Cracking. That was what he remembers the most about his death. The way his body seemed to snap, over and over again, across invisible lines. There was a little bit of pain, but pain had been an ever-present companion in Obito's life, an inescapable dark cloud that seemed to hover in the back of his mind. Madara had fixed him, but he had never cared to much that Obito was 'well' so long as he was efficient. And after he died, well, there had never really been the time or need to fix a rusty tool, as long as it kept serving its purpose. Maybe that had been part of what pushed him onwards, that never-ending tearing feeling that surrounded his new limb and broken body.
Either way, it mattered little now, he was dead, his life given up in a final desperate attempt to fix the horror he had created. Not redeemed, he could never be redeemed, his heart was black as coal and his hands were stained by more blood than any Kage's, but nonetheless, he had still tried.
Which made it all the more annoying when he woke up, his peaceful sleep replaced by loud wailing and quiet murmuring. Death he was used to, an ever-present friend and companion, hell, he had died twice himself. Once under a rock and the second time shattering into shards. Life, however, he was far less used to. Not that it ended up all bad, all things considered. He was born into a world of peace and friendship, a family that loved and supported him without any worry of clan pressure or the ever growing need to inherit his eyes.
It was nice, in a way. His parents were great people. His mother was a nurse at the hospital where he was born, and his father was a police officer working for the local department. It meant they had little time to spend with him but they seemed to recognize he was not a normal child, something he was eternally grateful for. From the age of three, he was left mostly alone during the day, left to read from the books that so closely resembled the text of his old life and practice the exercise he had always known. To a lesser degree, of course, children's books and simple walking exercises could not really compete with the ancient tomes and intricate katas he had performed in his old life, but for a time of peace, they were a refreshing change.
During the night, it changed. He was never sure which of his parents would get home first. Police duty in a city swarming with super-powered criminals was never going to be an easy job, even less a nurse who had to help those innocents caught up in the violence. Nevertheless one of them would get home, and he would help them prepare dinner, as much as he could. Then the other would arrive, and the family would sit down for a group meal, a comforting atmosphere that he still wasn't used to even after five years. Then he would go to bed, with either his parents reading to him or him pulling out one of the children's books to practice his reading with an audience to correct his mistakes. For the first time in decades, he felt like he was finally happy. But he was still Uchiha Obito, and life was never kind to Obito.
He didn't remember much about the event that took his parents and gave him back his scars. There was the screeching sound of metal on metal, a sudden bone-jarring stop, and then everything seemed to go fuzzy in his mind. What he did remember was the look of boredom on the hero's face. That swish the hero did with his hair as he walked away. The way his eyes swept over the overturned car Obito was trapped in, judging saving a family not in terms of human life but in terms of publicity and cash bonus. And he found it lacking. By the time the firefighters had torn the car open and dragged him out, the fire had burned the right side of his body almost beyond recognition. His parents died in that car, sacrificed on the altar of a Hero's greed and that, Obito would never forget.
He spent most of his time in the hospital in a daze. He remembered the pain flowing back into his body before subconscious coping mechanisms kicked in to compartmentalise the feelings and lock them away. Sterile rooms, IV drips and constant doctor visits took up most of his waking hours for what he assumes were the first few months. After that, he had a few visits from a children's psychologist. PTSD, they said, from watching his family die. Not like it was the first time, hell the first time he had slaughtered half his family with his own two hands. Well, maybe one hand and one replacement, he was never sure how much of his body was really his after the cave.
Didn't matter that much in the end, seems that the noble society had better things to do after he didn't seem to awaken his quirk. A few weeks later he was given a bottle of pills and handed off to an orphanage for quirkless children. He was almost ashamed to say he really considered downing the whole bottle, some desperate attempt to find peace in life. But no, he wasn't that weak, not yet.
The world had never been kind to Obito. One life he had danced to another man's tune, threw his existence away in pursuit of a goal that could never be reached and sacrificed countless thousands on the altar of a madman's dream. While he regretted the cause he had acted for, he could never really make himself feel sorry for those who died. The world was a cruel place, the strong took and the weak suffered, that was true in his past and here. And Obito would not be among the weak, to suffer and wither away under the cruel gaze of those who claimed to be acting in the world's best interests.
Obito was not weak, and more importantly, he was not stupid. His past may have been cruel, but it had not been empty. Many of the skills he learned then were useless to him now, without chakra, without his knowledge of the world powers and land. But not all of it. Up until the very final moments the world had not even known that that someone was pulling the strings, and even those who had suspicions never suspected foolish old Tobi. People, Obito had always understood. How to twist them, how to mold them into what he needed, how to drive them on past their own breaking point. In the past he had used his skills very little, his focus so narrowly set on a single goal that he had only taken those he absolutely needed and ignored the rest.
But here? In this world of unfairness and unrest? Oh, he could use this. He would not be the only person who was angry, could not be the only person who had been beaten down and forgotten by a society that praised the powerful and demonised the weak or misbegotten. It would be a long and painful road in the dark, but for him, that was only coming home.
The world had never been kind to Obito. He felt comforted by that, kindness had always been an alienating presence; hatred and loss were far more familiar.