Disclaimer: Naruto is the property of Kishimoto Masashi.
Chapter 1
Dakota Suite
After spending hundreds of years on the road, I thought I was used to becoming bored. Maybe it's just how Konoha has always been; happy and hopeful—unlike other Hidden Villages—but decidedly mellow, especially in peacetime. Or maybe I'm just refusing to acknowledge that even I've become a bit jaded. Honestly, I think it's much easier to blame the D-ranks and the tedium of genin training, though I've thought about this type of situation before.
If there's one thing Ero-sennin taught me, it was the value of books, especially good literature; it has a certain resonance in real life, and yes, even magic realism too. For a couple years after one of Mist's many civil wars, a lot of bookstores stocked a glut of bullshit time-travel-cum-groundhog day fiction. Jiraiya had me read a few and write a few essays, yes, essays, on recurrent themes and motifs in the entire genre.
After spending a couple weeks sorting through the filth, I summed it up like this: The characters and settings might change, hell even the plot might seem different, but god damn, it's all the same. Every single time the protagonist goes back in time and is able to atone for past mistakes, prevent unfortunate happenings—basically gain redemption and end up with the girl, of course.
Usually when I did literary critique for him, he would take apart my arguments and we'd have a long discussion about what exactly I was taking from the story, and during the first couple months on the road, why my analysis was flawed. For this essay though, he just clapped me on my shoulder and walked out of our hotel room. Naturally, I got really angry and stomped down to the red-light district of the town we were staying in that night.
In a break from the usual routine I couldn't find Jiraiya doing the usual trawl of the brothels for flesh, nor was he at a swank hostess bar. I spend half the night looking for him because I wanted my just due, or rather my just criticism—his training made me into a glutton for punishment. When I did find him, he wasn't even trashed, just buzzing at a small yatai under a bridge. I took a stool next to him and attacked my otsumami, judiciously working my way through some warm sake, but leaving the onus on him to start the conversation.
Most people would think my meager social skills would deteriorate more with ero-ero. It was just the opposite. Interacting with real people—not ninjas— tends to help in that area. So I let him slowly drink, and drink, and drink some more. I was pretty pissed, since he was doing it on my dime, as usual, but I had learned when to antagonize him and when to let him be.
We were the only two left at the cart when he turned to me and nodded, saying, "You're exactly right. All those stories, though they're just shitty fiction, most people really want to live that dream, ya know. Go back in time, get the chance to undo past mistakes, make the perfect life, be the perfect person; become someone they're not, but in their mind someone they could have become. What they don't realize that this is reality, there's no genie going to give them a wish, no devil going to exchange a favor for a soul, no jutsu to make their dreams come true. What they have to realize is that life will never be like a book, it's never going to go exactly the way you wish it could. Mistakes are mistakes; it's about being mentally strong enough to move on, not make the same mistakes, and stop living in sappy shonen manga flash backs. I mean look at your quest to get Sasuke back…"
He didn't finish, probably because I wouldn't have listened. In retrospect he was completely right, but I was thirteen. My age shouldn't absolve me of my stupidity but I've met enough teenagers to know that our head isn't exactly screwed on right at that age. I don't think we ever finished that conversation; it did get a bit hairy after we left the town. A couple missing-nin, a princess, and a stripper saw to that, but that's a story for another time.
I'd like to say the past couple days have been a blur, but they haven't. If Jiraiya were around he'd probably stab me, but I'm attributing the time travel to alien space bats. Seriously, when has my life had any semblance of internal logic anyways? I woke up when the Naruto-that-used-to-be-hereafter-called-N found out he was the Kyuubi's container from Mizuki. I think I took over his body, and Kyuubi did her thing, and that was that.
It was a bit hazy after that. Iruka was gasping for air, muscles tensed and pupils dilated, adrenal glands had to be kicking into overdrive right about now. I let him be. Last time he pulled those giant shuriken out himself. I knew better this time thanks to Sakura. He should have left it to the med-nin but I was still only a pre-genin then. Now, well, now is, no, now was different.
Iruka was yelling at me to run with the scroll. Mizuki was eying me like a cat eyes an unsuspecting bird. And I was zen. I didn't run, and when Mizuki attacked, before I could even think my hands came together. I've done Kage Bunshin so many times I don't even think about it anymore. The chakra almost molds itself. By the time all the smoke dissipated from the clone creation, Mizuki had committed himself to a lazy punch. A normal genin would have been flattened by it. A few clones clothes-lined him and I let the rest have their fun. Usually I'd just have all the clones throw a couple hundred kunai, but they really are just parts of me, and I'd always loved pounding on enemies with my bare hands.
Iruka didn't go into shock this time, hadn't lost enough blood yet, but he couldn't comprehend what was happening. I conked him on the head before he could say something and waited for the ANBU to show up.
Sandaime and I spent the night by his hospital bed talking about the Kyuubi. Rather he talked and I acted shocked and sad and angry and on and on. I made my peace with the fox a long long time ago. We might even be friends now. I allow her to take control of me now and then and wipe out a couple hundred humans or so. Before we were sent back she found some sort of poetic justice in raiding pirate ships. She was cackling something awful about epic battles and pirates vs. ninjas the entire time.
He didn't think anything was up, and I pretty much just sat there and tried to plan the entire time. What exactly could I do while I was back? Even if it was a dream, it was my dream.
Author's Note: I was hoping to get this little idea out of my head but it keeps bouncing around up there. This story came about from a conversation with a friend of mine doing her PhD in Pyschology, hoping to write her thesis on fanfiction of all things. If I write more of this story, which looks to be an almost sure bet now, watch the A/N for details. Her thoughts about fanfic are pretty interesting, and very sensible.
Searing is pushing 4.5k words now. I want to just post what I have but the chapter just doesn't seem complete with scenes left out. It might be a sign I need to revise it already.
Lastly, much love to Taivasalla who I have not thanked in any of my writings for being an excellent beta. Muchas gracias, domo arigato, gratias tibi ago.
