Finding the villain's hideout proved to be a simple task. By the time Madara had managed to grab more appropriate clothing than a mere hospital gown from a clothesline and made his way across town, the sun had set, and news of the abduction of two children had spread like wildfire. Reporters were swarming in front of the abandoned apartment building where the villains had taken refuge, setting up camp behind a line of police officers, while various heroes were engaged in negotiations with the two criminals over the phone.
Madara assesses his situation from a safe distance. At this point, some of the wounds on his arms have reopened, causing blood to seep into his bandages and staining them with red blotches. His headache had mercifully subsided to a dull, negligible throb; nonetheless, he is hesitant to use his Sharingan until it fully dissipates. It's best not to rely on it unless absolutely necessary, he decides. That leaves him with just the single knife he had stolen from Eraserhead.
On the opposing side, he faces two villains with close-range quirks, hostages, and the ominous threat of a bomb that is murmured about among the reporters. However, he can't rule out the possibility that the bomb is a mere bluff, given the villains' surrounded position with heroes poised to strike.
All things considered, it isn't the most dire situation Madara has ever found himself in. If it weren't for the identity of the hostages. After all, he is not rescuing the wife of a nobleman who hired him or some allied shinobi he hardly knows. This is his family, the last remaining fragments of it, and that thought carries a searing anger with it that bleeds from his very core into every fiber of himself. It feels like an unstoppable glacier, slowly advancing outwards, from his ribs down to his fingertips. Its icy claws are gouging into the soft tissue of his skin and leave behind nothing but an all-consuming, burning cold.
Madara allows this emotion to push him forward, letting it overshadow the sharp pain in his arms and the throbbing ache in his head.
Sneaking past the police and heroes is laughably easy, and Madara can't help but wonder if it's because of his small stature or because they simply don't anticipate someone sneaking into the decrepit building rather than escaping from it.
With barely a sound, Madara uses bushes and cars as his cover and glides through a shattered window on the ground level. The darkness inside greets him like an old companion, settling over his scrawny shoulders as effortlessly as a well-worn coat. Swiftly, he navigates the dimly lit corridors draped in long shadows, scouring the lower levels for the villains. As he expected, the first floors are devoid of anything other than dust and crumbled walls; no explosives in sight either.
Only when he climbs the stairs to the fifth floor does he hear agitated voices hissing down the hallway, emanating from behind the third door to his left.
A wide, nasty smirk stretches across Madara's face as a plan takes shape in his mind. In that moment, something nearly forgotten stirs, something vile that has been slumbering for years, buried a lifetime ago underneath countless layers of dead ice in the depths of a howling abyss.
Madara picks up a piece of debris from the floor by his feet and throws it at a flickering lamp overhead. The projectile collides with the lightbulb and shatters it with a loud crash, enveloping the hallway in complete darkness. The voices behind the door cease abruptly.
In this world, Madara had come to understand an unspoken set of rules that most individuals, consciously or not, adhere to. Heroes typically confront villains face-to-face in broad daylight. It is akin to a performance: the bright, ungainly costumes, the catchphrases and posing, the forced smiles and grand declarations, the audience. Whenever a hero and a villain fight, there is a script to be followed, and while the extent to which this is done varies, there is certainly a tendency for both sides to present themselves like peacocks before they engage in what they perceive as honorable combat.
While Madara enjoys a dramatic showdown every now and then and is well aware of the value of theatrics in certain situations, he doesn't expect a grand show each time he battles an opponent.
One of the villains hesitantly pokes his head out of the room, squinting into the dark hallway. A narrow beam of light spills onto the floor from behind him. Not perceiving any immediate threat, he opens the door wider and steps out with evident unease, all the while holding a squirming and gagged figure in a chokehold. The man is tense as a bowstring as he sneaks down the hallway, turning his head every which way, trying to find the source of the noise hidden within the long shadows.
Madara waits for the man to draw nearer, to walk within striking distance. When he is close enough, Madara takes action.
Without wasting a fraction of a second, he grabs Eraserhead's knife, takes aim, and throws it with effortless precision. The blade slices through the air with a faint swishing sound before embedding itself to the hilt in the man's cervical spine just as he is turning around again.
Madara has come to understand this world a little, he thinks. In this world of righteous heroes and flashy quirks, no one expects the calculated lethality of a shinobi, and no one expects to die by an unseen blade. So much blinding light shines down on humanity that it's easy to forget about the things lurking in the shadows.
The villain gurgles, blood coating his lips and chin. His limbs go slack, and the boy in his arms rips himself free just as the villain falls to the floor with a muffled thud.
Madara darts forward, and in the next blink, he has his arms full of his little brother.
"Izuna," he whispers roughly, sweet release washing over him. With shaky fingers, he removes the cloth from his brother's mouth, leaving smears of blood where his bandaged fingers touch pale cheeks.
"Nii-san," Izuna murmurs, holding tightly onto Madara. "We didn't know what happened to you. One moment you were there, and then there was glass shattering, and everything went dark, and you were gone, and they had those stupid quirk suppressants-"
Madara jerks to attention, his grip on Izuna tensing. "Quirk suppressants?"
"Yeah, they injected us with something that prevents us from using the Sharingan. Combined with their own goddamned quirks, there was nothing I could do. I couldn't get us out of there. I was so useless." Izuna's eyes are pinched with exhaustion and guilt, his legs trembling with the strain of merely standing. "Nii-san, Obito is still in there-"
Before he can get another word in, Madara forces his brother to sit down on the dusty floor and looks intently into his pitch-black eyes. "Don't worry; wait here while I get Obito, then we can get out of here."
The fact that Izuna doesn't protest is a testament to his exhaustion. "The other villain has a quirk that causes dizziness. Don't go near him, Nii-san. But other than that, he has no visible weapons on himself."
Madara nods in understanding and yanks Eraserhead's knife out of the cooling corpse's neck in one smooth motion. It's a good knife. Then he steps towards the open door, the third on his left.
That's when someone starts to yell from behind it.
"You fucking bastards! We told you: No one enters this building, or the kids die!" The villain sounds absolutely livid. "You think we were joking?!"
Outside the building, a commotion begins to unfold. Madara's eyes lock with Izuna's wide and frantic ones, and in the face of his brother's panic, a sudden calm settles over him.
"We had a deal! You sneaking into the building was not part of it!"
The temperature in the hallway drops to absolute zero. The sounds around Madara diminish as his breath slows down to a dangerous rhythm, his chest barely expanding. He clenches his fists by his side, and something fractures inside him when his demon reaches out with a foul talon to rattle at the frozen barrier keeping it a prisoner.
"If you don't bring my partner back from wherever the fuck you took him in the next thirty seconds, I will cut the kid's neck open! I fucking swear it!"
A crack runs across the demon's icy tomb, letting anguish and malice and terror gurgle to the surface. There is no point in holding it back anymore, not when the stench of death is hanging heavily in the air. Instead, Madara welcomes the familiar horror as it rouses fully, shattering its grave with a bloodcurdling wail.
He takes one step towards the door, readjusts the grip on his knife, then takes another one, and all noise vanishes from the world. There is just Madara, the door, and the curse within him given form.
He blinks, and he is standing before the room, the third to his left. He glances inside. His gaze immediately connects with the man standing behind Obito. Obito, who is bleeding from a cut on his forehead, who looks tiny and fragile slumped at the man's feet, who can't hide the shiver of fear that slips through the many masks guarding what is left of his heart. The fear of dying, Madara realizes. Obito is afraid of dying because he wants to live. Obito wants to live.
Madara moves faster than his short legs can carry him, toward Obito and the villain. His hand with the knife rises to end the villain the same way he did the other.
The blade leaves the hold of his fingers. Someone is shouting again, but not Madara, or Obito, or the villain. The ground beneath his feet vibrates with the force of multiple pairs of feet rushing up a staircase.
There is surprise, confusion, and panic warring on the man's face as a sharp weapon flies right towards it. Somewhere, glass is shattering, and Madara decides he hates the sound then and there.
He pushes to run faster, reaching for Obito with the hand that threw the knife.
Panic visibly wins the battle of emotions inside the villain. His fingers spasm around something he is gripping onto with outright desperation.
The first beeping sound echoes like thunder through the room, followed by total silence.
The villain freezes up in shock, eyes wide in alarm, staring at the device in his clutch, his mouth agape in rising distress. It's an entire moment too long. Sharp metal sinks into his eyeball and past it into his skull.
Madara pays it no attention. He reaches Obito and yanks him up from the floor into his arms before he is running again, ignoring the stabbing pain in his knees and ankles.
The second beep resounds through the room, and bitter clarity washes over Madara. It becomes abundantly clear that they won't escape the building.
The raging demon inside him grows beyond furious, causing the shadows to quiver. It gnashes its jagged claws within him, sinking a maw full of teeth into his bones, unwilling to yield, unable to break.
Madara knows in the same instant that he cannot accept losing his family again. He will not accept it. He will get Izuna and Obito out of this alive and in one piece, or he will die trying. No matter that his every muscle hurts, no matter that he is beyond exhausted at this point.
The monster feasts on his obsession and the amalgamation of hatred and love. It swallows it all and stretches and expands until it threatens to burst out of him.
Madara skids into the hallway; Izuna is stumbling towards them, his desperation evident in every step.
The third beep rings out like a condemnation, and blinding, mind-numbing, all-encompassing agony crashes over Madara. The hallway around him lights up in a blue gleam, bones creak and groan as his curse turns outwards, a manifestation of all that Madara is feeling clad in blue ribs and flames.
Izuna collides with them, and the trio tumbles uncontrollably to the floor. The demon stays erected above them, mocking the world in a language only an Uchiha can comprehend, daring anyone foolish enough to challenge it.
Madara clings to the two bodies in his arms, his bones feeling as though they might disintegrate at any moment, his head on the verge of exploding, his eyeballs burning like two suns in their sockets. Mania and insanity are dripping from his soul and blood from his chin. He bites his tongue and continues to let the monster maul his flesh for any scrap of strength it decides to devour.
The next moment everything is swallowed by a sea of red flames, and the ground beneath their feet is crumbling with an ear-shattering boom. Madara still refuses to let go.
He endures the impact of their fall, the agony coursing in his bloodstream, and the thick, hot air filled with dust until it becomes unbearable, and everything fades to black.
.
.
.
Madara regains consciousness slowly. Breathing proves to be difficult; the pain in his chest is excruciating, and he recognizes the telltale signs of multiple broken ribs. A rock is digging uncomfortably into his lower back, while something heavy and hot lies on top of him and presses against his side. He blinks his stinging eyes open, but there is no light falling into his pupils.
The air is dusty and stifling, causing a sudden cough to rack his entire form. He nearly blacks out again from the pain that shoots through his chest with each convulsion. It leaves him breathless and dizzy as the world spins around him.
The warm weight lying on top of him shifts, and a ragged, desperate breath brushes his ear. It's a sound filled with terror and anguish, almost causing Madara to flinch away, but he suppresses the reaction. Any movement could worsen his injuries, which he knows are severe as it is.
The sensation at least kicks Madara's mind into high gear. Memories flood back like a painful punch to the gut. The villains, the bomb, the collapsing building. His heartbeat stutters. He is buried, trapped beneath who knows how many tons of rubble.
Another gagged breath pulls Madara forcefully back to the present, and he finally recognizes the bodies beside and on top of him; the breathing bodies.
"Obito? Are you injured?" He asks, dread beginning to settle in his throat, and the weight of responsibility bears down on him once again as the scope of their situation fully sinks in. He tries to sit up, but he doesn't even manage to lift his head from the ground before he slumps back onto unforgiving concrete. He feels his ribs shifting beneath his skin with each minuscule movement, and for a few heartbeats, nausea overwhelms his senses. His ears ring with a shrill tone, and he's certain his vision would be a distorted blur if he could see anything.
"Fuck," he groans, and the small body on top of him flinches. Madara swallows another curse. "Obito, where are you injured?"
There's no immediate response, but he can feel the form on top of him trembling, the tiny chest rising and falling too quickly, hot breath ghosting over Madara's neck in rapid puffs.
"Obito!" He presses with growing insistence.
His voice finally appears to reach Obito. "I- I can't- breathe… can't move… the- the rock-"
Madara swears inwardly. He can't believe he forgot. With nothing but cold determination, he manages to raise a trembling hand and places it firmly on Obito's neck.
"Obito, listen to me," Madara grits out. "You are not trapped, you were not crushed, and you are not alone. Come on, breathe with me, you know how to do it. Lift your right arm; you can move it freely, can you not?"
Madara feels utterly helpless for the second time that day. He can't move, there is no part of his body that doesn't ache, Izuna is out cold, and Obito is hyperventilating. Despite what he said out loud, they are indeed trapped, with no easy way out.
"Obito, I need you to calm down," he insists, his voice unwavering. "I need you to stand up, find an opening in the debris, and crawl out."
"No-no I can't- it hurts, it hurts-"
Obito isn't showing any signs of calming down, but Madara knows he's running out of time. He feels his own consciousness slipping, fading back into the darkness. "Obito, you need to get yourself and Izuna the hell out of here, do you understand? I know the memories hurt, but there is no other way. Go, take Izuna and go."
His hand slips from Obito's neck, falling limply to his side. He's utterly drained, his energy reserves depleted. The last thing he registers before succumbing to unconsciousness is the sound of his name being shouted.
