AN: My personal life doesn't interest you (and frankly, is none of your business) but long story short, I can't find the time nor the energy to write. So why this? To prove I'm still alive and because this was collecting metaphorical dust in my hard drive. Feel free to continue, adopt, transform and so on. I hope I might find some reprieve during Christmas to write "A Little Help" but no promise.
Hitotsu has been told to stay put. Today is a necessary challenge that Konoha must face, a cleansing by fire and steel to usher in a new era. For a month now, however, his mind has been folding in unto itself. Doubt gnaws at him at every waking moment.
All his life, he has been taught loyalty to the village, the primacy of the mission and most importantly, due obedience to his master. Above all, Hitotsu has been taught his place in the Great Tree of Konoha. He belongs to the roots, prowling the earth and establishing a firm foundation.
His commander has forgotten that, eager to dominate the light when it is not his role. Hitotsu can understand pruning a branch if sickness gains it. To pretend the entire trunk is rotten and the leaves already dry and dead, however, reeks of ambitions a root ought not to entertain. To put the entire village to the torch makes no sense: roots are useless without a tree to feed. Herein lies the reason why he acts. Konoha must not fall, much less by the rebellion of her foundation.
For the third time in his life, he becomes his own master. This betrayal has been in the making for years, the boy acknowledges it now. You cannot allow a tool intelligence and rationality and expect him to follow your orders blindly, no matter how emotionally stunted you keep them. The commander has lost faith and allowed himself to be consumed by hubris. At this moment, the boy chooses his loyalty, against habits ingrained with a great many lashings. His mission may not suffer any delay.
Beat. Liquid life thrums through thin troughs; corded flesh sups the crimson ambrosia, rolling and tensing underneath honey skin flushed hot. Breath. Observation, cognition and action merge into one; honed instincts ignite potential into motions, firing and flickering along nerves set ablaze. Blend. Forces converge on a single point, deep where the root of the being lay; the physical and spiritual meld and transcend their limits, becoming a singularity of might that courses amidst metaphysical vessels.
Two individuals dart around one another, embroiled in a murderous bout within the confines of a small room. One is a man, clad in light armour. A sleeveless jacket wraps his torso over a skintight black garment. Small plates of steel shaped like tortoise shells and bound together by chainmail line the fabric of the brigandine. A mask, porcelain white and streaked by red curls, covers his visage to let only a pair of charcoal black eyes shine through two round holes. Apart from his slightly ragged breath and some grunts of exertion, the man utters no sound. He grips two tanto, one in each hand, but the blades are clean. His arms and legs, on the contrary, drip blood from small scrapes and gaping cuts.
The other is a boy - his size betrays his age, even if a mask similar to the man's own veils his features. He wears no armour on his compression top, preferring a black short-sleeved shirt. He, too, fights quietly but the evenness of his respiration betrays no fatigue. A sword sings in the clasp of his steady hand; the blade bites deep and laps up blood once more. His unmarred skin reveals that he has won every single exchange until now.
The both of them move with mechanical precision; their motions exude no natural grace, not the gait of a predator but the martial efficiency of people trained to kill in a manner reminiscent of science rather than art. They are no tigers but devious clockworks of ruthlessness. The boy, shorter stature but longer weapon, rains strike after strike upon his opponent, layering countless cuts on him as a painter would layer pigments on a canvas.
A step gives way to a swing, knees bend and shoulders sway for it to change into a thrust. Steel cleaves air and hastily retreats, coiling back like a snake before it rotates to bat a strike away. Bones shake and muscles cords; grips almost slack on their respective handles. Sparks fly - infinitesimal shrapnels of metal torn from the weapons by the violence of the assault. The parry immediately shifts into an attack and the fang aims to take a sinew. It will merely result in another cut. Death leans closer; ever the patient mistress, she waits for a new lover to fall in her cold embrace.
When the fatal mistake happens, the boy hesitates not for an instant to take advantage of it. He plunges within the guard of his opponent, batting away one tanto and sliding underneath the second one, earning a single cut on his shoulder. His sword finds the unprotected neck of his enemy through the thin opening between the collar of the cuirass and the chin of the faceplate. Skin, flesh and even bone yield before the merciless edge of steel. The man chokes; blood clogs his airways and lungs, failing to reach his brain as it spills from his sliced throat. His eyes suddenly burn with abject fury, seeking to pierce the blank vizard of his killer before they glaze over, robbed of their light.
The corpse sags, held only by the length of steel running through it. The boy withdraws his blade; it slides out of its sheath of flesh with a wet hiss. Freed, the body crumples to a heap, joining two other men sprawled on the floor, dead. In a sharp twitch, the boy cleans the sword of the red ichor that stains it and returns it to its proper scabbard. The death of his companion halts him for a second; somewhere deep within his chest, something unpleasant stirs but he smothers it immediately, as his training taught him to.
The boy loses no time, seemingly unphased by his act. He steadies his breathing and walks forwards, stepping over the inert body like one would a wooden log. A door, rectangular, metallic, heavy, prevents further access to what lies beyond the room. A heavy handwheel secures the lock; the boy budges it without trouble, rolling it from left to right in a drawn, whinny and rusty squeak. The door yields under his firm push and open, to reveal a long corridor.
The boy takes a left and starts running. With each of his strides, he eats up ten entire yards at a time. He passes by four doors similar to the one he exited from but stops for none of them. In ten steps, he reaches a rhomboid hall; suspended from each angle, a cross-shaped platform hangs over a mile-high fall. The boy crosses directly in front of him and through a slanted arch. He flirts through a staircase, not bothering with the steps but leaping from wall to wall instead, the sole of his hobnailed tabi gripping the cement ever so slightly each time to launch him further. In the blink of an eye, he cuts short twelve platforms and unlocks a sealed trap-door.
The boy blinks, momentarily blinded by the sunlight in spite of his mask. His pupils shrink like that of a feline and he slinks out of the lair. He stands in a glade; around him, the air hangs still and quiet over the leafed forks of oaks and pines. In front of him, the forest opens to reveal a bright blue sky, stretching before the bold fall of a red cliff not fifty yards away from him. Suddenly, a gentle breeze caresses the exposed patches of his honeyed skin. Through the meshed clay of his vizard, the acrid smell of smoke tickles his nose; his nostrils flare, the commissures of his lips tighten and his eyes narrow. The boy pushes on his legs once more and leaps over the edge of the cliff.
Defying the laws of Nature, his tabi find purchase on the ochre rock; the boy runs down the face of a gigantic visage, carved out of the steep rampart of rusty stone. There are four in total, one to the right, two to the left. Allowing the pulls of gravity to add to his momentum, the boy gains speed, his feet touching any solid surface barely long enough for him to remain in control of his reckless descent. Below, the village of Konoha - nestled within a coil of the Naka River in a case of verdure - is in flames, besieged.
The sight awakens a sensation unknown, at the core of the boy's being. Unpleasant. He ignores it.
He sweeps a wide glance over the place, sees and prioritizes before he rivets his eyes on the stadium. Under his cold stare, the layers of reality peel away until nothing of the world remains but points, lines and vectors. He is on the tip of Tobirama Senju's nose when he bends his knees and folds his hands in a seal. Index and major stand upright, his thumb keeps the two smallest fingers crooked. The boy forms a cross.
In the forge of his hara, physical and spiritual energies transcend their boundaries and meld into chakra. Gossamer particles of might course through the boy's keirakukei, burning like black gold as they flare through his tenketsu. From his frame, liquid shadows flow to his left and right and condense into two perfect replicas. The three boys, all at once, bend their right hand in the same seal as before.
The rock shatters under the pressure of their common impetus and air overheats in front of them, before fanning out behind each of them in a corolla. With a thundering bang, the boys speed like as many heavenly bodies through the sky of Konoha. A second later, the original stops on the golden roof of the topmost loggia of the stadium. Tiles disintegrate from the impact but he pays it no mind and steps forwards.
Before him, Hiruzen Sarutobi, the leader of Konoha, faces in full battle regalia the supposed leader of Suna - allies turned traitors. A cage of purple flames traps both Kage, cast by four individuals bearing the headband of Oto-nin. The enemy is not who - or what - he seems but the trunk can be saved yet and with him, the Great Tree will survive. First, however, the trap must be cracked open so that reinforcements may help. The boy throws a shuriken at the barrier and sees the steel melt on contact. The Oto-nin closest to him laughs disdainfully.
The boy eyes the roof. The barrier clearly licks it and yet, it suffers no damage. Tearing a tile off, he trails two fingers down the length. The clay burns and smokes as kanji are etched into it out of sheer chakra. The boy walks to the shinobi who mocked his earlier attempt and pushes the tiles against the barrier. Behind his mask, a smirk almost tugs at his lips when the piece of pottery is not halted by the solid flames. The tiles drop at the Oto-nin's feet, whose eyes widen to the size of plates.
"Katsu", says the boy in a bored monotone, though a spark of mean satisfaction gleams in the shine of his eyes and through the holes of his mask.
The Oto-nin dies instantly, his legs shredded by the explosion of the improvised tag, his innards spilling from his cleaved stomach. The cage dissipates in flickering embers, a slight breeze carrying with it a whirlwind of ashes like the fallen petals of a sakura tree. The three remaining Oto-nin are set upon by an ANBU each and made short work of. Orochimaru - the boy has identified the individual passing off as the Kazekage - swallows whatever taunt is on his lips as he sees the barrier dispelled.
The boy draws his sword. Targeting Orochimaru is pointless: intelligence is positive about that, no matter the skill being put in use. The madman knows how to escape most certain-death techniques. On either side of the pale-skinned man, however, stand two sinister coffins. Hitotsu ignores what purpose they serve but their very sight sends an ominous shiver down his spine. There is no point in allowing the archtraitor to evoke one of his monstrous techniques. The S-rank shinobi will not allow the sudden change in his plan to stump him for much longer. The boy is not fast or strong enough to intervene from where he stands. He needs time and time is what he will give himself.
His chakra laps the edges of his blade, surrounding it in a halo of inky wind. Once again, he bends his knees and this time, his whole frame quivers from the fiery might that imbues every inch of his flesh, seeps in his bones and boils his marrow. The technique he is going to cast is one he has held close to his heart up until now. The second time he has ever made himself his personal master, he lied to his commander, pretending this power to be unachievable in a bid to keep it hidden.
The price might come to his life but he is a single root. He may be lost without it jeopardizing the future of Konoha. Through gritted teeth and pained sweat, the boy spits two words.
"Zuigiri, sanfuha."
He takes a single step and reality rends under his advance, spliced into curling fragments by the point of his blade, reminiscent of how the scissor of a carpenter cuts a slice of wood. An absolute straight line opens within time and space and the boy threads it much like a funambulist walks backwards on a tightrope. One coffin bursts into sawdust as the boy emerges from the in-between, sword already poised. Orochimaru swings his weapon with speed and strength far exceeding the boy's but his target is gone - already, soon, maybe, out of the instant, free from the grip of the present. The second coffin disintegrates. The boy is back where he began; maybe he never left in the fist place.
A howl escapes Orochimaru's lips; madness, fury and pain echo towards the heavens. Hiruzen Sarutobi has ruthlessly exploited the moment of unexpected distraction to strike and his adamantine staff has caught the pale-skinned man above the belly, liquefying the traitor's innards from the impossible strength of the blow. Orochimaru tumbles on the golden roof like a dislocated puppet and falls over the edge.
The boy sways and falls to his knees before fatigue pushes him flat against the roof. A weight of lead settles on his shoulders and pain rakes his body like claws. The three steps he took to walk the seam of reality emptied him of his chakra. Hence, he lies there, teetering on the edge of deadly exhaustion. Blood drips in abundant rivulets from under the chin of his mask and the conduit of his ears. Next to him, his blade is glowing red, hissing and smoking; gouts of liquid steel pelt the tiles of the loggia. Unconsciousness claims him before he can muster another thought.
The mission is accomplished.
Hiruzen Sarutobi fully knows of and gladly admits to his ignorance. Wise men share this trait; they acknowledge that there always exists something beyond the scope of their lore, a new fact to be learned to enhance their erudition. Humility comes rather easily, helped by the fact that Hiruzen's knowledge still vastly supersedes anyone's in Konoha. Nevertheless, Hiruzen believed he knew the hurt that comes with dastardly betrayal but recent events caused him to realize he was mistaken. All the same, he saw his last hour coming with clear certainty once the maws of Orochimaru's trap closed in on him and yet he still stands, still breathes, still lives.
The joint attack on Konoha planned by Oto and Suna has ended in a resounding failure. Whatever Orochimaru's scheme was, it fell apart the moment the jounin commander of the forces of Suna realized they had been abused and manipulated. The forces of Oto are in shambles now, slaughtered almost to the last and Orochimaru himself has been pronounced dead by a competent medic-nin. Though Hiruzen suspects that the bag of tricks of his wayward student holds at least one method to ensure his survival.
What throws his mind into disarray, however, is the help he received during the fight that should have been his last. Hiruzen does not question the fact that reinforcements came in the first place. Any barrier may be broken, any rampart felled, any wall put down with enough power, time or the appropriate means and the cage of purple fire proved to be no exception to that rule. No, what truly stumps the Hokage is the identity of his helper.
Thirteen years ago, after the Kyuubi escaped his binds, Hiruzen hid the newly born Namikaze twins, bestowing them with the name Uzumaki, to honour both their fallen mother and the lost allies of Konoha. He judged it safer that way; after all, anonymity was a small price to pay to preserve the village from any vengeful assault that the existence of not one but two Namikaze heirs would have sparked. The twins, one red-haired like most bearers of his namesake, the other blond like mature rice under the summer sun like her sire, lived safely, two orphans among countless others.
When Kumo, under the guise of diplomacy, attempted three years later to abduct a trio of young Hyuga children, Hiruzen committed his first of three mistakes. He allowed Kumo to bully him into selling one of his men in order to preserve the very peace that Kumo had already violated. Hiruzen could have sent Jiraiya to assassinate a number of ranking officials of Kaminari-no-kuni to teach Unruly Ay a measure of respect. He did not. He could have missioned Orochimaru - still loyal at the time - to scourge Tsuchi-no-kuni to convince Fencesitter Oonoki to throw his back. He did not. Instead, he accepted the scheme of Hizashi Hyuga to replace his brother Hiashi on the sacrificial altar. A single life weighed very little against the good of the many.
He had not foreseen the hit that such an act would inflict on Konoha's morale. What sort of Kage sells one of his men to untrustworthy barbarians but a weak one? The pride of Konoha plummeted and villagers lamented; whispers spread in the streets that, while the Yondaime had fallen to the overwhelming might of the Kyuubi, the Sandaime was sick in the mind, wasting away under the relentless undermining work of old age. The village floundered, robbed of its spirit.
When Danzo Shimura, comrade, friend, brother in all but blood, leaked the status of Mito Uzumaki as the jinchuriki of the Kyuubi, the monster's living prison, Hiruzen committed the second and third of his three mistakes. He held off on punishing Danzo, believing his intention to be in the right place and averted his gaze instead of watching the man like a hawk. He decided against refuting the rumours spreading like wildfire as well, trusting that Konoha would not bond over a perceived common menace, counting on the village he so loved to remember and find comfort in the Will of Fire.
Hate and sorrow poison the souls of men and kill them faster than any other venom. It robs them of their virtues and what remains then are men deprived of their humanity. The villagers revelled in having a couple of black sheep to despise and punish and matters escalated to a point that forced Hiruzen to sentence any untoward behaviour with the harshest penalty. Far too late, the Hokage called for his people to remember their courage, faith and kindness. He argued that young Mito was a hero, protecting Konoha from a nightmarish scourge. The vines of prejudice, however, wrapped the heart of the villager too tightly to so easily let go. Open disdain turned into silent contempt and physical violence into nigh complete ostracism.
Failing to have them recognized as symbols to rally behind and unable to control every citizen, Hiruzen did what he could. He paid for a nanny to foster the two children, had the Sarutobi clan welcome the two orphans as often as possible and cashed in a few favours in order to have them included in the youngest generation of clan heirs. As much as possible, Hiruzen shielded the twins from the villagers' hate, gave them the opportunity to weave bonds of friendship with their peers and almost managed a normal childhood for them.
Mito and Naruto Uzumaki did not have a perfect childhood but the Hokage had done what he could.
Or so he thought, for today, Hiruzen has learned that Naruto Uzumaki is not Naruto Uzumaki. Or rather, Naruto Uzumaki has proved to be a wholly different person than the one Hiruzen thought he knew.
The signs were here, not quite writings on the walls but reasons to doubt had come up. Whereas Mito possesses a bright, astute mind, Naruto is dull and slow in comparison, always was. Whereas Mito holds humongous reserves of chakra, Naruto has trouble controlling and growing his own, always had. Whereas Mito shows a familiar blend of features for those who know who her parents are, Naruto resembles neither his father nor his mother, never did. Until yesterday, Hiruzen had dismissed these concerns; the apple never falls very far from the tree but sometimes, life spoils some people less than others after all.
The Hokage observes the young boy lying on the hospital bed before him, his wrinkled brow furrowed in worry. The teen inhales such shallow breaths that one could not be blamed to think that he is dead. The steady beep of the electrocardiogram would reassure any sceptic as to the health of the boy. Naruto - the real Naruto, thinks Hiruzen, has the wellbred profile of his father, his sharp cheekbones, his willful, slightly pointy chin, his thin, long lips and his slanted, almond-shaped eyes. His hair is a flamboyant shade of claret, long and straight like his mother's; they sprawl on his cushion like a corolla of blood. Hiruzen bets the boy's eyes are the clear amethyst of Kushina behind their closed lid. Like his actual sister, the boy sports three birthmarks on each cheek, strongly evocative of whiskers.
Hiruzen massages his bald forehead, drawing little circles with the tip of his creased fingers over the age spots marring his tanned skin. The sensation appeases his throbbing head; mind awash with questions, his eyes glaze over as he contemplates them one by one. What to do about the imposter? The child has not asked to be planted as a fake but to allow him to keep a name that is not rightfully his would not do. What to do about Naruto? The teen bears the scars of intense training, which puts his mental well-being in question as Ne conditioning does not break every candidate in the same way. Hiruzen sighs deeply, heavily, wearily; regrets yet determination lace the old man's suspiration. There will not be a fourth mistake; his finest operators are already en-route to deal with Danzo Shimura once and for all. The man must answer for far too many crimes for a jury to even be necessary at this point.
Hiruzen snaps upright in his chair when Naruto suddenly groans. The sedated beep of the heart monitor picks up a little as the boy exits unconsciousness. Hiruzen watches it happen in stages, three to be exact. Naruto jolts ever so slightly as he awakes; then, his eyes flutter for a pair of seconds behind his eyelids; finally, he steadies his breath to an unnatural level and fakes sleep. Had Hiruzen not seen him wake up mere moments ago, he would have been fooled.
"Open your eyes, boy", he commands instead, careful to infuse his voice with both firmness and warmth, "I know you are conscious. Do not move or exert yourself; you suffer from extensive chakra exhaustion and you're quite lucky to be alive."
Partial chakra exhaustion designates a state where either the body or the mind has been wrung dry of any available strength. Extensive chakra exhaustion can easily be understood as double partial chakra exhaustion; body and mind are both equally depleted of energy. Severe cases have been known to cause definitive memory loss, intelligence degradation or grave physical handicaps as well as reduce one's life expectancy. Fortunately, medic-nin have assured Hiruzen that Naruto would recuperate entirely.
As expected, the boy's eyes shine a pale violine when they open. He is the reversed image of his sister, thinks the Hokage.
"What is your name, boy?" Hiruzen asks the question fully aware that Naruto will not answer "Naruto" if he answers at all.
"Zero-one-five is my tag, Lord Hokage," croaks the boy through his parched throat, his voice otherwise devoid of any inflexion. "I'm codenamed Hitotsu, for everyday purposes."
Literally "one-five", thinks Hiruzen wryly before focusing back on the present. He offers the boy a glass of water and waits for him to humidify his gullet. "Does the name Naruto evoke anything to you?"
"Naruto Uzumaki," answers the boy - the actual Naruto and Hiruzen cannot find it not weird deep down; a shudder trails his spine - "brother of Mito Uzumaki, class S asset."
"Correct," nods the Hokage. "Now, what if I told you that you are, in fact, Naruto Uzumaki?"
Four ANBU hide in the hospital room; an entire team of physicians and nurses await in the hallway outside and Hana Yamanaka herself stands with them as Konoha's foremost specialist of psychological ailments. Hiruzen has a finger hovering above the alarm signal; if the boy throws a violent fit or spirals down a mental breakdown, they are as prepared as can be.
The boy gives him a raised eyebrow in response before his mien adopts the outline of a wistful expression. "Apologies, Lord Hokage. My sense of humour is lacking."
Hiruzen cannot help but snort at Naruto's involuntary cheek.
"I wish this were a joke but I'm afraid it is not. Your old master truly trampled over the boundaries this time." Hiruzen sighs. "My best men are terminating him as we speak."
Hitotsu feels no need to defend Danzo. The man might have enforced obedience but never love. No operator of Ne was ever anything more than an instrument of Danzo's "Necessity", a cog in a machine dedicated to the man's ambitions. Hitotsu has no love for his erstwhile master and little to no belief in his grand design which means that frankly, the boy doesn't care about any of it.
Danzo has always thought his methods to be perfect but while they may render his pawns stunted and cowed, they do not make them unfeeling nor unthinking. Hitotsu accepts that the foundations are a needed part of a whole. He does not resent what he had to endure; the hand of Fate plucked him anonymously and if it hadn't been him then another child would have taken his place. Nonetheless, the thought of putting Konoha to the torch so that Danzo could turn the glorious tree into an underground nest of gnarled roots felt illogical, self-defeating. The sight of the village burning confirmed it.
Danzo will not have the capacity to harm anymore, it seems.
A tiny smile - the ghost of one, really - curves his lips. They hurt, too dry and cracked to arch easily. "I see," answers Hitotsu. Though he supposes his name is Naruto now. Names do not carry much meaning for him; if his new master sees fit to bestow him with one, he will accept it. "I'm a shinobi of Konoha. I'm yours to command, Lord Hokage."
"Thank you, Naruto. My first order is for you to take some rest. You will receive your assignment as soon as the medics deem you ready for action."
"Your will be done, Lord Hokage."
AN: Do what you do. Also, Merry Christmas and so on.