AUTHOR'S NOTES: Ever since I began uploading these remastered stories to from my Tumblr, "God in His Father's Image" was one of the chapters I was most excited to share with you.

If you have made it this far, my hope is that most of the characters from Fugaku's generation are beginning to flesh out and stand as their own distinct personalities. Choosing him as a main character was challenging for a series of reasons, the most obvious being he is so much older than the other parents and had no confirmed canon peers (that we know about, hence why I took a slight creative liberty by placing Nawaki in his class). As a result, I needed to create a whole set of same-age peers for the earlier stories and ended up becoming rather attached to several of them.

The chapter below is an origin story for the proverbial thorn in Fugaku's side: a guilty favorite of mine. Several of these characters play critical roles as the years and experiences unfurl. Some are even involved with the great tragedy at the end.

This one lives well beyond that. He's even a critical character in my Sai Hiden light novel, confirming he at least makes it into his 50s.

So, without further ado, here's the story!

…

They used to fight each other in the Inuzuka woods and played war long before they understood the concept. No other location would be more befitting for him to test his strength. Somewhere in the woods, Kaede and Neyuki were supposed to hide and ambush him when he least expected it. These drills were how they spent their evenings, all in preparation for the upcoming Chūnin Exam.

And this time, he'd been proud enough to invite a spectator to watch, not that Mikuro would ever call Fugaku a "senpai." At least the Uchiha boy insisted he had nothing better to do. He may as well observe and evaluate, considering he'd earned his first flak jacket a year ago. It was already too small and needed to be replaced.

'I'm waiting for you. Kaede. Neyuki.'

Mikuro believed himself to be ready to ambush them, blowing a massive gale from his lips that could blow the bark right off a tree. Branches and dead leaves flew everywhere, caked in a thin layer of December ice. They had to be here somewhere! Considering Kaede didn't shriek in surprise over the technique, Mikuro realized his aim was off. 'Shit...'

On the outskirts of the woods, he'd planted a series of exploding tags so he'd know full well where the couple chose to hide–provided they tripped the wire. Though it did strike him as odd everything appeared to be still…too still. 'Alright. Now I'm getting concerned. Where the hell are you?'

Few people their age took up anywhere near as stringent and grueling a training regimen as he did. Upon finding the Uchiha girl and the Inuzuka boy, he'd give them a fair chance to get in the first move if only to draw out the suspense. Considering Kaede hadn't activated her sharingan, chances were she wouldn't recognize a Genjutsu right away. It would also be his opportunity to show Mr. Hotshot just how formidable his family could be.

Shimura Mikuro was the son of a village-renowned creative genius, but it was high time the world saw him as more than merely "Zocho's son." There was no point in spending the rest of his life following in his father's shadow, especially when there were others within the clan who were worthier of emulation.

Another torrent of air blew through his lips, this time in such a tight concentration that it pierced the tree. He'd killed a whole enemy squad with this move before, but the technique was imperfect and small compared to what some of his aunts and uncles could achieve. One old fart in the Veterans Home claimed he once mowed down a forest with that jutsu, though Mikuro was a mite suspicious of that claim.

"Son of a bitch," he heard Neyuki growl. "He's pulling out the big guns today, isn't he?"

Everything else, Mikuro's ears didn't pick up in their entirety. However, he recognized a flirty tone when he heard one. He stepped closer, expecting Ashimaru to lunge at him and bark his doggy heart out. He expected Neyuki to set up traps or for Kaede to ambush him with that ghostly blue flame she'd created quite regularly as of late.

None of that happened. By the time Mikuro located his teammates, they were locking lips and Neyuki's right hand made a playful pass at Kaede's inner thigh. Kaede giggled and gave the Neyuki's lip a teasing nip, whispering sweet nonsense in his ear. To break it up, Mikuro spat out a series of high intensity "air bullets" and shot them only half a meter above the couple. Kaede squeaked in surprise, dark eyes big as saucers.

"You know you can't pull this shit with me when we take the actual exam, right?" The training was a letdown, a disappointment, and a total bust. If these two were more interested in making out, there was no reason for their third wheel to stick around.

"Oooooh," Kaede teased. "So serious!"

Mikuro threw a kunai in her direction for that. It landed only two feet away, lodged deep into the earth.

…

They'd been best friends since they were in diapers, all at the orchestration of a distant uncle. Mikuro wasn't sure how they were really related—every Shimura man over a certain age was oji-san by default—but he had this man to thank for mentioning to Utatane Koharu that a boy in his clan was the same age as her child.

Today, Mikuro planned to give Tohru a crash course in stealth. Tohru attempted to be quiet, but his friend's estate had nightingale floors. Every time he touched the floor in the exact wrong way, it tittered and tweeted like an excited canary. Tohru's grayish-green eyes turned bigger and brighter each time the floor chirped. Mesmerized, he intentionally kept making noises.

'Hmph! Some ninja you're gonna be!' the little Shimura boy thought, stifling a snicker. He'd trained with his father and various others since he could totter about on two legs. His clan started them young and early.

For now, he was content to sneak up behind his friend and give that walnut brown ponytail a playful yank, but not yet. He'd let it sway and bounce for a while, almost like a fox's tail. There was a rhythm to it, just like Tohru's chirping steps.

Creeping up from behind, Mikuro successfully goosed his friend's sides and gave him a good surprise before tickling his ribs. Tohru squealed in playful shock, turned around, and made a mock-hurt expression. "You scared me!"

"So what?" Mikuro teased. "What're gonna do about it?" Tohru contemplated his options, trying to think of a fitting punishment for giving him a good scare, but he didn't conjure anything up in time. Mikuro darted down the hall, somehow managing to avoid making the floors tweet their telltale sign of intrusion. "I could hear you coming a mile away, Tohru!"

"And I can hear the both of you," a tired voice called out. Both boys froze in place. Mikuro's mother, Michiko, had been prone to migraines all her life and usually asked her son to take his louder antics outdoors. "Maybe you can play at Tohru's house." There was an almost pleading tone to her words.

Tohru, who had no idea bright lights and even the subtlest sounds pained his friend's mother when her brain chose to betray her, frowned and glanced sheepishly at the floor. He poked a board with his toe, unaware of how many times Michiko cringed. "But our house doesn't have floors like these."

Mikuro glanced elsewhere, feeling mildly ashamed. His parents were both veterans of a time before the village: a couple with one late-in-life child neither one expected to have. His mother had earned a chance to live in peace.

His father, however, was still a powerful figure and would surely have his place in village history books someday. In his spare time, Zocho painted. It was something he'd picked up several years ago as a means of breaking old barriers between the formerly feuding families. There was no way to better endear oneself to strangers than to communicate friendship through art and it made him quite the local celebrity. The Hokage even came by on occasion to see what Zocho was painting.

He'd become the village's first propaganda artist. Portraits of the first two Hokages carried Zocho's signature at the bottom right corner. Even the Daimyo had one, but this was merely a pastime. Combat and battle were what the Shimura Clan had been bred for, generation after generation. As a result, very few made it to old age.

"Your father's painting outside. He'll appreciate a little quiet, too," Michiko added. "Tohru-kun, please play with my son at your house."

Mikuro bowed, feeling even more red come into his face. "I'm sorry for the noise, okaa-san. We'll keep it down." Tohru nudged him, asking if they could race to the courtyard. "No. Didn't you hear her? We're too loud."

Gingerly, he stepped into the yard to see if his mother was telling the truth. Sure enough, his father sat out there with an easel, a canvas, and an impressive set of charcoal sticks. Zocho glanced up, noticed both boys were coming closer, and beckoned them to do so.

"Aaaaah. Have you been banished to the great outdoors?"

Mikuro nodded.

"Did you bother your mother?"

Mikuro glowered, but nodded again.

Zocho let loose a small huff of a laugh at that, rolling his eyes before choosing to ruffle his son's hair. "It's alright. You two can play out here."

…

The machine flashed in red analog characters that the houji tea was out of stock, so he'd have to go with his second choice. Mikuro sighed, letting loose a damp foggy cloud from his mouth as he did so. Fugaku sat on the park bench, slowly sipping from his hot bottle of oolong. "I can see why you're disappointed," the Uchiha boy commented, "but I can't say I'm surprised. Kaede never shuts up about Neyuki."

"She never shuts up about you and Yuka, either," Mikuro added. If anything, he suspected this was all some sort of not-so-subtle ploy on Kaede's part to make Fugaku jealous so he'd pay attention to her. While he didn't particularly care if his teammates dated, it struck him as strange (and mildly concerning) that Kaede never showed any indicator of being interested in Neyuki before. This relationship came out of nowhere. And of course he'd worry; Neyuki was a good friend.

Now was the time to gauge Fugaku's reaction. The boy didn't seem fazed by it, not in the slightest. "Dating Yuka won't slow down Team Buyo," Fugaku pointed out. "Yuka's just filling in for Hiashi until his leg heals, but she's pulling her weight. Is Kaede?"

"That's just it. She was," Mikuro grumbled. "She even figured out how to make that freaky blue fireball her family's always blathering on about." Judging from the surprised look on Fugaku's face, he didn't realize that. "Can you do that?"

"No. That's very impressive." Watching Fugaku's face was priceless. Kaede had ranted and raved when he activated his sharingan. Her face was quite similar to the one Fugaku was presently trying his best not to make, but his eyes betrayed him. Mikuro knew what jealousy looked like all too well.

"But it won't be worth shit unless she takes the training seriously. She's driving me crazy." Mikuro reached for his tea and took his seat beside Fugaku. For a split second, he was amused to note he'd finally grown a little taller than the Uchiha boy.

After Nawaki's death, so much had changed. One of the few good things to come out of it was the fact Mikuro and Fugaku agreed to a truce, at least on some things. They could be civil with each other, but Mikuro still hesitated to call Fugaku his friend. They'd grown from merely hating each other to carrying a begrudging respect for one another. Right now, no one took his ambitions anywhere near as seriously as Fugaku did. It was appreciated and hadn't gone unnoticed.

'It's like our class hit a standstill after you. Sooner or later, one of us will need to match up to you and present himself as an equal.' It may as well be him. He'd always thought himself to be one of the most capable.

The spar he'd finished with Fugaku ten minutes ago only further proved that. Mikuro's speed had always been his top score on his Academy ranking. No one in the class ever surpassed him, not even the Uchiha heir. Although Mikuro trained to improve his weaknesses, he'd also taken the initiative to sharpen his mastery of stealth, precision, and speed even further.

"We've come this far without a jōnin to supervise us. Somebody had to take charge. But lately, I feel like I'm carrying dead weight around. They're only motivated to…" He shook his head. "Ugh."

"Having a jōnin work with you is a great experience." Not that Nawaki and Mitsumi ever had the chance to find out what that was like. Aburame Buyo only came into the equation once Fugaku agreed to team up with the Hyūga twins. "Buyo-sensei's a remarkable man. I have a feeling you'd like him."

Mikuro shrugged. "I asked around before to see if anyone would want to sponsor my team, if only for the experience. Nobody took the bait. Even the Sandaime said we were handling things well enough for him to think a jōnin wasn't necessary." And that always struck him as a little odd. "You're lucky somebody agreed to do that for you."

He'd asked the strongest man in their clan a few times. Danzō's response was that he was too busy humoring the Third Hokage to bother with an insecure, immature third cousin. He had, however, dropped the name of his one remaining teammate. Akimichi Torifu more or less told Mikuro to leave him be.

"Everyone's too goddamn busy. At least, that's what they say. Maybe it's their way of politely telling us to fuck off and stay genin forever."

Fugaku took another sip. "It doesn't take a pair of sharp eyes to know who's the most responsible party on your team, Mikuro. You've been as good a leader as any and you've done everything without an adult telling you what to do." He heard a low laugh leave the Shimura boy's mouth. "What?"

"You aren't patronizing me. Are you, Uchiha?" Mikuro snorted out another huff of air and smirked. "Everything in life I wanted, I had to get it myself. No one's going to pave a path for me the way your parents do for you."

His father hadn't paved a path to success for him, or even one of security. Zocho did something far more embarrassing and Mikuro strongly suspected it was why no one seemed to take him seriously.

…

The only admirable ways to return from the battlefield were as a man triumphant, whole, and hale…or as a corpse honorably killed in the line of duty. Coming home as an invalid wasn't, especially as an invalid who cost the village a crucial victory. Even if he died from the surgery, the damage to the Shimura Clan's pride had already been dealt. Zocho was no one they'd ever respect again.

"I have concerns for the son," an older woman whispered. "Zocho-san's been relieved of all his village duties. What an embarrassment."

"At least he can still paint," Danzō muttered under his breath. He was one of the few thirty-somethings in the clan who hadn't married or started a family of his own. Instead, he'd done something far more beneficial for the village as a whole. This was his chance to really ascend the ranks and build more power for himself and he knew it. Zocho's star had not only fizzled out, but it'd imploded upon itself. The Shimura family would need to turn their attention to someone who could give them a better future.

The woman beside him let loose a small, dry laugh at that and paused. "…that's not funny."

"It wasn't meant to be."

Danzō's one visible eye turned briefly toward Mikuro and beckoned the boy to come closer. Mikuro complied and followed the man's lead to a quieter location. Everyone else was in his house, causing the floors to chirp and tweet with every step. Outside, the hot and balmy summer heat was almost unbearable. So were the words coming out of Danzō's mouth.

"Your father could die from medical complications. I want to make sure you're aware of that."

Mikuro understood somewhat where this was coming from. Danzō's father and grandfather both had died honorably in combat. According to the rumors, the grandfather had committed suicide rather than surrendering to the one clan he could never defeat. True or untrue, the point was Danzō wanted Mikuro to brace himself for the likelihood that Zocho's injured leg could turn gangrenous. Amputation could lead to hemorrhagic shock and death. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility that Mikuro would have to grow up faster in order to tend to his elderly, fragile mother, all by himself. Was he prepared?

"I know, but I don't think you're giving my father enough credit, oji-san." That caught the man's attention. "He'll make a full recovery because he's my father second and a Shimura first."

…

But he didn't. The wound turned gangrenous and Zocho lost everything from the right knee down.

The prosthetic was clunky, awkward, and ugly, so he refused to wear it at first. Yamanaka Hanako, a Kunoichi Preschool teacher who married a friend of his, offered to carve beautiful patterns into the wood to turn it into a work of art so it would be more to the artist's liking. Zocho conceded, a faint smile on his face until Hanako left. Then the clouds of depression set in all over again.

Once Zocho found the strength to get out of bed again, he hobbled about on a cane. Even that took a great deal of convincing.

Mikuro, despite occasionally receiving invitations to join Tohru for a fun evening out, a little dinner, or even a chance to play, ended up having to come home and nurse both ailing adults. Between his mother's migraines and his father's despondence toward his forced retirement, he had to back down from nearly 90% of Tohru's invitations.

Eventually—and it broke Mikuro's heart when it happened—Tohru stopped asking. He began spending more time with Fugaku instead, assuming by default that Mikuro wouldn't be available. Although he had been indifferent to Tohru's new friend at first, he quickly began to hate him. He felt replaced, as though he'd become little more than an afterthought.

At first, Mikuro assumed his father would recover, adapt, and carry on as his old creative self. He even assumed Hanako-sensei's beautification of the prosthetic would cheer him up. As days turned into weeks, the melancholia started to feel like the new normal.

The epiphany struck him out of nowhere: things probably would have been easier had Zocho died in combat. Had that occurred, he'd be the son of a hero and loved by the rest of the clan rather than being stuck as a caregiver for a man who oftentimes voiced that he wished to die. It was too much responsibility for someone so young. Nobody in the class could empathize, either. They had no idea.

He was home sick today. Despite doing all he could to avoid Nawaki at all costs, Mikuro caught the Senju boy's cold anyway. It started with a wet cough and a sore throat. Once he vomited in class, his teacher gave full permission for both boys to take a few days off.

"You're one of my smart ones, Mikuro," Kuriiro-sensei assured him. "I'm sure you'll catch up in no time."

Outside, it was nice and calm. Inside, he could hear his mother screaming and sobbing at some of his father's guests: more models for his art. He recognized one of them as Uchiha Naho. Naho's daughter was in his class, but he'd known about Naho well before he even met Kaede. She was his father's favorite model: the person he painted the most.

Ugly words were tossed between the women as they tore each other apart like a couple of feral cats. Someone Mikuro's age had no business hearing that kind of language, so he tried to focus on the tranquility and beauty of his surroundings instead. Inside, it was impossible.

If it could calm his father down and take his mind to better places, then maybe it'd work for him, too. And perhaps, were he to draw something for his father, a little good karma could come their way.

Before he knew it, he'd completed nearly thirteen sketches. Each one was a different animal, though the last one was perhaps a gift for the uncle he admired. He'd seen the Baku summon and wanted to sketch it. Such a fascinating creature with such a lavish and interesting backstory…

Besides, Mikuro sort of felt like a leftover animal, too. He was the child of spoiled leftovers that had gone on well past their prime when they had no business doing so by clan standards. Did this make him leftovers, too: unappetizing and left to collect mold until it was time to throw him away?

"Oooooh. Poor you. It's not my fault you got old and fat!" Naho slammed the door and froze as soon as she noted Zocho's son hunched over with a sketchbook. She heard his cough and took a couple of steps back. Still, she could see his eyes drilling into her from beneath his glasses. "You're drawing?" She plastered on a phony smile. "May I see?"

"I didn't draw them for you," Mikuro hissed, clutching his sketchbook tightly to his chest. Naho rolled her eyes and walked off, muttering something about how children can't draw well, anyway.

Gingerly, he stepped back inside and heard his mother crying in the den. Michiko was on her knees, picking up the shattered remnants of a vase she loved. Mikuro felt his heart sink as he heard her cough, too, and he tiptoed upstairs…all the while making sure the floor didn't chirp.

His father's studio smelled strongly of paint, turpentine, and smoked kizami. Zocho had the kiseru out, puffing along as he made some finishing touches to a painting of the Sandaime's wife. "Ah…hello, Mikuro." He smiled, teeth stained yellow from years of smoking. The boy gingerly handed over his sketchbook. "Do you want me to give a critique?"

"They're for you. I wanted to try and see if I could draw like you." If so, then perhaps he could bring a bit more pride to the family. Though Naho's words reverberated, refusing to leave.

"These are nice! Very nice. You hold the charcoal very well! I'm proud, son. This is a great place to start." Zocho beckoned the boy to come even closer. "Is that Danzō's baku?"

"Yeah! And I drew okaa-san's rabbits. See?" Michiko kept a whole hutch of them outside. They were to be bred and raised for eating and for fur, save for her one pet doe. That one animal was allowed in the house on occasion, but only with her supervision.

"You have the makings of a great artist, just like me," Zocho insisted, "assuming you'd rather be that than a proud Shimura warhawk."

"Why can't I be both? You used to be both." At that time, he wanted to believe he could still be proud of Zocho. And to hear that his father saw potential in him made his heart swell.

"I particularly like the cat."

"…that's a fox." Just like that, he felt inadequate. This wasn't enough after all. "Sorry, I just started. They aren't–"

"Sssssssssh, sssssssssh…" Zocho wrapped his formerly strong arms around his child, even though it meant he'd smear cream-colored paint all over the back of Mikuro's rust-colored shirt. "I don't think you understand. Out of all the art I've created in my life, only one masterpiece ever mattered to me: you. You're my living muse, son. You inspire me constantly, giving me so many ideas. You know the painting I did of the Valley of the End?"

How could he not? It ended up in their textbook. Mikuro knew well enough that his father was old enough to be his grandfather. He'd seen all kinds of astonishing things in his life. "Yes…?"

"I wasn't at that battle, but they wanted a painting. I watched you and Tohru play war in the courtyard. You were the First Hokage that day. You've also been the Third, the Sage of Six Paths…so many heroes. They never wear your face, but they all have a little bit of you in them whenever I paint."

For the first time since the injury, some of that hopeful light returned to Zocho's eyes. "Though I think I can change that. See, these drawings of yours have given me quite the idea…"

…

Things were strange between him and his father these days. Zocho finally accepted that his shinobi days were over and the Shimura Clan wouldn't grant him any further love. Perhaps this was why he'd been pouring his love (and other things) only into outsiders as of late.

Perhaps it would have been wise had Zocho continued to keep Mikuro as an anonymous muse. It would have been wiser still had Mikuro never given him those drawings in the first place. As Zocho gradually nursed himself into a stable recovery, he proceeded to write a children's serial manga once a week for Mikuro to share with his classmates.

At eight years old, he couldn't have been prouder had his father been made Hokage. Simply showing off the adventures of Happy God-kun was enough to make Mikuro something he'd never been before: popular. His classmates loved the stories of a young and lonely god who chose to create a ragtag team of animal friends for a whole assortment of hijinks and adventures.

Some of his classmates realized in time that they were recurring characters in the manga. Tohru was the wise hare who sat by and offered his gentle advice to stop the other animals from fighting. Fugaku was the proud and arrogant fox who took it as a personal insult every time another animal bested him. Nawaki was the loudmouthed duck who never shut up. Mitsumi was the tiger cub who didn't know her own strength. Nobody ever figured out who the baku was and Mikuro, reveling in the attention, decided to keep them in suspense every week.

By nine, Mikuro saw his father's manga printed in the village newspaper. More people were reading it, including kids in other classes. Younger and older children who loved the serial pulled him aside to talk about the comic and told him he was the luckiest boy in the village to have a dad like Zocho. He agreed.

Some kids in the class who had paid little heed to him before now wanted to be his new best friend. One of them, Inuzuka Neyuki, was rather persistent about it and tried to include Mikuro on everything. Considering how divided Tohru's attention was, Mikuro accepted Neyuki's friendship…though he did wish they could talk about something other than the manga.

His afternoons were devoted solely to his assignments and to further training. As much as he loved the attention from everyone else, he wanted to receive it from his clan more than anywhere else. If an aunt or uncle offered to show him a new jutsu or help him improve one of his skills, he'd jump on the chance and come at it with everything he had.

If he played with his friends, it was to play war and get more practice fights under his belt. More and more, he'd come to realize his best competition was Uchiha Fugaku. Fighting Fugaku gave him a sense of catharsis, considering Mikuro felt like Fugaku stole his best friend…just as another Uchiha stole his father's attention from his mother.

By ten, Mikuro graduated from the Academy and Zocho couldn't be bothered to attend. His "apology" was to write a cute chapter in Happy God-kun about the little god finding another young god and a cute little goddess to play with. The note at the end stated, "I dedicate this story to my son, my eternal muse, and all the love I bear for him."

Mikuro didn't accept the apology. When he came home, he stormed upstairs to his father's study, tears threatening to come out of his hot and angry face. He crumpled up the newspaper, threw it at Zocho, and told him to go to hell.

He was now twelve years old, sitting on a bench with a boy he barely knew outside of his animosity for him. "Do the missions become more exciting once you're promoted?"

Fugaku smirked. "I'll let you know once I start getting more stable chūnin-level work. My sensei's kind of flaky at points and treats me the same way he treats my genin teammates. Can I be frank with you?" The Shimura boy shrugged. "I think you're ready. If anything, you're overdue. If I can pass that exam, you can too. Though I have to ask…what's your next move, assuming you're promoted?"

Mikuro finished the last of his tea and glanced up at the sky. It was getting dark. He'd probably need to come home fairly soon and get dinner started. Without it, there was no guarantee his mother felt well enough to prepare a decent one. "Why does it matter? What's your plan?"

"I'll be joining the Konohagakure Military Police Force eventually. That's not up for debate," Fugaku confessed. Some things were set in stone. That was one of them. "In time, I'll be leading my clan, just like my mother. I don't have much say in the matter, but it's fine. There are far worse fates in life."

"What would you rather do, then?" Mikuro inquired. "Be Hokage?"

"Feh. No." Fugaku rolled his eyes. "But there's a man in your clan who looks like he has a rather badass job. If I had any say in the matter, I'd want to be in charge of ANBU."

Mikuro could barely contain his laughter. He tried, seeing as he'd gone through great lengths to emulate the stoic, firm demeanor his clan respected most, but the thought of Fugaku taking that role made it impossible not to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"You want to replace Danzō-dono? Don't make me laugh." He put his hand on his hip as he stood up. "When he eventually dies, it'll need to go to somebody from inside ANBU, preferably another Shimura."

"Preferably you, then?" Fugaku narrowed his eyes. Clearly, that statement riled him up.

'Good.'

Mikuro wanted to build that old competitive spirit up again and shake whatever remnants of Nawaki's ghost were still on this kid. It's like Fugaku fell to pieces without a rival. Mikuro was going to be a new one, a greater one, and one he couldn't defeat.

"I'll see you when I get my brand new vest, Uchiha," Mikuro teased. "Thanks for making me stronger."