Initially, I never planned on re-uploading this after I wrote myself into a dead end and lost motivation. However, things changed.

Patriotism: the uptick of your lips as you slap the beginning of the sound into the air, the rough brush of breath as you exhale and continue, rounding the cavern of your mouth until you close it in a hiss. Five syllables in a language that doesn't even exist in this world. Yet, fatherland, sukoku, three syllables that do.

They made us study that poem once; "Dulce et Decorum est" their English teacher droned, stumbling roughshod over Latin words in class towards the homestretch as we yearned for deliverance. He moaned his ode to Owen slowly to the tick of the small white clock while his students lay their heads upon hard plastic and prayed to a god for mercy to fall upon their souls.

My pen, a good pen, one of those newly introduced one's from the capital, whistles as it spins on my finger. Sleek black with slim lines and a sharp sheen, almost like the fountain pen I once had when I was Irina. It pools ink-sometimes explodes-but for the most part, works. Except when it does explode; getting ink out of the flak jacket is a bitch and a half.

The now familiar spiky loops of 'Kikuchi Jin' bleed onto pristine white paper. A consideration they do well to bear in mind is that all their miserable names be legible on the paperwork they give us. Today's chicken scratch is good enough.

Dear Madame Saito, I write and sets the pen back down again. It's time for another sip of that dark brew the straw haired chunin from five desks down makes, that black tea the department of definitely not propaganda provides. However, the letter must be written eventually, so with protest, I pick the pen back up again.

We are sorry to inform you that your son, Shinji, has died.

Is 'died' the right word here? Mhm, passed on, met his maker, one with the dirt...

I cross it out. No good, that's too brutal from the first sentence. It's an art: you butter them up with meaningless fluff then drop the whammy. Wham, bam, thank-you Ma'am.

Your son, Shinji Saito, was a good man and a dear friend to many. It's a lie, a bald faced lie like all the others. We always say they were good men. It's easy when you keep the details vague. After all, 'good' has so many meanings: good swordsman, good illusionist, good liar. I suppose as a martyr for this village we all loyally serve, he was good.

See, philosophy class was useful mom.

I had hated Shinji. Not because of his pretty girlfriend with the odd bruise or two on stray limbs that were 'accidents' or his loud unneeded remarks he deigned to grace upon us all. No, no, hate is something I don't give out so freely as that. Hate is a strong word, after all, best used sparingly. Mhm, I hated Shinji Saito maybe only partially because he was a piece of shit and a stain upon humanity as a whole.

Shinji Saito had deserved it when the Iwa ninja quite literally tore him limb to limb. I had turned away as he screamed for his mama. Well, kaa-san, same thing. It was a harsh grate from the back of the throat, spluttered out in a jagged wreckage of the original sound. It was very unfortunate. I think Tomiko even shed a couple tears for him afterwards.

What a waste of water.

It's a fucking terrible use of time writing these letters. Half the people I write to are shinobi or were shinobi themselves and can recognize the sharp acrid glue of these envelopes or their distinct red-white border by sight or smell. They all know what these mean: one more name to carve onto that old rock.

Shinji was always the life of the party, true, and could always raise the spirits of his comrades, another lie. I am sorry to write, I am delighted to write actually, that Shinji passed bravely in the line of duty to his village. He protected, hah, we weren't protecting anything, the village with his life and will be remembered as a great man for his sacrifice.

I use too much force on that last period and the pen splatters ink over the page. Fuck, I need another cup of tea. It's a good enough distraction to delay writing the letter for his mother. Rei had the good grace to die on that mission as well, leaving me the highest ranking member at tokubetsu-jonin and responsible for this sorry shitfest.

Kick the chair into solitary wooden cubicle, lock the room behind me with a light swipe of chakra, and walk down the hall to the main office room with the rows of diligent chunin hard at work. Now I feel bad, actually, not really. I'd done my time in that room as well before getting promoted and I can slack off now in the small closet I call my own.

Soon, I might actually get a window. Well, if medical leave takes even longer. I can't wait, just gotta hope someone with an actual room happens to get really unlucky and gets a tragic case of irritable bowels that cannot be stopped after a night of overindulgence through sketchy street meat. Real story, got old Kono in the end. He ended up retiring and Keisuke got his office when he left, lucky bastard.

A couple of them look up but it's only me. They droop their back down again in disappointment it's not their anointed "Nanami-chan" descending from the heavens of her desk, to grace the puny mortals with her divine presence. I think I can pull this maneuver off, but then someone's voice pipes out.

"Kikuchi-san!"

I keep on walking. Woah, what a nice floor. How shiny, maybe we should pay our janitors more, give them a raise for such a great wax job. Never seen anything better. 10 out of 10, best wax job I've ever seen.

"Kikuchi-san! Wait! KIKUCHI-SAN!"

Okay, keep walking. Left, left, left, right, left. Don't mind me, tinnitus from close-range ninjutsu battles without ear protection is a serious concern amongst our military ranks you know? Very debilitating, can't hear a thing now. I keep the 'no idea, move along' face fixed and after all those hours of practice in the mirror it's more than paid off. And just as victory appears within my sight the kid catches up.

"WAIT!"

Something-oh, a forearm-is clenched between my fingers. Like most forearms it's attached to a hand and an elbow although from how tightly I'm gripping this one, that might not be a permanent feature. Most admirable is the death grip he has on some papers in that hand. Papers aren't worth a hand, just ask Shinji. That's right, you can't. See, perfect example right there.

His most noticeable feature is the spiky ponytail resembling a tropical fruit. The scar across his nose bears no mentioning: facial scars are a dime a dozen. Other than that, he's pretty much replaceable with the rest of Konoha.

I raise one valiant eyebrow at him. "Yes?"

Despite his tan, his face flushes red. "The forms for-"

"Yes, yes, yes. That's all right? Good, have a nice day."

He's young, young enough that he probably never saw the war because he narrowly missed being born to one of the fast-tracked years in the Academy where replacements weren't coming out quick enough. Unfortunately, he's also green enough that he hasn't learnt to not give a fuck.

"Wait, Kikuchi-san, that's not it!"

It's hard to hold in the sigh. I have to remind myself to limit my dick moves to only ten a day. What a tragedy as I can't show the great quantity of fucks I give right now.

"Well, chunin..." I drawl, casting my eyes down at him, searching for a name.

"Umino, sir."

I've trained myself not to twitch or give it away anymore when they call me 'sir'. Especially when they're twenty years older than me as the title feels even more ridiculous.

"Chunin Umino, just give it to one of the secretaries in charge of document distribution and go back to work."

Because he's a newbie, he doesn't comment on why the fuck I'm out here and not working. I know the career-chunin who are either stuck or willingly placed here gossip like no tomorrow whenever our backs are turned but he's probably still working with a glorified image of us higher ranks in his mind. Bless his heart.

"This was supposed to be filled out two weeks ago, sir."

"That's very unfortunate kid."

He bristles at that, eyes narrowing at the slight.

"Sir, you-"

I'm not in the mood to argue anymore; I pull myself up, abusing what seems to be a four inch height difference over him and speak:

"Go."

It was cute a couple seconds ago, but I have a very carefully polite letter to write without backhandedly insulting the deceased even once. Just to emphasize the order, I release killing intent at him. Not much, it's a joke compared to actual combat but it does the job and he flees with the papers in hand.

Good. I give myself a pat on the back for a job well-done. One more day I had successfully avoided filling out that dratted form that awaits me through fucking Nanami's fucking proxies. It's fucking bullshit, all this unnecessary paperwork but that's Nanami "Even the motherfucking backup needs a fucking backup" Hattori for you. It's literally just literature reviews, which is fucking bullshit but apparently most ninja are borderline illilterate or that's what I'm gleaning from the implication of me being assigned here for my 'altered duties' while I await my clean bill of health.

Whistling, I unlock my door and return to the letter. Ah, off to a promising start. Maybe I'll even get this done today.

Shinji Saito will always remain in our hearts and minds, as a fool of a man, who burns as bright as his Will of Fire. It's the corniest thing ever, it's also fulfilling the checklist they give every sucker who makes a rank with "jonin" in it on letter writing to the bereaved. That reminds me...

Requisition notice, meeting reminder, daily public service announcement from that fucker Nanami, aha! My list, my chef d'oeuvre, my life's work, my greatest contribution to this godforsaken village.

Burns as bright as his Will of Fire = 'Couldn't be fucked to find a body'.

There's a few more nuggets of wisdom within this sorry flammable sheet such as:

Although gone, he will not be forgotten = 'The only thing they'll be getting is a name on the Memorial Stone'

Or Words cannot reflect the sentiments I have for your son/daughter's sacrifice = 'I am speechless with wonder that against all odds, they actually were useful for once'.

The drawback of finally being free of people is that you can't insult them to their faces anymore. One, it's in incredibly bad taste to speak of the dead in such a manner, and two, I do have some form of respect for my elders. Most importantly, it's just bad taste.

Sincerely,

Jin Kikuchi, jonin of Konohagakure

It looks good enough. I take out another piece of paper from the pile in the first drawer under my desk and begin transcribing onto there until it's satisfactory. Then it's easy to slip the letter into one of the special envelopes they give us for these and seal it shut. Now, I have another excuse to get out of my room.

Some jonin like to deliver the news themselves to the family. I don't; in my experience, it's the smallest things that'll throw your act off. Impersonal is the best way to go for me. Or else I start smiling and then things go really downhill. I don't think I can ever go back to that seafood place ever again. Crouching behind the convenient potted plant outside of the common work room, I start spreading the thinnest wisps of chakra I can.

It's only a gentle slip of a soft veil of over the room of chunin. They don't notice, they're not supposed to. An innocuous area of effect genjutsu which gives them an extra boost of focus for their work. I'm helping them really.

Time for the second layer: rat, boar, ox. I haven't officially named it but I call it "pay no attention to that man behind the genjutsu". Names don't just fall off trees you know? It does exactly what the interim working name implies but it's a bitch to maintain.

I used to have to maintain each connection to the target separately. Now, it's just the careful process of starting it at one person then linking the group together. Kinda like seeding your torrents actually. Now that I've nudged them aside through an incredibly delicate yet chakra intensive genjutsu that has no practical combat effect, it's time for yet another one.

Rat, boar, ram, rat, snake, rat. Better than the twenty-two hand seals I had originally created it with but I still couldn't cut the triple rat seals out. All it does is just cancel out recognition. They'll see me, but they won't make the connection between tall, white hair, flak jacket, and tokubetsu-jonin Jin Kikuchi, a human being. This one was a fucking pain to figure out actually.

And finally, the most overt layer of concealment. All these buttery layers lain down with loving care, baked into my chef d'oeuvre. Visual is the most basic, the first and foremost thing everyone checks, but it's what we rely on the most. Just a wall, nothing more, nothing less. They don't even move their heads as I walk past, down the hall, into the anonymity of the staircase. Ducking behind a conveniently placed corner as a couple of chunin walk past, I am home free.

It's March, the cherry blossoms are starting to bloom over Konoha, and those with the spare time walk around in yukata munching on sticks of dango. A boy with the Inuzuka fangs on his cheek barrels around the corner, and I could just duck out of the way. That would be too easy on him. He collides into my open palm forehead first and body crumpling forwards.

Sudden laughter accompanies his sudden fall. It's from an older girl with the same brown hair and red triangles on her cheeks.

"Get up Kiba!" She yells, "We're going to be late!"

He scowls at her while he gets up from the ground.

"Be careful when you go around corners." It's good advice, honestly, maybe if he takes it to heart he won't meet the pointy end of a kunai while running around a corner at a young age. 'Tis a tragedy the other shinobi wouldn't tell you, yet happens anyway. Truly, knife safety is an area with a startling lack of coverage in the education of young ninja today. Something should be done! Petitions must be drawn, overbearing parents must be notified of the danger to the education of today's youth.

"Yeah, sure." The boy tosses out before scampering away. Ah, youth. What pearls I have offered, tossed aside for ephemeral pleasures of springtime. What folly, what hubris. Why, when he's a strapping shinobi of sixteen, tall and broad, he'll be a great specimen of his kind. Green vest on chest, he'll be celebrated as a strong and capable ninja. He'll go on important missions, save daimyos, rescue princesses, defy death at every turn until one day, he races around a corner and bam! Scissors to the chest.

Gets the best of us in the end.

And, as he lays dying in his last moments of consciousness, he'll reflect back on a conveniently streamlined version of his life, and think: I should have listened to that jonin.

Mhm, kids these days. No respect for their elders. Tsk, tsk.

Why, back in my day, when I was a mere sapling of a chakraless sack of flesh, well, we didn't have it so good as these kids! Why, that rapscallion! He'll never have to take middle school exams or university exams or calculus finals! The horror, what is this society going to? Ruins I tell you, ruins.

And so I walk forward on my lunch break to the renowned and revered Ichiraku Ramen. The noodles were good enough to make up for the chance of touching PLOT. PLOT is a complete no-go zone, except when Ichiraku Ramen was concerned. But, it's not like that's an issue these days anyways. Because, sitting at one of the stools before the counter was one of my biggest headaches and concerns: one Minato Namikaze, or Namikaze Minato, the Yellow Flash, Yondaime Hokage, very alive and at large.

Four years post-giant orange fox demon chakra thing attack.

I fucking hate my life. And it isn't even my fault. I hadn't even done anything wrong, I'd stuck my head down like a good little genin, then got promoted to chunin mid-war, then did my job, stabbed the right people, and got the nifty tokubetsu-jonin title given to me when I showed that I could still read and write after all those knocks to the head. Then this fucker had the sheer indecency to stay alive and throw the timeline to the dogs. What an asshole.

Fuck, what can I say? I'm penning the letter right now, for the twenty first time:

Dear timeline,

It's been an honour to remember you vaguely. Never have I cherished those worn, fading memories of reading black-and-white manga at one in the morning when I have a physics test the next day even more. But, as it seems, you're fucked.

Sincerely,

Kikuchi Jin.

PS: It was nice knowing you.

And then the nightmare of my future turns around.

"Jin-san! How are you?" He greets with that sunny smile, the one where it looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. See, the nightmare knows my name. This is how badly I've fucked up.

"Good Hokage-sama, how are you?" Smooth Jin, smooth. He can detect your fear, he feeds off it, thrives off it, don't show how terrified at everything he represents you are.

"I'm fine Jin-san, are you taking your lunch break?"

See, he knows, he knows. Don't let that golden hair, those cornflower eyes, and innocent smile fool you. He's onto me. I can feel it. He knows that this is an unauthorized lunch break, that I didn't bother signing out of the building at the front desk, and I am just fucking off from work. You see, Minato Namikaze is smart. He's a no-go zone just as a person and I already fucked up so hard that I more than within touching distance of PLOT.

I nod, then order my usual order: tantan-men. Konoha cuisine, given its location in northern-central Fire, is more like Japanese cuisine in that it isn't very spicy unlike most of the southern coast cities in the Land of Fire that love their chilies. God, I miss spicy curry, spicy hot pot, spicy stir fry, spicy skewers... Ichiraku's tantan-men doesn't even make me break a sweat, and that's even at their max spice.

The food just isn't spicy which is a crying shame seeing as I'm stuck here until I manage to successfully fake my death right around when Naruto's plot starts and run to the hills, living a peaceful life without the prospect of bullshit moon goddesses who exist just to end a story Kishimoto couldn't.

"How are your injuries healing?" He asks, making the usual polite smalltalk. The man asks me this every time I accidentally ran into him here.

"Good, the medics say I should be back on active duty in two weeks if it goes along schedule." My leg is already healed, given priority by the medic-nin since I need it to walk. My ribs and lung are what's dragging it along: since I can do my non-active job at a desk while slowly healing and not requiring medical ninjutsu, thus freeing up more medics to do important medic-y shit, I just have to suck it up. And I've sucked it up, for the past two months. But soon, soon, I will be freed of my papery shackles and emerge into a world of colour, a world, where I no longer have to watch kanji bleed into kanji and make franken-kanji as I fall asleep at my desk.

"I'm glad to hear that Kikuchi-san, I hope you heal soon. Thanks for the meal Teuchi-san." The man gives a friendly wave, then lifts the flap and well, flashes (heh), away. To his office presumably, back to his paper shackles than keep him safe from poor tokubetsu-jonin named Kikuchi Jin.

Then out of the corner of my eye, minding my own business on the corner stool of Ichiraku Ramen with my bowl of tantan-men in front of me, I see an orange menace appear, in toddler form no less.

Fuck this fucking bullshit. I just wanted to skive off work.

Goddamnit Kishimoto, you had one job!