.
.
He tossed the sack on the table. Councilors startled, eyes wide and jumping from their seats, as the bag opened and one of the heads started to roll.
"I have killed them," Obito said. "All of them. You will find that I have disposed of all of your problems."
Obito dumped the heads onto the table without preamble with a sickening thump, and the heads rolled unevenly, matted hair and loose gray skin catching on the smooth wood of the table.
The councilors looked amongst themselves and Yagura stared back at him, the heads of the eight conspirators rolling obscenely on the table. They were roughly the size of bowling balls and just about as heavy. Fibers of severed nerves and ragged muscle hung from vertebrae like raw meat on a leg of ham, and their eyes were open, opaque. To Obito's amusement, the looks on the faces of the councilors were exactly the same: the same muted horror, the same widening of the whites of the eyes.
"Why?" Yagura said. He had the face of a child but the mind of a man, watching Obito distrustfully. "You have no alliance with the shinobi of the mist. Why go through all these lengths to catch my attention?"
"Because we can be of use to each other," Obito said. Yagura's eyes narrowed.
It was a tactical decision, first and foremost: the Akatsuki war machine needed seed money, and the meager offerings from petty jobs weren't enough to stock the war chest that Obito desired. The most expedient way would be to offer his unique set of services, and what better customer was there than a village whose leadership was in constant flux and whose populace was torn in the midst of a civil war?
Then there was the fact that Yagura was a jinchuuriki, an obvious advantage. It was the proverbial killing of two birds with one stone, shoring up the war chest and garnering a tailed beast in the process. That the Blood Mist was also most certainly responsible for Rin's death was only an added benefit, and while Obito knew the costs of involving himself in unnecessary conflict, the thought of exacting revenge proved too tempting to refuse.
"Money?" Yagura's advisers sneered. "All you want is money?"
"Of course," Obito said. "Why else would I offer you my services? And I must advise you," Obito said. "You'll find that no one else has this particular skill set. You would be wise to take advantage."
He was being insolent, but Obito knew that. Among the kiri nin, there could be no deals without an element of bravado and arrogant self-aggrandizing. There was a ripple among the crowd. Obito waited patiently for the jinchuuriki to respond.
"And why should I not kill you here, as a murderer of the shinobi of the mist?" Yagura said. "These are our problems. Our dissenters. Why should I let an outsider help?"
"Because I have done what you and your top men could not do," Obito said. "In the span of a few short days, I have wiped out the leaders of their precious resistance. Consider this my gift. I just want you to know that I am available, should you once again require my services."
"How thoughtful," Yagura said, dryly. Obito gave him a little bow, then turned, pulling up the hood of his cloak.
"Wait," Yagura said, and Obito turned.
"There are still more men," Yagura said.
"As I said," Obito said, smoothly. "Should you require further assistance, I will be happy to help. For a small fee, of course."
Yagura was watching him. There was a sharpness to Yagura's eyes that Obito found easy to manipulate, and Obito waited as Yagura bent an ear to an advisor, who whispered to him, carefully.
"Twelve days," Yagura said. "You have twelve days to deal with the threat. Do as we ask, and we will reward you handsomely. But fail to do so, and you will pay with your life. Do you understand?"
"Of course," Obito said, and Yagura gave him a thin-lipped smile.
xXx
.
The place where Rin died lay just to the east, a few hours by foot along the outskirts of Kirigakure. There, craggy rocks jutted out as if half-hewn from the haggard cliff face of mountains, an empty expanse, as a thick fog settled with the stinging cold. This was where the rebels were now, Yagura's dissenters, and when Obito entered there was nothing but a rush of blurred colors and white noise, and the grayscale of dark that was upended with the sudden starburst of blood.
"Your bloodline limit unnerves me," Yagura said, even after Obito kept his sharingan carefully hidden behind his mask. "What will keep you from turning against me?"
Obito turned. The genocide against bloodline limits was the result of a botched assassination attempt, a bloodline limit shinobi breaking into the palace compound and very near killing the Mizukage in the process. Already a paranoid man, Yagura reacted by walling himself off in his palace, letting no one come within ten paces of him and choosing to sit flanked by weapons and guards, before raining down holy terror and setting in motion the bloodline purges.
But it wasn't surprising: jinchuuriki were notoriously unstable, and Obito knew it was this paranoia that made him very easy to manipulate. But first was the matter of trust and Obito if nothing was a stickler for details.
"I do not desire the Bloody Mist," Obito said. "You will find no safer comrade than I."
Obito watched silently as Yagura nodded, and quietly layered a thin genjutsu over his words. Unlike the kyuubi, control of the Mizukage was as easy as controlling any other man, using genjutsu suggestions and subtle manipulation. Controlling the kyuubi was like trying to restrain a wild dog on a fraying leash, and Obito was grateful that the Mizukage was relatively easy.
"Perhaps there are other people you should be worried about," Obito said, and Yagura's head snapped forward, paranoia edging the corners of his eyes.
The next spate of executions did not surprise anyone: Yagura had always been a ruthless man, despite the youthfulness of his boyish looks, and when he one day ordered the execution of all his advisors, no one so much as batted an eye.
Obito watched. From the sidelines, he watched as Yagura ordered the finishing blows, killing the five councilors who witnessed Obito's arrival in the first place. Bodies rolled, blood spurting from wounds in their chests, and quietly Obito fingered the bandage in his pocket, saying nothing and watching the thick syrup of blood pooling on the marble floor.
xXx
.
He had the bandage for as long as he could remember: old and frayed, the once pristine whiteness was now tinged with dirt and old blood, the tough canvas cloth softened through years of repeated rubbing between calloused thumbs and forefingers.
He didn't know why he kept it. It served no purpose other than the sentimental reminder of a time when Rin had bandaged up his hand. But he was young then, and foolish, and at the time it seemed to be of utmost importance, saving that scrap of bandage and keeping it in his pocket like a talisman, a charm to keep everything else at bay.
He kept it now, stuffed deep inside his left-hand pocket. Quietly he fingered the rough cloth and looked outward, rubbing the material between the pads of his thumb and index finger. It was more out of habit than anything else; he watched the fog roll and how the thin streaks of watery sunlight crested the horizon, before stuffing the bandage back in his pocket. He turned quietly, fixing his mask and pulling on the hood of his cloak.
The day Rin had bandaged his hand, Obito had cut his hand during a sparring session with Kakashi: he had just narrowly missed the trajectory of a flying shuriken, blocking it with his palm and ducking to the side.
"What did you do?" Rin said, and she grabbed Obito by the arm before he could say anything, staring at the huge cut on his left hand.
They sat on the training bench, Rin holding his hand in her lap and wrapping his wound with white bandages. At the time, Obito was red-faced and embarrassed, but Rin taped the bandages expertly and gave his hand a satisfied squeeze.
"You shouldn't pretend when you get hurt," Rin said.
And then, "Remember that I'm watching you."
He kept the bandage on for two days before Kakashi pointed out his dressings were getting soiled, they needed to be changed, and it wasn't until Kakashi left that Obito discreetly fished out the used bandages from the trash, peeling back the sticky gauze and the parts that were saturated with blood.
He cut the clean parts off, which was still long enough to loop around his hand twice, and he stuffed it in his pockets. Rin had given it to him. Some men carried photos and others carried locks of their sweetheart's hair, but Obito was happy enough to have this memento, a reminder that Rin actually cared about him.
Now he fingered the piece of fabric in his pocket, rolling it between his thumb and index finger and frowning a little at his handiwork: Yagura's top advisor, mutilated, neck snapped and contusions blooming over his chest, while Yagura himself slowly came back to consciousness.
His scar hurt, but Obito ignored it, kneeling beside Yagura and pulling him up from the ground.
"What...what happened?" Yagura said. Obito bowed.
"You killed him," Obito said.
"W-what?"
"I tried to stop you," Obito said, conversationally. "But you could not be reasoned with."
Yagura's eyes widened.
It was not enough to control a man. They must be broken, their spirit and will trampled down until they can be molded like mounds of clay. Already Yagura was remembering the blackouts; periods of time where he could not remember. A normal man would stay forever in his genjutsu but Yagura was a jinchuuriki. He would soon realize just how much he was being controlled.
"I didn't," Yagura said. He slowly sank to his knees. "I couldn't. He was my best friend-"
"Look at your hands," Obito said, and Yagura saw them: the desperate scratch marks, how his adviser had clawed at him, inflicting those wounds. "Is the feeling returning to your fingers?"
And Yagura looked at him, horror-struck.
It did not take much. Yagura's mind broke, snapping under the weight of his horror and guilt, and quietly Obito stepped forward and tipped Yagura's head back. He plied a thin layer of genjutsu and was pleased to see how his eyes rolled back into the sockets, the tension in his body dissipating and going slack. Yagura's body was a house with its walls collapsed on itself, brittle bones and taut skin, and soon enough the hairline fracture of Yagura's fragile mental state gave way and weakened, until everything opened, the cave of Yagura's mind gaping like a torn out eye.
Just beneath the surface, Obito could see Yagura's chakra dampen, the chakra of the Three-Tails simmering quietly.
"Do you remember?" Obito said, and Yagura, the doll, nodded listlessly.
"Yes."
And there was nothing but Obito's words from Yagura's lips, doll's eyes, fixed and unmoving, cold gray skin, bloodless and pale.
xXx
.
His scar was hurting again. Above him, the sky had opened up into a downpour, and the cold dampness of his surroundings aggravated the neuropathic pain.
"Tobi!" White Zetsu said, and he saw the way Obito was guarding himself, the balanced tension in his neck and shoulders. "Oh? Tobi what's wrong? Is your face hurting again?"
"It is none of your concern," Obito said, and Black Zetsu stared at him, as if in rebuke.
"You have been gone a long time. How long is this supposed to take?"
"As long as it requires," Obito said. "Nagato already knows of my plans: I am confident he will execute them."
"You are wrong," Black Zetsu said. "They act as freedom fighters. They take part in skirmishes in which they have no involvement. They have not yet captured bijou, nor have they made any plans to."
"That is fine for now," Obito said. "There is not enough money to fund such missions. Furthermore, I have my hands on the Three Tails. I am only waiting for the right opportunity to exploit him."
"Attaboy, Tobi!" White Zetsu said, but Black Zetsu raised a hand.
"We must not delay," Black Zetsu said. "You have raised enough money already. Why not take the Three Tails now?"
"It will raise their suspicions," Obito said. "If their Mizukage disappears, they would have every reason to suspect me, and by extension, the Akatsuki. We are not strong enough to weather that threat."
"There were talks of a coup," Black Zetsu said. "Why did you not dispose of the Three Tails then?"
Obito stopped.
It was Kisame who warned him about Zabuza, and Obito had rewarded him well for that particular tidbit of information. But now Black Zetsu was watching him, and Obito knew, just as well as Black Zetsu knew, that the coup was ample opportunity to leave: he could have had Yagura "escape." The villagers would believe him to be alive while Obito could transport him to the Akatsuki at his leisure. No one would miss him, a deposed kage and tyrant, both.
The mask aggravated him; rain fell, sliding down the sides of the smooth wood, and it was all Obito could do from reaching inside and sooth the pin-prick stinging with his hand.
"I do not answer to you," Obito said. "The Moon's Eye Plan will take effect. It will just time. Patience. And I promise you, your precious Madara will be brought back."
He let his words linger, Sharingan turning, as if he could cut daggers with his eye.
He bled their country dry. He funneled money into the Akatsuki's war chest and ruthlessly killed any and all who opposed him. He took particular glee in this, because they killed Rin and because this had furthered his plans.
And yet. This was not what he wanted. He had taken a small measure of revenge, but he knew his ultimate goal was still much higher.
"Just remember," Black Zetsu said. "We are always watching."
"Then watch," Obito said, throwing Rin's words back at them, then watched with satisfaction as they melded back into the wall.
xXx
.
"Mizukage-sama! Please!"
The man screamed, the chains above him rattling as the guards seared the hot iron into the man's flesh. He was the man directly responsible for the attack on Kakashi and Rin. Months of careful research and planning had brought him to this, and Obito relished in his vengeance. The smell of smoke and charred skin was sickly sweet in Obito's nostrils, but the thin genjutsu net kept anyone from seeing him; they saw only Yagura, impassive and unmoving, as the man who likely engineered Rin's death screamed and writhed in pain.
"Please," the man said. "Mercy!" Another stab; the man cried out again, agonized. Obito let Yagura step forward.
Blood and vomit trickled from the corners of the man's lips, which were cracked and peeling at the sides, and a thin sheen of sweat covered the man's head. Slowly the man's mouth and face began to move, a paroxysm of pain and supplication, and his lips twisted into a grotesque parody of human speech.
"Mizukage-sama," the man said. He sniveled. Wretched human being. "Please."
"Kill him," Yaguara said, and the man's eyes widened.
"Mizukage-sama! Wait-"
The sword sliced through him like a satchel of wine. Blood spattered onto the paving stones and dripped from the wounds in his belly, the puddle of blood catching the light of the torch like a reflection on water.
His scar hurt. Nothing made it go away.
xXx
.
There were talks of a rebel fighter, a woman with two bloodline limits. Terumi Mei, a survivor of the bloodline purges. Quietly Obito made note of his newest threat, and decided it would be prudent to let her win.
She attacked the compound. Obito waited while Yagura's men tried to put up a fight, before slipping away in darkness, taking Yagura with him. The former Mizukage was quiet and surprisingly docile, and when he removed the Three Tails, it was surprisingly easy to control.
The Kyuubi was not easy to control. Unlike Madara, who broke and rode the Kyuubi at will, Obito only had one eye, and he could barely restrain the beast, who was newly released and thrashing for freedom. The Kyuubi reared and bucked and thrashed against his control, and it took all of Obito's powers to keep the Kyuubi subdued. Afterwards, when the whole debacle with Minato and the re-sealing occurred, Obito removed his mask and was surprised to feel it, the thin trickle of blood rolling down the corner of his eye.
The Three Tails, however, was a completely different matter, and Obito had no problems at all subduing it. Around him, the monster groaned and heaved and thick waves of chakra got sucked up into the dark; it was only then that Yagura's body fell, limp and lifeless, careening against the jutting rocks and landing with a dull thud.
"Are you satisfied?" Obito said, and Black Zetsu said nothing, melting into the walls.
xXx
.
There were talks of genocide. Half-whispered rumors swirling among the ANBU nin. Obito had eyes and ears reaching the farthest corners of the world, and he was not surprised when he heard the Uchiha were threatening to rebel, and the Leaf was considering taking action.
Konoha. Even now, the name stuck in his chest like swallowed pieces of old dried bread, and it incensed him, the threat of violence against his clan.
"Where are you going?" Black Zetsu said, and Obito threw him a look.
"Konoha," Obito said, and he fixed his gaze forward.
He planned on making war. Tear down the village that killed Rin and would wipe out his clan. "The Kyuubi is there," Obito said. White Zetsu smiled and Black Zetsu didn't say anything, just watched as Obito pulled on his traveling cloak.
xXx
.
He was intercepted by the unlikeliest of people.
The morning was cool and the sky was still dark when Uchiha Itachi found him, and Obito couldn't help but notice the dark, desperate look in Itachi's eyes, Sharingan turning like slow-burning coals. "Will you help me?" Itachi said.
Obito looked at him. He was, as all Uchiha are, a beautiful child, long neck curved like the edge of a scythe. The Sharingan peered out from wisps of bangs in the murky half-light, and silently, Obito counted the ways in which he could destroy him.
"You are asking me," Obito said, slowly, "If I will help you destroy our clan."
It was not a question. Itachi nodded.
"Yes," Itachi said.
"Why?" Obito said.
"I wish to challenge myself," Itachi said. "To measure my capacity. What better way than to challenge Konoha's elite? And I'm sure you have many grievances against our clan."
"You will have to think of a better lie," Obito told him, and Itachi's eyes widened imperceptibly. "A would-be psychopath would not have the foresight to ask for help. How old are you?" Obito said.
"Fourteen," Itachi said.
"I see."
Leaves rustled. A crow flew, its feather floating silently down.
xXx
.
He stood at the edge of a cliff face and looked down on his handiwork. Drenched in moonlight, the Uchiha quarter burned. Smoke rose. Orange flames licked the violet sky, and it almost looked beautiful. A world destroyed and remade.
When it was over, Itachi had staggered and retched and vomited into the river when he thought no one was looking, but Obito saw everything. Saw him crying in front of his parents and saw him spare his brother's life. Itachi had that same look as he did now, haggard and drained, both eyes red and puffy. But when Obito approached, Itachi looked at him with a studied hardness, face bone-white against the dark line of trees.
"So?" Obito said, and he could not keep out the bitterness in his voice. The mocking. "Did you measure it? Your capacity?"
And Itachi said nothing. Obito watched as the boy's shoulders shook. An internal struggle to keep control.
Rage. It came and crashed down on him like the weight of a thousand boulders, and he wanted nothing more than to snap, break, tear the world that would have a child burn up in the center of phoenix flame, the injustice of forcing a fourteen-year-old boy to shoulder the elders' manifold sins.
He pulled out Rin's bandage. He twisted the fabric tight around his knuckles, wrapping it twice and pulling hard, until the edges started to cut into the flesh of his hand.
xXx
.
That night, Obito laid out the things he kept with him since childhood:
The first was the bandage. Hopelessly sentimental, but he allowed himself the indulgence.
The second was a small action figurine his parents had gotten him, their first and only gift. They had died a few months later, in the war.
The third was a picture of Rin, meticulously cut from the remnants of their team photograph, which Obito had destroyed in a fit of despair and confusion: afterwards, when the drumming of his heartbeat had settled and his vision was no longer cloudy, he spent hours on the floor piecing back the ripped pieces and taping it together, much to the Zetsu's amusement.
The fourth was a note, which Obito used to keep tucked away behind the picture frame of the team photo. It was right after he had gotten beat up by Gai during his first attempt at chuunin exams: he had been embarrassed and sulking and he didn't want to talk to anyone after that. He found it folded up and shoved unceremoniously in his locker, written in bright blue pen:
Dear Obito,
That was probably the worst fight
I've ever seen, but that's okay :3
You never gave up.
That's your best quality. Keep at it
and please cheer up :-)
- Rin
And she signed her name with a heart next to it.
At the time, Obito had been torn between feeling mortified and ecstatic, because Rin took the time to write to him but also because she noticed how much he sucked, but he kept the note anyway, conflicting emotions aside.
Now Obito spread the note out on the ground, re-reading it. The note had been folded and re-folded so many times the creases were starting to tear into the paper, and the edges of the note were soft and careworn. Carefully, Obito laid them all out in a row, the note, the bandage, the photo and the figurine. He laid them out with quiet reverence, pausing to touch either the little figurine or the note or the pieced-together photo.
He started a modest fire. In the flames, the edges of the photo and the note blackened and curled, the figurine beginning to bubble up on itself, melting slowly with dripping plastic. It was only after some time that Obito decided to keep the bandage, plucking it out from the flame and smoothing the charred fabric, which had begun to curl and fray under his fingers.
The fire crackled. Embers rose on the up-current, kissing the nighttime air, and Obito watched, the fire reflecting in his eyes, and wondered when his heart too would shrivel up like so much paper.
xXx
.
Zetsu reported the Akatsuki's movements. They were fighting a war, then they were fighting another war. They act as soldiers of fortune, hired guns, fighting the good fight, an obvious holdover of Nagato's good intentions. Most if not all the missing nin on the Akatsuki's roster were doing it for the money, but Nagato ran the organization like they were Ame Freedom Fighters, furthering political agendas and overthrowing tyrannical rule.
"Why has this not been done?" Obito asked, when Nagato and Konan met him on the outskirts of Amegakure, rain falling like battering rams against the side of the cave. "In all the years of the Akatsuki's service, and you have only one bijou: the Three Tails, which I had captured myself."
"I apologize," Nagato-as-Pein said, the Tendo Pein's purple eyes sliding up to meet his. "There is much injustice in this world. We only seek to rectify it."
"You are floundering," Obito said. "There is no saving the trash that's collected on this world. I seek to end it," Obito said, and he turned, a sharp rebuke:
"Get me the bijou, and I swear to you, this will end all war."
Itachi joined the Akatsuki, thinking he infiltrated Obito's organization. Pein may not know, and neither did the other members, but Obito was well aware of Itachi's furtive messages, sent by hawk to Danzou in secret.
It did not matter. To control the bijou, one needed a working pair of Sharingan, and Itachi was a missing nin. He would do nothing to jeopardize his cover.
xXx
.
He clapped his hands and spun into a pirouette, laughed loudly and proclaimed some singsong nonsense about how killing thirty men was a lot of fun, but Deidara was horror-struck and Kisame was standing silent, and the thick, sickly smell of blood and bodies rose up from the ground.
"Why do you act like that?" Nagato asked him one day, when they were standing alone at the mouth of the cave.
"Because you are the leader," Obito said. "I cannot have them suspecting me."
He didn't tell him that acting the fool allowed him to keep a close eye, and the Moon's Eye Plan went back on track, and the next day, Itachi and Kisame dragged in another bijou.
That night, he looked at himself in the mirror. His face was pale and his eyes were rimmed with black circles, and the scars on his face were still angry, jagged. Uneven patches of skin sewn together and knitted to bone, splayed outward like a crater of broken rock, and silently he wondered if Rin were to see him, if she'd be afraid.
xXx
.
This was what he imagined:
Small hands would come to touch the back of his head, coming close to his hunched figure sitting on the bed. She would be standing. Her body would be a dark shape against the moonlight of the window, and she would stand close beside him, letting him bow his head to touch her chest. They would stay like that for a moment, Rin's hands on the nape of Obito's neck, his forehead against her sternum, eyes closed and nudging his cheek against the soft space between her neck and shoulder.
Dear Obito,
That was probably the worst fight
I've ever seen, but that's okay. You
never gave up. That's your best quality.
Keep at it and please cheer up.
And it felt like this: a gentle palm at the back of his neck.
A warm hand, comforting and squeezing the back of his shoulder.
xXx
.
He was furious. Nagato was dead and Konan defected, and Obito just sat and seethed with a slow-boiling rage. There was no way to bring back Rin now, now that Nagato let himself die by using the Rinnegan.
"Tobi? What's wrong?"
He killed the Zetsu without even blinking, neck snapping and body slamming against the wall with a dull thud.
xXx
.
The fight with Konan did not go as he had planned.
Rain fell, and Obito stood, water rolling off his torn cloak and shoulders. His scar hurt and the ache was deep-seated and familiar, and reflexively he reached his left hand in his pocket, to finger the scrap of fabric tucked in there.
But there was nothing. Obito's eyes widened a moment, when he realized he must have lost the bandage in the explosion.
After the killing spree in Kirigakure, after Obito had spent the night crying into Rin's body, he dragged himself to the cave where the Zetsus were staying, and asked if he could take a bath. His body was sweaty and sticky and old dried blood stuck within the crevices of scars, and Obito longed to stand beneath the comforting spray of warm water.
He looked at himself in the mirror. Scars marred the right side of his face, and his one eye was bloodshot, hair falling over his shoulders in matted curls. Without the scar, Obito had the exact likeness of Uchiha Madara: the same gaunt face, the same tired expression. The same bruises making dark circles under his eyes.
He cut his hair in the sink with the blade of a rusted knife, yanking out fistfuls of hair and letting them fall around him. One harsh cut. Another. Tufts of hair fell in large clumps on the floor and sink, and Obito hacked it off unevenly, almost violently, angry clumps of hair sticking along the sweat of his forehead and face.
Because she was dead, she was not with him. He thought of cold skin and wide, wet eyes; her body, a heavy weight in his arms, bent and broken like a torn up doll's.
Warmth. It filled the back of his one good eye and filled his vision with a cloudy haze, and it was as if the events of the last few years finally spilled over: because his body was battered and his soul was split, and her bandage was torn away from him like a gouged-out eye or a broken limb, the hole in his heart that would never fully heal.
xXx
.
Her gravestone was smooth, brushed free of the falling snow that had started to settle on the ground. It was the first and last time Obito would visit her here, standing over her nameplate in his mask and traveling cloak. Visitors had just left flowers here, the petals glistening in a darkness that seemed suffused with lonely starlight. His Rinnegan turned, remembering.
Obito had seen much. He had seen armies rise and nations fall, the drum-beat cadence of civilizations booming and bursting like burnt out stars, and he reminded himself that there was no pain. Only the clarity of purpose to light his way.
In the cold, his scar ached. Quietly, Obito adjusted his mask, letting the tips of his fingers trace the edges of pitted scars, before pulling up the hood of his traveling cloak, his Sharingan spinning, the swirl of the kamui teleporting him far, far away.