AN: Welcome, reader! Thanks for giving this a shot.
As I love when SI-OC do kiddy times but not wanting to waste your time, the chapters alternate between PAST and PRESENT.
Past
The World That Used to Be
1 Year After the First Shinobi World War
Orochimaru's parents are dead and, for a while, he was the same.
No one thought to tell him the protocol. With the deaths of the First Shinobi World War—reaching four figures after its initial year, adults assumed he knew the drill. That, or because the Leaf Cemetery could not house anymore dead until recently, they forgot, too.
For months, he had visited the Memorial Stones—immortalizing the dead in a quarter of the space—much as a tourist would, marveling at the spectacle, glad that once he returned home, life would resume as normal. It never did.
It's not the death certificates, not the fading scent on their clothes, not the dreams where he roams the apartment in search of them, and not the lapse of memory where he expects them to walk through the front door after their mission at any moment. It's the grave with their names inscribed onto the surface, decorated with a flower and a brief epitaph that could never even begin to summarize their lives.
They died, and he'd seen it before. Before he, too, died.
"Hey, kid, you crazy?"
Behind him is a woman who moved in silence despite the countless puddles and mud. In her hands is a traditional umbrella, its red canopy obscuring the color of her harsh, void eyes. The very same red as the centerpiece on her necklace: a spiraling gem.
Her gaze is as icy as the early fall rain droplets that no longer batter his thin frame. He should crumple into a ball on the ground so that she'll swat him to the side. Instead, she tilts her head and looks him up and down. "Behind you. That who I think it is? Tell me you haven't been standing out here for hours when you got family at home."
Her voice is the wait for toast to pop up. He drops his gaze to the ground, body rigid.
"This is crazy. No, I get it. Where else would you go? It's not ready." The woman huffs. "Agh, this is stupid. I'm crazy. Geez…"
She lunges towards him. All he can do is hope someone saves him. Her arm wraps around his waist and hauls him to her side, swaying him with her gait and leaving him queasy. Down the busiest paths in town, past villagers who bow their heads as she nears, and no one dares to rescue him. How could a woman get away with a kidnapping she makes no effort to hide?
His heart beats harder than the heavy downpour. The woman does not seem to feel it as she strolls into a gated community guarded by two ninja who see him, down along the main path until she reaches a lone house on a hill. A massive traditional home. The front door is unlocked—something he only knows because she kicks it open. Inside, she throws her umbrella in the entryway and sets him down.
The front door swings shut. No escape.
"Manners," she barks, tossing her shoes and stepping out the entryway to somewhere further in the house. To calm her, he removes his tattered shoes carefully.
As she rummages, he freezes once more to prevent the cold cling of his kimono outfit on his skin. The house is hundreds of times bigger than his apartment. Full of rich brown wood, real plants, calligraphy on the walls, and watercolored landscapes on screen doors. Windows open their jaws wide, the Hokage Mountain gazing over them all. The crisp air lightens his chest, it being less polluted. Too lovely of a place for him to meet his end.
"Drink up, kid." She returns with a mug in hand and taps her foot. "Take the mug before you get pneumonia, c'mon now!"
The cherry-colored mug brings life to numb fingers. His cheeks and stomach grow toasty with every sip of the hot water. He's finished it all and hugs the lukewarm cup for an ounce more heat. Distantly, water splashes from inside.
Not long after, the woman has dragged him to the bathroom where a tub waits. Before he can go to the warmth that's calling his name, she sits him down on a stool above a floor drain saying, "Don't get your panties in a bunch—I do this with my baby girl. Probably older than you, but no matter. I'm a pro."
He's nearly five, so it wouldn't make sense to let him do it alone. Plus, communal baths and hot springs have not lost their appeal. He is not quite used to this culture, but relents to her whims. She lathers him in some floral soap with wooden undertones, combs her fingers through the tangles of his hair painlessly, gently rinses his body off. At last, he soaks in the tub, goosebumps on his skin purely from excitement.
She joins him after washing. Arms around her folded knees, she keeps her eyes shut. Like this, she doesn't seem as scary. The heat has filled her pale skin with shades of red softer than her hair color. Her rosy cheeks make her appear to be blushing.
"You're real good at staring, boy."
Jostled by her words, he curls in on himself.
"I mean, not like it bothers me. Your eyes are…uh, cool. They're all yellow and spiky? I don't know." She must be watching him. Please don't watch him. "Listen…you can't trust random strangers out there, alright? People are crazy these days! You could really die. It won't take much at all to scoop you up, you know! Common sense. Geez."
She smacks the water and receives a splash of water in her face. Grumbling, she crosses her arms, leaving him to ponder in confusion.
After the bath and wrapped in her daughter's lavender bathrobe, the woman carries Orochimaru upstairs. He huddles near the door, just able to see her red hair amid the darkness of the space, even flinching at her slamming something with glass on a table. A fire explodes into light, down, and into a candle container.
A small, amber bubble reveals a futon mattress that she unravels. It's gigantic compared to his at the apartment. The blanket she places on top is a silky, black fabric leagues warmer than his years-old blanket. She sets him on the mattress, covers him, and crouches to the side. Slipping through the cracks of her bathrobe are her muscles, far more toned than any other villager he's seen. Unblemished. No scars. Not a ninja, but not a villager.
When she inhales deep through her nose, he does not make a noise. "You're just gonna take it easy and cool your pits, got it? There's a bathroom just over there, take the candle. The crapper's not all fancy like the one you might know, but it works. Don't complain." She sighs, cracks her knuckles. "You'll be here, until you get used to everything. Then you sleep with me. Have fun. Or—it doesn't matter. I'll get you for breakfast. Sleep."
Her steps are no louder than the soft click of the screen door shutting. Once he's sure she is far enough away, the long breath he releases restores movement to his body. The room's size is hard to gauge with the tiny bedside candle and the curtained window's silhouette framed by the red dusk. The room is coffin-like. From the firm mattress underneath him and nothing but black beyond the boundary of light. It's not something he's unfamiliar with—he knows how to sleep alone, he is most comfortable alone. But as his eyes grow heavy, there's a clink of dishes or sounds of muffled conversations, that cause them to snap open once more.
How did he ever go to sleep with his parents around? He's spent most of his life with them, but now his memories fizzle out and vanish.
From his birth, there were memories that masqueraded as dreams. There was the unbridled shame and regret for saying such a stupid thing and losing a friend, the explosion of joy that stung his eyes when his family pretended to have forgotten his birthday, and even the warmth of resting in bed late at night watching and reading a series that would never escape his thoughts for a moment. These memories fill his mind, some coming or going, to the point where he's no longer certain who he was prior to the revelations.
If the memories are true, then he's lived another life, hasn't he? His past life is six feet under the ground with a tombstone he never had the chance to pick out, decorated by flowers, and affixed to whatever epitaph his family deemed suited him. Somewhere, his old possessions are collecting dust as he is thrusted into an entirely new world within—within—
His second life has trapped him under the bones of Orochimaru, the corrupted megalomaniac in pursuit of immortality that is also him, past life memories be damned.
His heart had dropped to the depths of himself the moment he gazed into the mirror, prying forth a memory of the Sannin's taunt face and tongue dangling outside his mouth, wet with saliva. For just a mere hour earlier, the toddler was told by his parents he had the choice to decide what his fate was—how big he dreamed living in a world of ninja!—only for his foreknowledge to bear its fangs and ensnare his mind inside a future both his and not his. He told himself as long as he was not sociopathic and not cruel, he could never be Orochimaru.
Yet, it was madness, for if he continued to define himself as everything Orochimaru was not, he was still Orochimaru—an Orochimaru before his fall.
At the age of three, who he was died. In its place is whatever he is now.
He bolts upright, head throbbing from the relentless drumming in his chest. Is the house shaking, or is that his trembling? A sound like thunder rattled him awake. A clear, raw sound beyond the door.
A sound not very far from his room.
Is it meant for him?
He wrenches himself free from the onslaught of blankets.
The windows beyond the curtain are too tall for him to slip through, and none exists in the bathroom. With there being nothing in the room he can stand on, he scuttles to the sliding door. No light outside. His tremors worsen as he cracks it open, presses his face against the crevice to peer out. The hallway is lifeless.
The obstacle parts enough for his small frame to fit through and shuts as easily. Huddled against the corner of the hallway, a staircase leads to freedom. Closed doors line both sides. One is meters from the exit, sunlight streaming through its screen.
He plasters himself flat, grateful the plush bathrobe slides noiselessly as he tip-toes on the floorboard closest to the wall. His bare feet sticks and peels itself from the ground no matter how slow he goes. It is not as loud as the thunder-like sound, for it erupts shivers in him in a way his steps never do.
The sound emanates from the sunlit room. Its paper screen hides a faint, wobbling blur of black and pink—a person's silhouette. The staircase is just past the room. Below, dish clinks and food sizzles drift upwards. Loud enough to mask his walking past the door, but will it be enough to hide the front door opening or him running away to freedom? The very front door surrounded by windows to cast his shadow into the kitchen?
No, that's it. Where there is sun, there are windows. The darkened rooms are dead ends, but not the sunlit room.
At the tip of his vision, the sliding doorframe comes into view, pointing in his direction. Pushing himself into as much shadow as possible, he nudges the door open and peaks in. The glare stings, but the world comes into view before long: a large room of opened windows too tall for him to reach, and a room divider with clothes thrown on top near him.
He can hide behind it.
As soon as the house's inhabitants search for him, he will run out the window.
He taps the door open. Lining the wall below an open window, is the red-haired woman, the Uzumaki, sitting at a desk covered in glass vials of unknown liquids. The small mirror cannot see him past the immense wealth of her chest. Like water through fingers, he slips into the room, shuts the door bit by bit, and crouches behind the folds of the divider.
His chest constricts. He does not move. The noise of his joints is deafening.
But even worse is her sniffing. Deliberate and inquisitive. She is not an ordinary villager. She picked up his scent and—
"Ooo, tasty." The chair scrapes the floor, and her footsteps hasten towards him.
He backpedals on toes and fingertips just past the horizon of the room divider, as she makes her way to the door and leaves. Now, escape!
He hustles over to the open window, the table and chair the right height for him. While he balances on the chair cushion, the glass vials scattered about the table are a problem. He'll surely knock one over. Shifting them too carelessly would be just as noisy.
Unless…what is inside? Poison? Noxious gases? He could use one to make his escape. At the very least, the broken glass can slow them down. He grabs the closest bottle full of a clear liquid and, without even opening it, a pungent and earthy smell wafts from it.
"Witch hazel."
The nonchalant voice at his side is the loudest of all.
The mirror reveals the Uzumaki woman's torso.
Her purple eyes reveal no tell. All she does is pluck the bottle from his cold fingers and opens it. "Good for acne. If you wanted some, just holler."
She pinches her cheeks already flushed tomato and rubs the liquid onto them. Her pale hands are just as red.
Was that vicious sound…the woman slapping her face?
No. It's a trick. Right?
"Smells like garbage." She closes the bottle with a wrinkle of her nose. "Know what doesn't? Breakfast." Without further warning, she plucks him up.
Escape failed.
The Uzumaki woman's home is the center of a vibrant, grassy field. To capitalize on it, the back door had been opened. Puddles from yesterday linger in the early sun. Brown and red birds flutter about in small groups. One pauses in the leg-deep water as their gazes meet. Its dark eyes pry at old memories. Does someone have those brown eyes? How long has it been since he truly looked at anyone?
"Aha, you are the guest my flower spoke of!"
The man accompanying the woman finished setting the dining table. He's never sat at a floor table, but it's not dissimilar from his old heated-desk. A thick, red cover traps body heat and makes suitable material for him to wipe his sweaty hands on.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, young man." Letting out a happy breath, the man sits across from him, smile brighter the sunlight among his dirty blond locks, tied back with a cloud-colored ribbon. Far too plain for such a formal outfit. "I am Hazuo Senju. This is my wife, Tokonoma Senju."
Wife? Senju? That woman, Tokonoma, isn't an Uzumaki?
She took his last name. Although…the Uzumaki Clan is the stronger of the two. It's uncommon to take on the weaker's surname.
"Tokonoma," the man calls as the woman stalks to her seat, "did you introduce yourself to him?"
"Um. Er. Talking ain't up his alley." She shovels food into her mouth.
"Is that so? Writing is fine. Or not speaking at all is fine as well. Do not feel pressured, young man." The husband prepares his plate. Warm rice, salty miso soup with flower-cutouts of radish, fluffy beds of omelettes.…He's never seen such a quantity of food before.
He is supposed to eat this?
Why all this…?
Somehow, he whittles away at the meal, stomach heavier than ever before. The duo, Tokonoma and that guy, have already finished almost all of it.
The husband rubs his bulging stomach. "I planned to give some sweet bread to the booths today. Alas…I might have exhausted myself cooking such an extravagant meal for our guest of honor…."
"I was gonna walk by anyways," Tokonoma stares intently into her cup, words weightless enough to be carried away by the breeze.
He clasps his hands together, dazzling, "You will?"
Tokonoma grumbles into her cup.
She grumbles all the way to booths, too.
And, unfortunately for him, she takes him along ("Hazuo'll be knocked out. You can't be trusted alone, boy").
The "booths" lie a short walk away from the home. The collection of tables with owners holding challenges wouldn't look out of place in a carnival. Children drift from booth to booth to try their hand at kunai-throwing challenges or simple chakra tricks, all for the pursuit of a prize: the admiration from their peers or for some money.
So…it's beyond him as to why a grown woman is going through challenge after challenge, beating high scores to the dismay and horror of the children onlookers. She pours her reward of coins inside the bag and looks over the boys grumbling under their breaths. "Try harder next time, losers."
A small boy blows a raspberry at her and ducks behind the older.
Tokonoma shrugs. "You still didn't win the prize like me, pipsqueak." The boys shuffle away. She hands him the bag—heavy—to carry while she eyes where to go next.
"If it isn't Tokonoma the Take-All!" A man further down the line leans out his booth and waves. His eyes twinkle with delight.
"Asamaru." Tokonoma pulls the bag of sweet bread out her pocket and slides it over.
"Thank you! Lord Hazuo has made this, yes?"
Tokonoma shifts her weight onto one foot. "I could make better."
"Better hope I don't eat it! I couldn't imagine leaving my dear wife behind!" The man laughs, belly jiggling.
He sets the money bag down. Could he sit on—no, it wouldn't be comfortable. Still…
"Don't make me take that bread back."
"Lady Tokonoma, you wouldn't do that," he says delightedly. "Times have been stressful. A man needs to distract himself somehow."
"Yeah. The war reparations and junk…"
"Absolutely! And now Ryuukotsu's gone missing like the other blacksmiths. Ninja weapons have shot up in costs. Can't even get too many kids my way to keep playing."
"Missing people? Has the Hokage done anything?"
"The Hokage's advisor sent the Jounin Commander and his team to find them. That was, ah…at least two weeks prior."
Tokonoma spins on her heel to face him. "Change of plans. If I gotta do this, you're coming with me, boy."
They reach the Hokage's door, him riding on her back for speed. The air coffins his chest. His heart drums exhaustingly, but little oxygen reaches his flesh. At the door are two men, Jounin in the way they return Tokonoma's glare without flinching. One man steps forward, hand raised in warning, "You can't enter with that child."
He cowers behind her red bob.
"I bring my girl here," she says. "Don't hear you complaining then."
"That's not the same. He could be affiliating with the hebitsukai."
Hebi—what? No amount of foreknowledge gives him an answer.
Tokonoma scoffs. "The boy can't talk. If it weren't for me, he'd be at their grave, soaked to the nines. You really think he's with them?"
She trusts him? No, she's bluffing. But why? Why do all this? What does she want?
A pause goes by before the ninja speaks. "We can't risk it. Just because the war's over—"
"It isn't. Step aside before you piss me off, sycophants."
"Lady Tokonoma." The man spits out her name.
All voices hush. The double door parts down the middle, sunlight rushing out. Heat slithers along his skin. The ninja guarding the door step to the sides and bow at the figure in a white cloak. He holds his breath and drags his gaze up. No amount of foreknowledge could prepare…. His thoughts run amok, too fast to catch any.
"Disruptive again, Tokonoma."
"Gotta get your attention somehow, Mother."
Mito Uzumaki's void eyes flicker to him. He buries himself into the stronghold that is Tokonoma's body.
"Enter before you further disrupt me."
Tokonoma enters first. She pries him off her back and to a chair. He nearly reaches out for her as she turns away.
Mito sits in the Hokage Office as Hiruzen makes his transition to Hokage. The desk protecting him, for now, is as smooth as a pearl. Unblemished by time. A feeling of similar to watching a newborn sleep deeply radiates from it. Stranger yet, the feeling has happened before. Somehow.
It disappears with Tokonoma's sharp voice. "Do you understand how stupid it is to send our Jounin Commander out of the village?"
Mito follows Tokonoma's pacing, fingers intertwined.
"The Leaf Council bullied you, or something? You can't listen to those runts. They think 'cause they fight one war, they seen them all."
"Interesting," she says flatly, "how I am not supposed to trust the 'runts', and yet the man you speak of received his decorations from the only war he fought in."
Tokonoma huffs. "You know what I mean!"
Mito releases her hands to grab a scroll wrapped in golden leather. The rows of endless calligraphy sway his vision."I do not know your paranoia. He has unparalleled teamwork. I would not send a man out to die."
"The Uzumaki are powerful enough. The Senju can help out. Yet, you're putting this village on the shoulders of a random weirdo from some stupid clan? When there's threat of another war?" Tokonoma takes a moment to watch her with a clenched jaw. With every delicate stroke of the brush held in flower-like hands, Tokonoma's breathing grows more and more powerful.
"Tokonoma, I know this may surprise you, but we have set the world standard. The other villages look to us to make precedents. Should we fail to establish our power, the dead will never rest."
"Or we'll fail, burn, and somebody else is gonna take our place." Tokonoma thunders to the desk and knocks the brush out Mito's grasp. Splatters of black cover the beauty of the scroll, the table, their clothes. Ink freckles her face. Not even the darkest color can compare the voidness of her eyes.
"What would you have done?"
Tokonoma leans in, her purple eyes on the verge of turning red. "Get a clanless ninja. They can prove themselves, and we're not putting all our eggs in one basket."
"Foolish. A lone ninja will never outweigh the strength of a clan with historical evidence of their capability. We do not waste our time with those who have little hope."
The smile on Tokonoma's face suits a scarecrow. A warped caricature."So that's why you're letting clanless orphans die on the streets, huh? If they were Uzumaki orphans, you wouldn't even hesitate bringing 'em home. I shouldn't be the one putting together the Orphanage. A real leader does that herself!"
"I have said my peace. You merely wish to argue. Begone." Mito waves the back of her hand Tokonoma's way.
Something cold veins his fingers and toes. Nothing is there. But the cold worms.
Tokonoma marches out the office. His ears ring in the silence.
Mito takes a breath. "Seems my daughter left you behind. Apologies are in order."
He rubs his drenched hands on his gray kimono sleeves. They do not dry.
Mito grabs a towel out the desk drawer and blots the ink stains. "I shall say one thing: I knew your parents. Wonderful ninja. They took their commands and performed them without hesitation. They were not foolish enough to betray. Their drowning was a better but unfortunate death compared to the ones I have ordered. Never fear."
Breath cannot enter his body, now locked in place.
Among the dreams of another world, he dreamed of his parents' yelling smothered by violent waves. He dreamed of the sky at their feet and the ground up above. He dreamed of no matter how hard that reached out for each other, the water jerked their bodies in any which way.
"You will make a fine ninja just as your parents. Follow your elders and do nothing more for others to remember you."
The towel covers her eyes. Mito is a beautiful woman crowned with gold and adorned with a lovely purple diamond.
"The Leaf shall not waste resources to kill a child."
He does not have to avoid her gaze any longer. Black spots swarm his view.
"Boy, c'mere. She's blabbering. Old age." Tokonoma leans in the doorway, glaring at Mito.
"The boy is wiser than you, Tokonoma. Look at his eyes—he understands."
"Understands what?"
Barely a day has passed since his cemetery visit. Every day his body found their names. It was embarrassing—lamenting the deaths of people who barely changed the story. How terrible he would he be as the manga's hero when the death of the nameless is enough to cripple him?
He has lost so much of his life wishing them back. He could walk past her and waste more time. Return to the comfort of his apartment, the grave, and any meaningless task to keep his heart pumping. In a year, the Academy will open. There, Tsunade…Jiraiya…Hiruzen…
The legacy of the Legendary Three is in his hands. If he is not there, would they die sooner?
He gets to his feet and moves.
How can his presence change anything?
Why continue a story he is not the hero of?
None of his questions can ever be answered. And, as he clings onto Tokonoma's leg, he adds yet another unanswerable question.
AN: Hey, reader!
I kept referring back to this bad boy, and it bothered me how I felt like in some parts, I didn't write enough to explain key parts of his character, or overly explained parts that were insignificant. It read, to me, as rambling and misunderstood, so I rewrote it.
I took care to condense ideas and keep focused, as well extending a few scenes I cut short because I was worried it was too boring, thus underwriting and causing confusion.
I also played with the narrative and tried to better convey his mental state less with physical cues and more with sentences. (It's not my forte, but I'm working on it.)
I still have the old edition if this is actually a downgrade. Lemme know and I'll return the original.