja garb to drab grey and brown attire. His room is flinty and sparse, with an unnerving lack of windows. The only light source is afforded by a barred door opening, its cold, artificial glow a far cry from Konoha's welcoming sun.
Claustrophobia wastes no time in clawing at his nerves, a heavy weight settling in Obito's stomach.
The only opening is a lone ventilation shaft, only large enough to accommodate an arm, he notes with disappointment and a well-placed curse. Its interior is smooth and polished through sheer repetition of the action, alluding to the room's prior inhabitance. The idea is almost as ominous as being on the receiving end of a trademark Fugaku frown, and Obito winces at the image.
Dancing within consciousness is a renewed sense of panic that has nothing to do with confinement – phantom whispers flood his senses, and, suddenly, he's uncomfortably aware of the reasons behind his transfer.
– [the war has taken its toll on many, and Obito's only eight years old when he sees his First Uchiha Corpse: eyes gouged out, trails of brown and gore running down Uncle Yasui's unmoving face. In the next instant, Obito's eyes are scrunched shut, recoiling in an amalgam of disgust and denial] –
Settling himself back down on the bed, careful of his injuries, Obito heaves a death rattle, tinged with (—hahaha—) hysteria. After several deep breaths, his mind clicks back into working order.
It's not long before he attempts a katon jutsu in hopes of warming himself, and the action proves fruitless. On inspection, the chakra-suppressant seals on his body ruled out the possibility of moulding chakra, secured by rusted bands of iron.
He doesn't get a wink of sleep.
-v- -v- -v-
Months later, Obito is out of breath and dizzy from blood loss, the mangekyo sharingan bleeding tracks down his face. He rests his weight on an uninjured shoulder, leaning on the stone panelling. Stretching before him is an uneven and rocky terrain, carved by sprawling canyons and littered with overhangs.
Behind him, uproar. He falls into a dead sprint, gait hindered by a persistent limp in his right leg and the callings of exhaustion. Obito has no direction in mind other than awayawayaway. Friends shouldn't abandon one another, but he knows better than to squander a sacrifice.
With a wave of déjà vu,
– [because he, impossibly, remembers saying something similar to Kakashi – before going to save Rin? There is an urgent voice at the back of his head, but all that registers is static] –
the thought pulls his mouth into a grimace, eyes watering. Stupid iwa dust. Obito has never missed his goggles as much as he does now.
…
…
(—will they give the body a proper burial, or leave it exposed to the elements? he wonders in resignation, eyes skimming the unkind and barren wasteland, the blur of speed dampening none of its harsh features. Does iwa bury their traitors?—)
Kind of confused? I am too. I'll leave this with you guys:
– [asdfghjk] – denotes a flashback to Obito's canon lifetime, complete with authorial embellishments :L
(— asdfghjk —) denotes a general flashback
(asdfghjk) denotes obito being a crazy kid/experimental narration (mostly the former)
As of now, I do have a rough timeline of events, but I don't think I'll be jumping onto the ***writing*** bandwagon any time soon due to laziness (mea culpa). Thank you for reading. :)