July 6, 5 AK

Every moment is precious.

This is my rule, my nindo, my 'Will of Fire', burning bright to keep me fueled through the night, to keep me punching the log when I am exhausted, to keep me sprinting down the track till I can no longer put one foot in front of the other, to keep me focused when petty distractions like mere physical pain try to tear me off the path.

Nikkei slumped to her butt a few steps away, panting like her dog. Wasabi placed his hands on his knees and bent over to catch his breath, heaving chest setting the soft creamy yellow of his overtunic fluttering. I paused for a moment to toss each of them a couple ripe cherries, popping a handful in my mouth before turning back to the training posts. I like cherries. Quick energy and a burst of flavor to keep me going.

"You shouldn't bend over like that, it limits airflow."

I offer the brief observation before starting my set. My strikes on the training post are light, almost taps, gentle nudgings even, but they fall as fast as I can push my noodle weak arms, and that is enough. Nikkei groans and lets herself topple onto her back.

"Jeez Hiroki, don't you ever slow down? You did it, you're a Genin now, you can take a moment to chill."

I do not pause in the kata, and my words slip out with every exhale as I maintain an even rhythm, heavier strikes serving to punctuate my rebuttal, tap tap tap goes the wood, tick tick tick goes the clock.

"No, I can't. I am still weak. Strength is life, Weakness is death. If I am dead, my team is dead. If my team is dead, the mission is failed. If we fail the mission, we fail the village. If we fail the village, the village dies, and everyone you have ever known, everything you have ever seen, everything you have ever loved, burns. There is no such thing as 'good enough', only 'as good as you can make it'."

Wasabi rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh, but stretches to a standing position and pulls a groaning Nikkei up by the hand to join me at the neighboring post.

"You're gonna go bald if you keep stressing out like that."

I take a moment to breathe and roll my creaking shoulders loose as he starts a kata and I flash him a wry smile before moving onto throwing practice.

"Just wait till we get our first C-rank."

. . .

We fall into our roles easily enough.

Nikkei is close combat, our heavy hitter and frontline. Good stamina, strong strikes, capable of taking blows.

Wasabi is more mid range, he gains a fair bit of skill with ninja wire under Kakashi's tutelage and has a decent sized chakra reserve, enough for some simple fire Ninjutsu.

I opt for speed, a support position. My Taijutsu relies heavily on the use of senbon thrown at extreme close range to actually do damage; death by a thousand pinpricks. I practice the Replacement until I can manage it with a single handsign and I accumulate as many minor Genjutsu as I can; little things to throw off depth perception or induce transient nausea, trips and traps for the unwary that my teammates can take advantage of, to attack or reposition.

My reserves are small, so control is paramount; I practice every control exercise Kakashi knows, every thing I can think up, and everything I can beg or wheedle from any other ninja, even Uchiha. Sensei grudgingly gifts me a primer on basic Sealing which immediately becomes my most valuable possession, even though I am unlikely to benefit from it before making Chunin.

The Sharingan is not an instant win button, especially now, with only a single tomoe lazily orbiting each pupil. I can copy anything I see easily enough, but being able to regurgitate a perfect replica of a fist strike or fireball is useless without the proper timing that comes with an actual understanding of the technique in question. This is a lesson Kakashi knows quite well, and which many Uchiha never bother to learn.

"Your arms are too short."

I stop the new kata and fold my hands neatly, giving Kakashi a mild smile, aiming for polite but apparently missing the mark given the nearly unnoticeable pursing of his lips beneath the mask.

"Is that something I could compensate for?"

He shrugs ambivalently, glancing over at Nikkei and Wasabi's practice spar to check their progress. Kenji is growing like a weed, and the little dog nips at Wasabi's heels at just the right time to throw off his next block, earning the boy a painful fist to the gut.

"Maybe. I could show you a little blade work, if you like. That'll take practice too."

My teeth grind painfully behind my placid smile. Time, time, time, I don't have time.

"Would it be possible to get at least enough understanding that using the style wouldn't be detrimental? In a reasonable amount of time?"

Sensei blinks at me, his absurd hair swaying as he nods his head slowly.

"With the Sharingan to help… maybe. Hmm. Watch this."

He pulls out a tanto and, checking to see my eyes are on, flows through a few simple forms that should mesh reasonably well with the Taijutsu style I had just been practicing. I nod slowly as the images embed themselves indelibly into my memory.

"Can I try?"

My squadmates pause in their spar for a moment as I take the short sword from our instructor and emulate what Kakashi-sensei just showed me, Nikkei's grumpy scowl growing more pronounced as I perfectly mimic the motions of our teacher. Albeit at a much reduced rate.

The center of my forehead creases slightly as I focus on the movements, not merely reproducing what I have seen, but battling an imaginary foe in my mind's eye, feeling out the changes in momentum, the flow I would need in actual combat.

Block, dodge, slash, deflect, and stab-

"No."

I reform my face into placidity as I hand my instructor back his blade with a nod and smile of thanks.

"I don't think that will work very well for me. The weight is throwing me off a bit, and my current style is focused around speed. Moving that much metal around is impractical unless I can build a lot more muscle mass."

The watching Inuzuka blinks in surprise, her ninken barking in amusement.

"What? That was plenty fast, what're you talking about?"

I smile blandly at her.

"I am a glass cannon; lots of damage, not much for defense. The Uchiha, particularly those with the Sharingan, are all about speed. We don't block hits, we dodge them. In principle we could use a hard style like the Strong Fist, but we don't have the physical build for it. For the same amount of time invested I would see a much larger payout from speed training rather than strength and stamina training."

The team Kunoichi grumbles in confusion.

"Isn't the Sharingan supposed to make you super great at everything?"

Wasabi snorts and rolls his eyes, running a hand over his head to wipe away some of the accumulated sweat.

"Memorizing a jutsu isn't nearly as important as knowing when to use it. Just because Hiroki can make the same moves doesn't mean he can use them as well as someone who has practiced them and knows their strengths and weaknesses. Think; not every Uchiha uses all the techniques all the time."

I give my squad a slightly more genuine smile of agreement.

"Just so. At best, the Sharingan is good for learning how to use a move quicker than traditional means. I get more out of practice, but I still need to practice. And having that many tools in your arsenal isn't necessarily a good thing; more than one Uchiha has been killed trying to use a move they just stole and performed without thinking."

I rub gently at the itchy spot on the back of my hand and shrug apologetically.

"Practice makes perfect, not a fancy bloodline."

And so we practice. We practice a lot.

. . .

Sometimes, very rarely, when I'm lying in a bathtub full of ice and silently cursing every deity I can think of after working myself to exhaustion, I think about maybe pulling back a little. Just a little. Maybe I don't need to study my fuinjutsu scrolls tonight, it won't hurt to get 6 hours of sleep for once.

Whenever I have these traitor thoughts I seek out Itachi, covertly, subtly, just to watch him move.

Itachi is death. He is silent, because the grave is silent. He is cold, because the heat of life has fled from him. He is smooth as black ice, fast as a snapping rope, sudden as a crumbling ledge.

He doesn't practice in the any of the public training grounds anymore, a subtle mark of ANBU status, but his very presence radiates perfectly controlled lethality even in a civilian setting. Every movement just so, not a single action wasted or without purpose. He is absolutely harmless, and that, more than anything, is what fills me with exactly the right sort of near manic terror to keep pushing as hard as I possibly can no matter how many bruises, cuts, sprains, or very late nights I need to sacrifice to the altar of power.

Itachi is harmless, until he is not.

. . .

Passing a basic teamwork test is not the same as becoming fast friends forever. We work together out of a sense of camaraderie which I try to help along, with mixed success, by being as helpful and eager to please as I can. Without unduly irritating my team with excessive obsequiousness.

But we aren't friends, and that might come back to bite us if allowed to continue.

"Would you like to come over tonight for a team dinner?"

I have timed my suggestion carefully, both for a window during which Father is unlikely to be home from a mission, and for a day when our training was slightly lighter than normal. Exhausted people want to go home and take a nap; tired and hungry people want free food and a little relaxation.

Nikkei shrugs indifferently and grunts an affirmative, throwing another one of the peaches we are harvesting for today's D-rank into the collection basket with expert accuracy.

"Sure, why not?"

Wasabi seems a bit more aware of possible repercussions, and glances quickly at the form of our Sensei, standing in the green shade a few yards away and flipping idly through a Bingo Book.

"It wouldn't be a problem, right?"

I offer up a confident smile, which I do not quite feel, and nod.

"Of course. Kakashi-sensei is a respected Jounin. I don't think there will be any problems."

That is not quite true. Kakashi has been given legal clearance to hold the Sharingan from the clan, but they aren't happy about it. No one will try anything if he just comes by for an evening or two every once in awhile, but it might elicit some grumbling amongst the elders.

To be perfectly honest, I consider that a bonus. Anything I can do to subtly snub the clan is another step towards keeping myself safe from the purge. Feeble though the attempt admittedly is.

Everyone arrives, even Kakashi, though he is half an hour late. Mother is far too polite to comment on Nikkei's somewhat careless speech and Wasabi's occasional off-color joke, but I think they can pick up on the fact that it is politeness that keeps her from commenting. The Uchiha haven't quite mastered cutting politeness to the same degree as our distant cousins the Hyuuga (we make up for it in arrogance) but there is something about being improper around someone who you know won't say anything that makes one uncomfortable.

As my teammates begin slightly stilted small talk around the dinner table, I consider the problem of my clan anew. An Uchiha without clan backing has never happened before. Not even Itachi at his most overt, or Shisui's undying cheerfulness have actually openly flouted protocol in that way. If I emancipated myself from the clan, moved out of the compound, got a new name…

I don't know what would happen. I don't know if I would be allowed.

My lip quirks in a mirthless grin before I reshape it into a proper smile at one of Wasabi's milder jokes.

Scratch that, I know exactly what would happen.

Without the clan to raise a fuss about it, I would be quietly disappeared into ROOT, every trace of self erased through brutal conditioning, and sent to an early grave via suicide mission after suicide mission.

Perhaps that is the dark truth every member of the Hyuuga Branch House knows, deep down. Better to suffer the tyranny of the Main House than god only knows what outside their protective umbrella.

My shoulders slump, just a fraction of an inch as I take another bite of rice. It's a moot point, anyway; Genin get more legal rights, sure, but age is not entirely discounted. I need to be at least 12, or a Chunin, before I reach legal adulthood and can emancipate myself from my 'family'.

"So, how are you liking D-ranks?"

I blink at my mother, who is wearing a very slight smirk as she sips from the pale orange porcelain of her teacup, appreciating the break from morbid lines of thought and struck with the bizarre sensation every child has eventually when they realize their parents are people too.

Mother used to be a ninja so she likely remembers her D-ranks with equal aggravation.

Nikkei grumbled unhappily, arms folded into her lumpy tan jacket with a malcontented huff.

"Boring! Picking fruit, painting fences, I want a real mission!"

I smile cheerfully at her, thankful that her inexperience prevents her from reading my mood as accurately as mother often can.

"Well, it pays pretty well, doesn't it? And it's supposed to give you more chances to hone your skills. Peach picking is easier when you can walk up trees, nee?"

Kakashi nods approvingly, face solemn.

"Enjoy it while it lasts kiddies. You'll be going on real missions soon enough."

. . .

Kakashi waits till the team has been together six weeks before getting us our first C-rank, a standard merchant escort job, three weeks out, 3 days back (ox drawn carts are painfully slow compared to ninja), minimal chance of hostile contacts, at worst maybe a few bandits.

I look myself over in the mirror carefully, ensuring I haven't missed anything.

Long sleeve, faded grey-green shirt (with a normal collar), darker grey pants, black ninja sandals. I tried to find grey sandals too, but apparently those aren't the current style in Konoha. A kunai pouch hangs from my right hip, filled mostly with senbon. Forehead protector mounted on black fabric tied tight across my brow, keeping my close cropped black hair out of the way. Tiny stress lines under my overlarge black eyes, and a chin just angular enough to avoid being called weak, but sadly removed from Itachi's bishounen looks. Pale skin, unblemished by exposure to the sun thanks to judicious application of sunblock, almost ghostly next to all the grey and black.

Everything in order.

I made a checklist of necessary supplies for each of us, and nag my teammates about it until they eventually fold and show me they packed everything. Particularly the medical supplies.

"Hiroki, I promise, we'll be okay. We probably won't even see any bandits, it's just going to be a long boring walk through western Land of Fire. You're freaking out the clients, man."

I put my third riffle through the first aid kit on hold and glance over at the merchant caravan. Nobody is looking this way, and I give Nikkei a dour look.

Wasabi snickers at my overly intent expression as I resume the check.

"Why do you always take everything so seriously?"

I think on my reply while neatly packing everything away, hands moving by themselves by dint of long practice, letting my mind and body do their own thing.

"The following is purely hypothetical, and in no way indicates my views on reality, or should be taken in any way as having valuable informational content. Any replies should be formatted for maximum circuitousness, for reasons which may become apparent."

Bandages, antiseptic, staples, tape, styptic-

"There exists the possibility, that one could imagine such an idea, as 'narrative causality'. That everything happens for a reason, and that reason is to make life a good story. Some might postulate that life is a comedy, and thus that if we start out a simple, seemingly innocuous mission with a statement superficially similar to one such as 'what could go wrong?' an S-rank missing nin will attempt to kill us in a horrible and messy fashion. Conceivably, for similar reasons, an individual might be heard to exclaim 'I have a bad feeling about this,' whereupon he would be chided by his more confident teammates, brush off the sensation, and be stabbed to death that night while he slept. This would be more in line with a tragedy or drama, serving as a touchstone moment for said teammates as to the seriousness of the job they now find themselves in."

I sling my pack onto my back and face my surprised teammates.

"Even discussion of concepts such as the aforementioned is no guarantee that events will not proceed in directions concomitant with the aforesaid. It is merely a good defence. It breaks the flow, you see."

Sensei's hand rests on my head, giving my short hair a friendly ruffle.

"Mah, Hiroki-kun, you worry too much. We'll all be just fine."

I restrain the urge to flinch and close my eyes for a long breath.

"Why must you hurt me this way sensei?"

I can feel him making that infuriating eye-smile as he replies.

"It's my job."

. . .

The mission goes off without a hitch, but I don't think I managed more than an hour of consecutive shuteye the entire month. The team shares a good laugh, and I lie, and promise I'll worry less.

. . .

A/N: The nice thing about having already written all this is that I don't have to worry about disappointing chapter lengths; I can use the breaks as ultra-heavy periods. I'm trying to avoid using Japanese if unnecessary, but some terms don't have a good english equivalent or just sound better in nihongo. Bishounen, for those not in the know, means 'beautiful young man' and is a thing in Japanese culture which refers to men who are good looking in a softer, more effeminate manner. Hiroki is pretty average in appearance for an Uchiha, but doesn't have particularly strong masculine features. Unhappy medium.