Chapter 3 In Perspective

Disclaimer: Naruto does not belong to moi. Plot does, but inspiration drawn from history (say China's Cultural Revolution (intellectuals are akin to the "genius" shinobi here), Stalin's rule of the USSR, Kim Il Sung of North Korea, reeducation camps by the CCP…so on and so forth)

Notes: Thanks to vertigo showgirl for betaing. :) The chapter is mostly focused on those around Itachi and Kakashi this time (say Obito and Fugaku). Late update because my computer died. (Hard drive, my poor hard drive!) Google Docs saved my life though, I had a copy saved there that I forgot about until I checked.


"I believe there are monsters born in the world to human parents. Some you can see, misshapen and horrible, with huge heads or tiny bodies…And just as there are physical monsters, can there not be mental or psychic monsters born?"

—John Steinbeck in East of Eden


one

He was on the 56th line in the scroll, on a paragraph about his son's nonexistent exploits, when—

"You can't—you can't!" It was his wife's voice, a pained, indignant screech, a strained protest barely heard in the midst of trepidation. "You know our son is not a criminal! And yet you—you write these lies! Lies! How could you?"—a fervent shake of the head—"How could you, Fugaku?" Her eyes were wild, wild, filled with a mounting desolation, a hidden fervor he'd never witnessed before. Her voice was shaking, each syllable coming forth in tremulous bursts. But he offered her no sympathy, no comfort.

"Mikoto," he'd said, whirling in his chair, voice blasé, "to Konoha, our son is a criminal. The law does not have time for your biases and favoritism."

"Biases? Favoritism? You…you must be out of your mind! This is our son you're talking about, our son! Do you have so little trust in him, so little trust that the incident was a mere accident?" Her head shook in rhythm with her words; her face marred by scant lines of apprehension.

"Trust?" he snarled, a sudden urge of vindictiveness surging through him, "You expect me to trust? Trust, in a boy like him? He's been hiding his abilities this whole goddamned time. Hell, you don't learn to throw shuriken like that in a day—the damned child's been practicing, practicing when he knows that it's illegal. It's time he learns to respect the laws—it's time you quit coddling him!"

"He's a child, Fugaku! For heaven's sake, a six-year-old child! You can't expect him to know every detail of our law, you can't expect him to—"

"Enough!" His voice descended into a roar, like a mad bull, drowning out any words of dissent. Then he turned on her, ready to charge at any swatch of red, "A child," he'd sneered, mouth twisted in disgust, "a child so he can murder men as he pleases? A child, so he can flout Konoha's laws and get away without charges? A child, so he deserves—"

"A child, so he needs a second chance! A child because no children get it right the first time! Is it this impossible for Itachi to have an accident? Is it this—"

"He was doomed from the very beginning! He was hiding, concealing his true nature from us. If I had known earlier—"

"Known earlier? If you had known earlier, what would you have done, Fugaku? What would you have done? Would he be dead by now? Would you have murdered him in cold blood just to save your oh-so-precious clan? Is your son's life worth selling for the satisfaction of a group of strangers? Well? Is it? Is it?" Her hands gripped the table to support herself, to support her shaking, flailing body as she spoke. Tears streamed down her cheek, the result of a mad concoction between fury and exasperation.

The rift had grown so quickly; barely weeks into the game, just weeks, and his wife already hated him. Truly, truly hated him.


two

The Hokage smiled upon seeing Fugaku, a strained, anxious smile.

"I'm glad you've taken the time to bring us these scrolls"—Another tense, apprehensive smile—"Makes our lives so much easier. You understand that this means your son will be interrogated less?"

Fugaku nodded tersely, barely meeting the Hokage's eyes. Safe. We're all safe.

The Hokage patted Fugaku's shoulder, as though attempting to comfort him, and spoke, "I am sorry for your son. His predicament is no more than the result of awry genetics, a matter entirely out of your control."

Fugaku nodded in assent, and murmured, "Yes, but awry genetics, all the same, need to be contained. More often than not they can turn into the embodiment of…of…evil." He hesitated in saying the words, in calling his son, his only son, "evil". But it's the proper way to word things; it's the way high-standing shinobi labeled criminals, Yashio had said. Criminals...

Sarutobi cast him a curious gaze, seemingly surprised. "Evil, hm? It's hard to say so conclusively." He fingered into his desk drawer, pulling forth a picture of a boy Fugaku had never seen before—black hair and elongated eyes decorated the inside of the frame. "I once had a student," the Hokage murmured, pointing at the picture, "by name of Orochimaru. They called him 'evil'—even his teammates…even they concurred with the common opinion. Countless times he's saved our village, countless times, but…his morals? No one can say for sure. He's abnormal, yes. I've seen him on more than one occasion, mouthing insults at his teammates, sneering at them behind their backs. He was always off doing his own thing, hardly ever congregating with them, and they thought he hated them. It was his isolation, I suppose, his isolation that was read as arrogance, a trait that the villagers labeled 'evil'."

When Fugaku said nothing, the Hokage continued, "But can such arrogance be called 'evil'? It's a sin, yes, a sin we ought to steer our youth away from, but 'evil' is such a strong word, a word more of despair than anything else."

Fugaku nodded silently, observing Sarutobi with measured circumspect. Fugaku saw no problem with casting Konoha's gone-awry youth as "evil"-- after all, though it did not solve the problem of "evil"'s existence and continued procreation, it at least kept them wary of their monstrous nature, and prevented them from embracing their roots. Those damned roots that had produced unimaginable monstrosities akin to the Mist's Seven Swordsmen and the Cloud's Jinchuuriki...Konoha could do without them, do without coups and rebellions and massacres and...

The Hokage paced about his desk, mumbling to himself almost inaudibly, "...we incarcerate so many, so, so many that we can hardly tell how many of those will turn out to be monsters. I don't believe that what we've done hasn't saved Konoha from mad missing-nins, and I suppose precaution is better than nothing. But…ah Fugaku, it's all in perspective. Love...it causes more hatred than hatred itself." The Hokage shook his head, mouth pursing in distate. Fugaku thought he might've caught a bitterness laced in the man's voice, a bitterness that he hadn't dared voice before.

The two sat in silence, both uncomfortable with their line of conversation.

Then the Hokage ventured tentatively—"Fugaku, there's something I've been meaning to ask you..." The Hokage trailed off, hesitating, hands fingering the scroll Fugaku had just given him gingerly. Fugaku became tense, afraid of the old man's words. Everything he'd just spoken had struck a nerve within Fugaku, every word, every sentence—

"Fugaku..." the Hokage trailed off, voice becoming no more than a whisper, "...do you...do you care about your son? Love him, even?"

Fugaku looked away. Love...Itachi? No, he did not love his son. No, he could not care for someone…like…that. A psychologically disfigured child, a child who was the perfect shinobi, a child who could practice the art of killing without any revulsion. Such a child could not be sent out to the battlefield, should not be sent out to a place where his lack of moral conduct would've been praised. It was little wonder the world did not appreciate him, for how could they cherish a boy so indifferent to loss of others?

He turned to the Hokage, fearful, afraid that he'd be found out, and mumbled in a low, almost incomprehensible whisper, "I do...I do care for him, Hokage-sama. I do…"

A lie, but not his first, nor his last.

He left ten minutes later, the Hokage's unspoken words playing in his mind. Sweat poured down his back, and he'd stood, frozen, stricken with terror outside his own door. He knew. The Hokage knew that he felt no emotion for his son. That no matter how hard he'd strived to be the traditional father, the father who fit into the filial puzzle with practiced ease, he would never succeed. Was he not a monster too then? Just like his son, a monster, a psychologically disfigured adult.

It's scary how easy familial ties are shattered, like glass, so fragile, oh so fragile.


three

Fugaku knew his son's mask, but he couldn't remember when the boy had donned it. Since his birth, he'd known his son was bright, too bright to survive in Konoha. He remembered protecting the boy at home; shielding him from the predatory society that he knew would one day rise as the victor.

In his early years, Itachi's smiles (though few and far in between) were truthful, a mixture of excitement and blithesome cheer. To keep the boy's bubbly optimism, Fugaku spoke little of the true world of ninja, and instead wove intricate tales of handsome, princess-rescuing knights. Itachi had been happy then, the epitome of an ignorant, illiterate child. The Uchiha clan had lauded the boy with praises, calling him, "The true fruit of the Uchiha," and proclaiming (with far too much hope), "Itachi will thrive in Konoha. Thrive and bring glory to our clan."

Years passed, and the toddler grew into a pensive six-year-old, a product of the propaganda machine mislabeled the "Academy". At first, his son had been excited at the prospect of school, still holding that obsolete, rosy view of the world Fugaku had tried hard to drill. Fugaku had smiled, a fake smile, a perfect mask for Itachi to later emulate.

He had sat at home in apprehension that night, knowing that his son's bright view of the world was about to be shattered. He chanced nervous glances at the clock at selected intervals—three hours, two hours, thirty minutes, three seconds.

His son came home saying nothing, and chose to head straight for his room, bookbag clutched tightly as though it were a sacred artifact. He did not come out the rest of the afternoon (except for a short dinner at Mikoto's beckoning), and Fugaku did not dare question his actions. It was not that he was afraid of the boy, no, but that there was something in Itachi's eyes, something...uncanny. Fugaku couldn't quite pinpoint what it was, but he knew that it was negative, even painful, perhaps. He never did find out the catalyst at school that day.

Days, weeks, months passed, and Itachi descended, almost too rapidly to witness with the naked eye. Fugaku was left to claw at the remains, a shell of a body, a ghost that he could neither love nor defend. It was his first rift, and he had no experience in amending it.

Without a safety net, children fall, so quickly, sans restraint. Then comes the crunching of bones, a sickening sound, and the parents, disgusted, turn away.


four

Fugaku, his uncle, was taking him out to dinner tonight. He always loved those nights—the glorious, glorious food—grilled shrimp, stuffed salmon, and every kind of imaginable desert. It was too bad that Itachi wasn't going to be there—they could've enjoyed a game of hide and seek together. Though the game wasn't always fun (Itachi won a bit too often for Obito's taste), he still looked forward to the challenge. Talking with his uncle, though ego-boosting ("Obito-kun, you're the pride of the Uchiha!"), could also be rather bland.

"Uncle Fugaku! Are we going to that steak place you took me to last time?" Obito flashed him a bright smile, arms still raised in a wave.

Fugaku nodded, a solemn look on his face, a look that made Obito almost feel concerned. Fugaku didn't usually look like that—he'd always held his head up in full confidence (he was, after all, the Uchiha's famed attorney), but today he looked as though he wanted to impart to Obito some heavy secret……was this Itachi-related? Surely his uncle would've grown out of the depression behind his son's departure—after all his mother had said that Itachi was only being sent to a special school in the outskirts of Konoha.

"Obito-kun…" A low, hoarse, whisper came forth from the man's throat.

Obito pulled back slightly, frightened by the look on his uncle's face. "A-ah…yes?"

"If you were given the choice between your clan and your lover, what would you choose?"

Obito fidgeted slightly, nervous under the heat of his uncle's intense stare. "The clan…and my lover? Eh…wait…what kind of choice is this, Uncle Fugaku?"

"Suppose our clan was being held by enemy ninja, and to get them back, you had to trade the love of your life, and your love of life is not here to help you make a decision."

Obito paused for a moment, eyes narrowing in thought, "Well…I'd go and fight the stupid enemy ninja! And then I'd rescue my clan!" He then jabbed his finger into the air, as though promoting his line of thought.

Fugaku cracked a smile. His nephew sure was naïve…it was no wonder he'd been made the icon of respect among the Uchihas. He tried imagining Itachi's answer—"It would depend on how much I love this person, and whether that many people is worth less than this person." But all the same, none of those answers helped his current predicament. He'd have to reword things for Obito's sake—"Well, what if it's impossible to rescue your clan? If you had to sacrifice, who would you?"

Obito shot him a scowl, evident that he was unhappy with the allotted choices. "Fine, if I had to choose…my lover would stay 'cause I'd probably love this person more than the clan."

"Even at the expense of all those people?"

"Well…we buy 'n sell stuff at the expense of other people too…" Obito stretched out the 'too' in an attempt at a pout.

Fugaku's shoulders slumped further. Obito's words magnified the guilt, guilt that was embedded in his mind, a tumor, growing, taking over with alarming alacrity. His hands felt their way around his temples, attempting (in vain) to assuage the shooting pains. The clan had praised him, he remembered, lauded him with fruit baskets and elaborate dinners, exultant that their lives were not in danger. Konoha, too, had smiled upon him in favor, excited at the prospect of evidence to indict Itachi.

But he hadn't once thought of the connections he'd severed in the name of justice, of the lives he'd ruined, of the integrity of his accusations, of…of I…ta—Itachi. Itachi! It was his son, dammit! His son, and he could hardly say the boy's name! No, no, he shook his head. The boy was never his son, Itachi was cold, apathetic, a callous…

Here lies a government capable of crumbling a human's base instinct to protect its offspring. Here lies the government of Konohagakure no Sato.


"That's enough. Uchiha has accepted the mission."

A ghostly smile graced the guard's face, "Oh really? Hatake's in luck then." He slung the baton over his shoulders, used his spare arm to sling Itachi into the cell, and promptly left the lightless room. Stupid jailbrats, now he could finally find some time for himself.

A small pool of blood stained the floor; still wet, still fresh, still holding the metallic odor of rust. Itachi's jaws tightened, legs shied away from the still body, afraid that being caught in conversation would render him in a similar state. Then he reminded himself of the mission, of the luxury to free speech. Yes, he would wait for the boy to awake, as long as it took, he would stick it out. That was all that was left, besides.

It was nearly an hour later when the boy began to stir, dried blood still clinging onto his face, like flies on rotten meat. His eyes widened (such a terrified, terrified look) as they fell upon Itachi's still figure. A low, nasal grunt formed in his throat, but no coherent words came out. Itachi gulped, not sure what to say. He had to be subtle, he reminded himself, subtle, or be dead. He should say something though…something, anything…

"That guard's getting transferred." A rumor he'd heard along his trek back to the jail cell. So not entirely confirmed, but it was subtle.

The other boy looked up, surprise lighting his features for a moment before it died down to suspicion. The guard, the deprecating man, was being transferred? Such was a miracle come true! But he knew better: miracles simply did not exist in reality, and certainly not miracles in his favor. Then, after a clear of his throat, he muttered, "So? Another one's just gonna replace him."

Itachi cast a glance away from the boy. Jaded, jaded, they were both just too entrenched in the dark patches of the world, too cynical to believe childish hopes. Given the chance to leave this alive, they should both have their brains rewired, rewired to live as the perfectly average citizen in the perfectly average world. Voice grating with a tired texture, he replied, "This guard's different. His brother was killed by a supposed 'genius' ninja from the Mist. He's got a reason to be angry."

The other boy—no, it was Hatake. Hatake as the warden had called him, did not reply. Instead, he sat with a resigned tautness, giving the wall a sullen stare, whether of anger or boredom Itachi did not know. Hoping the conversation would not snuff on such a short note, Itachi ventured again, "Hatake-san, that—"

"Kakashi."

When there was no reply, Kakashi reiterated, "Call me that."

This drew forth a nod from Itachi, and he sounded the name in his throat, "Kakashi." It looked as though he was about to continue when his throat constricted in a grunt, eyes darted about, seemingly worried about spies hidden in the darkness. Then, in a hoarse whisper, he spoke, "They—you—where do your loyalties lie?"

Kakashi stared at him, suspicion creeping into his mind. There it was again, that standard Academy question used to weed out infiltrators. What was he supposed to say? That he was "not of Konoha, not Iwa, not Suna, but Oto"? That he was loyal to Konoha only? That he had his own loyalties he no longer wished to speak of? No, he could not tell his jail-mate the truth, not when they'd only interacted for a few minutes. Not when he was unsure if the Uchiha was merely a pawn of the government, an acting interrogator. But if he lied—if he lied—how much better would that be? Millions of opinions could be formed with just one lie, and if he later told a truth that contradicted the current lie, they'd never believe him no matter how much he screamed. But he had to answer, silence was not an—

"They'll ask you that question. They'll ask it a lot, every time they bring you to the T&I unit. You—I still don't know what the right answer is yet."

Kakashi was relieved; the conversation was becoming impersonal now, no longer centering on his loyalties or his ideals. He could participate now; participate without fear of being hunted, without need to watch his back after every word. "Maybe if you were consistent, they'd...you know..."

"Well, that's already too late for me. They twist your words...Whatever you say can be taken literally or figuratively or any way they want, as long as it comes to their advantage. They don't..." Itachi trailed off, not sure if the officials that were sure to be watching his progress would take offense at him calling their government "shit".

"They don't care," Kakashi finished for him, and then added, "Why, did you expect them to?"

"No," Itachi mumbled, suddenly recalling the tales his father used to tell him. Tales of knights and princesses, tales that always ended with the princess and knight living happily ever after. Why hadn't his father taken the time to prepare him for reality? He'd known that Itachi was likely to be condemned as a genius, hell, he'd known and yet he'd pretended as though life was a breeze. Was he hoping that Itachi didn't survive once the real world came to greet him? Did he just not care?

He stared at Kakashi then, wondering if his father cared. Did his father falter at aiding his son in meeting the real world as well? Were all fathers just too protective of their sons? So protective that in the end..."Kakashi...did your father...did he..."

"What?" Kakashi's eyes narrowed and he turned on Itachi abruptly, eyes boring an entwined hatred so deep that no one could see the source. "Did he commit crimes against the government? Is that what you want to know?" His voice had turned into a vehement snarl, one that was reserved for nettlesome government officials. "Go ask my father!" he muttered harshly, chains clattering with the floor as he stood, "Go ask him! I don't know about his affairs! Ask him!" He'd forgotten. Trust...what idiot had invented the damned word? It was obvious no segment of life could be described by it; least of all some jail-mate he thought might've shared his experience in life.

"That's not what I meant!" Itachi protested, finally realizing the mistake he'd made. Just hours from his assigned mission, and he'd already failed. Why hadn't he thought before speaking? Shouldn't he have known by now, known that the whole world was too good at twisting words to mean what they please? Dammit, dammit, dammit all!

"Fine then! What did you mean, eh? I refuse—"

"No, listen! I wanted to know if he...your father...lied..."

"I already told you! If you want to know if he lied to the government, ask him!" He glared at Itachi, catching his breath a bit before finishing, "Why the hell did Konoha send you anyway? You're a horrible interroga—"

"I'm not an interrogator! You—you don't understand what I'm talking about! I don't care if your father lied to the government—I want to know if he lied to you about reality! But forget it—you're not going to—"Itachi cut himself off, trying to process the myriad of half-lies and half-truths that he'd just spouted. Remembering them as time went on was sure to be a hassle...

With those words said, Kakashi visibly calmed, looking almost sheepish as he replied quietly, "Well...yeah, he did." Of course Sakumo had lied; his father wouldn't have thought a six-year-old was old enough to help confront irascible governments. At the mention of his father, he wondered if the man was in a similar quandary--stuck in a jail cell and fit with a title as "enemies of the state". No protest, no gripe of dissent, no nothing escaped their mouths. Then, in a couple years, the jail would expectorate them, withered, atrophied beings that had lost the ability to survive. They would wander about, perhaps taking on a mission here and there, and in another year, find themselves behind bars again, for yet another "crime against the government".

What a cycle it was.

"Uchiha-san, those reeducation camps, do you think they'd be worse or better than this?"

Itachi grimaced at the mention of his clan name—his clan had probably disowned him by now. His father had mentioned that Shishui was disowned after spending four nights in jail; he himself might as well hold the same fate. "Just say Itachi," he muttered finally, "And I don't know if they're worse or better. But if you're thinking of getting transferred...well...it's reeducation. They're gonna reprogram your mind and turn you into a robot. Least you can think what you want in jail."

Kakashi nodded in reply. Yes, he knew they'd probably bequeath genjutsu after genjutsu on him in a reeducation camp, but there was a far higher chance of escape when he wasn't stuck behind iron bars. He could find some way to ignore the genjutsu there then, and abandon the country within weeks. He heard the Rock took in plenty of missing-nins, especially those that had abandoned Konoha as "enemies of the state". He could head there, and then—

"It's also hard to transfer. They only take the easily convinced ones, and I don't think you'd fit their criteria."

Kakashi held back a smirk, and murmured, "Not that I'd want to fit their criteria..."

Their conversation continued with light banter, topics ranging from their Academy days to the large rats that were glaring at the duo with greedy eyes. They both knew Itachi was circumventing his main reason for initiating the conversation. Kakashi wasn't sure what it was, and so could not nudge the other boy in the right direction. Itachi was hesitant in mentioning it—another rumor he'd heard on his walk back, a rumor that marked their eventual demise. If he told it now...it was just too depressing to tell now. But if he left it for later, there wouldn't be sufficient time to prepare—

Hastily, he blurted out, "We have one month."

Kakashi turned, abruptly, chains clattering against the floor. "One month to what?" The fear in his eyes was evident.

"To save the"—here Itachi's voice found itself caught in a strangled garble—"bird from the serpent."

Save the bird from the serpent. The bird from the serpent. Bird from serpent. Bird. Serpent. Bird…Serpent…Bird…Look underneath the underneath, dammit! He couldn't forget that, the message his father had imparted him on his sixth birthday, the last birthday he'd spent without the hindrance of iron bars and damp floors. The Uchiha, though he'd always been told by his father not to trust Uchihas, seemed to want to warn him. But what was this serpent? Who was the bird? The serpent from legends was the epitome of evil, but the bird held no historical implications. Was it the balance to society? The dealer of fate? Karma? Prudent judgment?

A minute later, as the list of options dwindled, realization hit him. Eyes wide and mouth curved in a smirk, Kakashi enquired, "This bird…what will happen to the bird in one month?"

"The serpent will...devour it. Like all other birds before it."

Cold sweat lathered his palms, sweat mixed with fear and horror, like fishhooks clawing at his heart. Lie…lie…this…please let this be a lie…He recounted the Academy sayings—"Konoha is here for the protection of its citizens." The protection of its citizens…protection of its citizens…protection of its…His face hardened, jaws taut in determination, "That's a shinobi's job. We'll…we'll…defeat the serpent." His father's words, spoken nearly a year ago, came back to him.

A shinobi's job. Though they weren't yet shinobi, and probably would never be shinobi.

When he looked back, he thought he saw a ghostly image of Itachi, the beginnings of a smile forming upon his face.

Like fitting the pieces.

End Notes: Crap, I think they sound too old at six (they're using too many big words! I didn't know 'criteria' when I was six...though 'interrogator' is jargon for them, I guess). But if I make them sound younger, they sound like babies...which just doesn't work. Ugggh. Maybe I'll make my brother (who's six) read this and tell me if he understands what they're saying.