He Aims, He Misses
Disclaimer: Naruto and all its characters are Masashi Kishimoto's legal property. I'm not making any money off this story; however, all the Original Characters, Original Plot-lines, and Original Themes are my own.
Warning: Morbid Content.
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He could be interred, with hands colder than this rain, into a ditch. That was fate. He cast aside the ideals, lifted to a sacrosanct doctrine in Leaf and amongst his people. What a man . . . evil, just lying there on the wet stones that had been merged together, by his people's deft hands, into an enduring floor—warmth-abandoned eyes gathering rain as they stared at a . . . thing in the sky. What was he thinking now? A smile blossomed across Sasuke's lips. Dead men did not think, did not feel, did not . . . hope.
Gone was his older sibling. Evil. Evil. Evil. He could not think of another word to define the white that blossomed in his eyes and that black fright that told nothing—forever was this mark, a lasting disease for which there was no remedy. Death took from him his red—cast aside by the skin and eyes. It took everything from Men and left them empty as carrions to be put into the graves for funeral rites, a bit of tears, maudlin show of grief and gloom-laced garments.
What did he think of him in the final moments life had made him tremble through? Did it . . . hurt? He winced. The smile was trembling, lips reddened by Nature's scourge, threatening to fade slowly with a torturous rise in frailty. It was spreading in his limbs, festering, struggling to crunch through his resolve made feeble, to stand with his back to the stone-wall that bore his clan's symbol in defiance.
It was still standing: Uchiha pride—his pride; he would never let it fall. Curse him, damn him, wicked child from fates. Greed and hate had enticed his vestal soul, courted it rudely beneath the filth-encrusted sheets, raced it to a heated crescendo of rapture most Men knew. He took from him all things and left toys of sorrow in the little hands. He was empty . . . nothing in the world that he could call his own.
Awkwardly, he bent his head to look behind, but it was impossible to stare at a lifeless wall and the grooves, which made the symbol, with his back to it. He gulped in a sharp breath, whiffing smoke, wet earth, flora. Rain was still falling, and his eyes traced countless droplets that ran out from his brother's shining eyes and went into his black hair, streaking them with silvering winks. There was little blood there in the corner of his slightly-parted lips: rain could not dilute it into lovely pink, a remnant of life; it had dried there, plastered to the skin in the manner of a visible seam that could never be obscured. He was whiter than he remembered, hair black as a night undeterred. He was perfect—a toy. Dead. Used. Gone. Yes, gone . . . o', what would you do now, dead little boy? He almost . . . laughed!
What did he feel now? He did not know. He did not want to know. He took one step, feet unable to carry the monstrous weight, and leant over, sandals scuffing on the stones. Make sure, Sasuke—make sure! he heard the whisper echo from his head louder than thunder's crash; and so he stared, looked deep, peered long into a brother's eyes—eyes that gazed without the red. He could not make his own come over, rise above his trembling spirit. In peace, it slept. His brother slept, too . . . like a babe.
No blood throbbed from his befuddled mind through the arteries, to the shuddering heart that was caught in a web of surety and denials, anger and happiness, loss, and maybe, a bit of haunting love; but, surely, this was a triumph—a big one? He had aimed and had not missed. Evil, evil child, it lay dead after its misdeeds; it had paid for its tricks. Trickster child, naught, its playtime was over. Gone, the sun. Gone, his breath. Gone, the hope for another morrow—nothing, no more.
He took another step, still making sure, still counting down the time. His dead brother had not blinked. His skin was growing whiter, harder, coarser. There was no colour in the lips anymore. With gentleness, rain was still coming, and the sky was being lashed by venous lightning, which pumped strength into the dark veil thrown upon its visage; and his heart evoked an indifference, plagued with seeds of past love, little seedlings that would grow and burrow out of the ground to become something within. He did not know. He did not want to know. O', Kami . . .
A black mass came over his vision: he toppled forward but turned just in time before the floor met his face. His back hit the floor with a wet smack. He did not feel anything. His consciousness was going. He was fading. He would join him . . . maybe it was always meant to be this way.
Tinkling—rain, cold on the cheeks and breast. It would not stop—no sound broke its melody. Wave after wave of chill cut straight to his bones. Was this . . . it? He did not know how to feel. Everyone he knew was gone: the parents he loved—the brother he loved the most. He had killed him now with his own hands and felt little remorse in the bloody victory. He had smiled over his corpse, and he was smiling still, though the numbness in his body and face was making it very hard; he had to forcefully contort his face to do so. Stubborn, he could almost hear the dead brother speak—but dead men's silence did last, albeit nothing else did . . .
The victory gave him a sense of thrill. Gone. Dead. Gone. He wanted to look at that white visage, frozen by death's staying vulgarities, one last time; so he twisted his back and lifted his battered body on one elbow. His head hung down in exhaustion, and he blinked away the raindrops to focus his vision on the deep cracks in the stones. He could see a bit better now. Then he heard something, a faint sound, and he slowly lifted his head to look beyond the mist and the holes raindrops wrought in its wispy structure.
There, beyond the frail mist, stood his former teacher. He saw red in the left eye. His own resonated with it and pulsed to pump chakra into the veins there. Chakra spun and created something he could not understand, and suddenly, black engulfed the man. Amaterasu! . . . what? A soul-chilling scream flooded his ears, slightly muffled by lightning's violent crack. He smelt his teacher's flesh sizzling—a putrid stench. That guy, who could make Mokuton, came running. He struck an odd posture he had often seen all-revealing harlots make, to show customers their wet cunnies, and feeble boughs popped out of the ground like daisies; they shot in Kakashi's direction, who was as good as dead now and quickly turning to ashes.
The wood caught fire, and he took to his heels, cancelling the Jutsu and waving his arms about to shrug off his jacket. He knocked a girl, with rather corpulent breasts, into the mud in his frantic run. Her face landed in the sludge, and she could not get up. A white-as-chalk guy did a few quick hand-movements and fancy birds popped out from his scrolls. Konoha was using struggling artists as Shinobis now? He huffed out a short laugh . . . desperate times, desperate measures.
More black shadows came running and screaming, but Kakashi had stopped rolling on the wet ground several minutes ago. Desperate. Foolish. No more screams. The sounds stopped suddenly, and the pattering rain and crackling thunder were louder again. Only muddy ashes were left where he had stopped struggling. With difficulty, and a great pain from his back, he turned his neck and looked into his brother's face: Itachi had meant to kill Kakashi? What the fuck? Why? he thought, making an odd face. His brother always was a loony, but not this loony! It made no sense for the nutter to slip in a manner this clumsy. And when he heard a bone pop there with heat, he cringed. Oh, well, Kakashi was baked and cooked and charred for good; he was lumps of sooty bones on the ground, for fuck's sake!
A gentle breeze blew into him, and he stared back at the weeping faces he could see a bit clearly now: Naruto was wailing and looking in his direction, and Sakura was bawling with thick, viscous snot running down her nose. He could have sworn he saw it slip into her mouth when she parted it wide, like a big fish, to let out an ear-splitting sshreik. She even gulped it down without shame. He cringed again. His vision swayed one more time, and then he fainted when pliant, plant-like hands grabbed his body. The flames had yet to go out . . .
And somewhere in the darkness, he heard Tobi yelling and laughing: "miss me, miss me, now you gotta kiss me, Itachi—or not!"
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The End
Canon-Manga Info: Itachi had left what the Data-Book calls a Transcription Seal: Amaterasuin Sasuke's eye. It's a Mangekyō Sharingan Jutsu that allows for a Sharingan Jutsu to be used with a delayed effect: Madara had planted Izanagi in his own eye; Itachi planted an Amaterasu in Sasuke's eye and programmed it to react to Obito's Sharingan. Keep that in mind that Kakashi (a second-rate beggar of all things Uchiha to the very end) has Obito's Sharingan, and Itachi didn't have any idea that Kakashi had Obito's missing Sharingan-eye; but, then again, he was adamant that Obito was Madara, too. Itachi truly was a genius amongst geniuses! (Yes, that was sarcasm.) So you can guess as to how it'd go down had Kakashi reached Sasuke before Obito—he'd have burnt to death!