.

.

He's standing at their graves again. Silently, Obito watches as Kakashi reverently kneels forward, setting a bouquet of flowers in front of Rin's headstone. They are lilies this time: the week before, Kakashi had brought a bouquet of roses, red and pink and wrapped in a cone of white paper. He never brings anything for Obito: instead, Kakashi just stands and stares for awhile, as if speaking to him, or praying for him. His grave, unlike the others, is without offerings, no half-spent candles or wilted flowers covering his head stone.

It is just as well: the gifts are wasted on the dead, and Obito if anything had died a long time ago.

xXx

.

A strike. Obito went flying, his goggles spinning from the force of Kakashi's blow.

"Are you done?" Kakashi said. He sounded bored and Obito reared up on his haunches, hands clenching into fists. "I can keep hitting you all day, if you want. But it's starting to get dark."

"Dammit," Obito said, and he took a stance.

"Again!" Obito said, and Kakashi lunged. A kick to the gut. One square fist, slamming into his side.

"Now are you done?" Kakashi said.

"Of course not!" Obito said.

The blow whacked him across his face. He moved and coughed, then realized he tasted blood.

"This is getting boring," Kakashi said, as Obito stumbled, one knee hitting the ground. "Obito. Give it up. You'll never be able to take me. Maybe you should spar with Rin instead."

Obito clutched his side. His insides hurt. He glared, his vision hazy through his goggles.

"No," Obito said. "I'm not done. I'll fight you, Kakashi." But Kakashi sniffed and evidently had had enough, because he wiped his hands against the seat of his pants and left the training ring. "Kakashi!"

But Kakashi turned his back to him, slinging a towel over his shoulder.

xXx

.

The mask maker he visits is a civilian, old and gray and hunching over his work bench. The masks he's made are for festivals and for children, hung up in clean, bright colors and decorating the walls. "A shame," the mask maker says, and he turns over Obito's old mask in his hands. "A mask like this cracked so easily! I will see what I can do."

Obito watches, silently. The mask maker's hands are knotted and arthritic, the joints of his fingers stiff and knobby. The mask Obito needs now must be stronger and more resilient, but he knows he will miss the old orange whorl.

"Are you a ninja?" the old man's granddaughter asks. She comes out from the back room and sits next to him. "How come you're wearing a mask?"

Obito looks at her. She is young - six, seven at the most - and painfully unaware of the goings-on in the shinobi world. Civilians often are, Obito thinks, and silently he removes his mask, lets the girl see the scars on his face. "Do they hurt?" the girl asks. There is a bandaid covering a cut on her shin.

Six years-old. Obito was about that age when he began his training, thirteen when he had supposedly died. The girl sucks on a piece of hard candy and loses interest in him, jumping up from the bench to run up to her grandfather, who smiles and pats her on the head.

"Forgive me my granddaughter," the old man says, kindly. "She has never met a shinobi before."

Obito rises, looking out from the window.

They stand on the backs of fallen nin. Discreetly, Obito moves and quietly balls up the wanted sign tacked up on the merchant's bulletin board, a poorly drawn caricature of a man in a mask. Images copied from bingo books are notoriously diluted out here, among the merchants and the farmers with no concept of shinobi life. Behind him, the girl chats idly while the grandfather smiles and laughs, and Obito can hear the sturdy sounds of the old man carving into the wood.

xXx

.

He wears the name like a well-worn cloak: Uchiha Madara. The man of legend. Ever since his sensei called him by that name, Obito found it fit him well, slipping over him like a second skin. Even if the others had claimed to know Madara in the past, all it took was a little mental tweaking, the subtle application of genjutsu and suggestion, to feign the appearance of immortality.

"Uchiha Madara," his sensei said. "No. That's impossible. He's been long since dead."

"Has he?" Obito said, and he could see it, the look of fear and doubt flickering on his sensei's face.

He finds that people are surprisingly easy to break. His sensei was no exception.

xXx

.

"What happened to your eye?" the little girl says. Obito turns to look at her. "Did you lose it in a battle?"

Funny. Among his subordinates in the Akatsuki or his enemies in faraway lands, no one has ever dared speak to him so directly. Even before he took on the mantle of Uchiha Madara, shinobi of enemy villages could sense Obito was dangerous, and often kept a wide berth.

Obito has no need for friendship: he has bigger goals, a grander scheme to follow.

But Obito is tired. The civilian village had taken a full four days of travel by teleportation, and though Obito normally used his Jikuukan Idou to teleport long distances, the land is far and remote and well-removed from any shinobi territory. The girl offers him a piece of candy and swings her legs on the wooden bench, and quietly Obito takes it from her, turning the brightly colored wrapper in his hands.

The shop is quiet. Sunlight comes in bright amber streaks, coloring the room with a warm orange glow. "You should eat it," the little girl says.

Obito turns. The little girl is looking at the candy, expectantly.

"It's strawberry flavored," the little girl says. "It's really good."

"Child. Leave the man alone," the grandfather says.

Obito says nothing. He looks at the little girl and holds up the candy. Then, as if performing a magic trick, he uses his jutsu to make the piece swirl, then disappear.

The little girl squeals. "Grandpa! Look!"

"I saw," the old man says, and gives Obito an apologetic look, Thank you, shinobi-san, for putting up with my granddaughter.

"Can you do that again?" the little girl says, and she leans excitedly, peering into his cloak. Obito waves his hand: the candy re-appears.

"Wow!" the little girl says, and Obito leans back, closing his eye.

It is times like this that Obito remembers the reasons behind his plan. It fortifies him. Too long he had shut himself off from the world, had worked alone and without a confidante, someone with whom he could share his hardships. Manipulation, suggestion. Twisting other men's needs to suit his ends. Even those who are close to him - those who know him as Madara - are wary, and he does not trust them. If he were his old self, he would falter under the weight of such loneliness, but Obito knows, just as he knows the moon above him and the sun that rises every day, that his actions have a purpose, and that his suffering will not be in vain.

The little girl plays with a cloth doll. She brushes its hair, then shows it to him, smiling, proud. Obito takes the doll from her and the little girl squeals, and the grandfather says, "Child. Leave him be!" and the little girl grabs the doll and runs, bare feet pounding on the hardwood floor.

xXx

.

Sometimes, Obito doesn't recognize himself. Broad shouldered and lean, Obito is the very antithesis of his former self, who was small and weak and pathetically unable to activate his sharingan.

"Holy shit, Tobi!" Deidara said, back before the others knew him as Madara and back when he still played the part of the fool. "Guys, look at this! Tobi fucking killed them."

Obito watched. Watched as the other Akatsuki descended onto the muddy field, the scent of blood and dead bodies settling like a thick fog.

If he felt like pretending, he would clap his hands and spin into a pirouette, laugh loudly and proclaim some singsong nonsense about how killing thirty men was a lot of fun, but Obito didn't say anything. Just stood there, letting the wind rise at his back, as Deidara and the others counted the bodies.

"What's the matter, Tobi?" Kakuzu said, and Hidan leered. "You're not as annoyingly loud today."

But Obito said nothing. He remembered Kakashi and their old sparring sessions, and wondered idly what Kakashi would say if he could see him now.

xXx

.

"It's taking longer than I thought," the old man says. He smiles apologetically, rubbing a calloused hand against his neck. "Forgive me, shinobi-san. I know you have traveled a long way, but I promise you: I will work on this piece all night!"

Obito nods.

"There is an inn not too far from here," the old man says, and the little girl smiles, watching as Obito stands. "Tell them I'm the reason for holding up your travels, and they will let you stay for free."

"Thank you," Obito says. He lets his hand fall heavily on the little girl's head; she beams up at him, smiling.

In the hotel room, Obito sits on the bed and removes his mask. It is dark now and Obito lets his fingers run over the jagged bumps of scarred skin. Some areas are numb and dead to his touch; others tingle slightly, frayed ends of nerves that sometimes burst with jolts of searing pain. His scar does not hurt, fortunately. Silently Obito sets down his mask and takes off his cloak, then moves to sit on the floor. Even here, in this civilian village, old habits die hard, and Obito sleeps upright, back against the wall and a katana against his shoulder.

When was the last time Obito had slept on a proper bed? He can't remember. Surely it was during his youth, when he and Rin and Kakashi hefted heavy sleeping mats and passed out on shared blankets during genin missions. Even when he is with the Akatsuki, he only sleeps for a few hours, sleeping lightly and waking to the smallest sound, the smallest threat around him. There are times, times when he is drained and physically exhausted, where he teleports himself to another dimension, sleeping among shapeless things in the place between other existences: he does this rarely, though, because the jutsu is long and exhausting and often times Obito wakes up with searing pains in his eye, and often the jutsu makes him feeling worse. So Obito does not rest. He waits, ever ready to face an enemy foolish enough to try to kill him.

xXx

.

"Obito. What are you doing?" Rin said.

"I'm sleeping upright," Obito said. He settled his back against the trunk of an old tree. "I'm not gonna let my guard down, not even once!"

"That's stupid," Kakashi said. "Minato-sensei is standing guard."

"Well I'm gonna stand guard too!" Obito said. "If someone attacks us I'll be ready, unlike you-"

"-if someone attacks us, I will get them before you even wake up," Kakashi said. "Obito. You might as well sleep the normal way. I don't want to hear you complaining in the morning."

Kakashi had that smug, superior look that made Obito want to kick things, and Rin twisted her hands. Obito glared, shoving a kunai in his lap.

"Fine," Obito said. "Then I'm going to sleep over here."

"You do that," Kakashi said, and Obito moved and stomped farther out from the camp, then leaned up against another tree. He heard Minato call out, "Obito, what are you doing?" but Obito glared and crossed his arms, resolute, before leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

Obito was not used to sleeping upright. Around him, there were soft night sounds of insects and wind, and without the thick sleeping mats and the fire, Obito was stiff and cold. His back hurt. Even the kunai, which he held in his fist, started to feel heavy and uncomfortable.

Stupid Kakashi. Stupid sensei. Tears pricked at his eyes and Obito forced his eyes shut again, suddenly feeling stupid and lonely but too proud to join the rest of his camp. He was the better shinobi, he would show them! But they were all asleep, and Obito pulled off his goggles to wipe his eyes.

The morning was torture. Obito's back hurt. His shoulders ached. He did not sleep, and while Rin and Kakashi were well-rested, Obito dragged behind them, hefting his pack and trying his hardest not to complain.

He fell asleep while the others stopped to rest, waking only to feel Rin's hand gently waking him at the shoulder.

xXx

.

"It is done," the old man says.

Obito gives him his payment, then moves to the mirror and puts on the mask. The mask fits him well, and though he has not yet implanted the Rinnegan, there is a second eyelet, which exposes the gaping maw of his left socket. He is careful to close that eye, before turning to show the little girl.

"Shinobi-san, there is something I want to ask you."

Obito adjusts his cloak, and turns. The old man is standing, the little girl hiding against the apron at his waist. "We heard there is going to be a war," the old man says.

Obito watches. The old man's arm is wrapped protectively around the little girl's shoulder, who is looking up at him with frightened eyes.

"Are you frightened, child?" Obito kneels. The little girl shakes her head, staring at him. Slowly, Obito reaches forward, then strokes the curls of the little girl's head.

"Do not be afraid, little one. For I fight on the side of peace."

"I hope you win, shinobi-san," the old man says. Obito rises again, meeting his eyes. "I hope, for all our sakes, you win."

"As do I," Obito says, and he raises his hood, pausing once to look back at them, before closing the door.

xXx

.

It never stops raining in Amegakure. Over buildings, the rain sluices down in large sheets, coating the outsides of the spiraling towers and the watchgates like a wet curtain; on the ground, the rain falls in harsh slants, bouncing off puddles on concrete and seeping into the soil.

Outside the village, the rain is cold, sharp, and relentless. Obito stands, looking out across the landscape, as the rain seems to fall with a deliberate weight: his back is soaked and the fabric of his cloak drips, and his feet squelch in puddles as he steps forward. Silently, Obito pulls on his hood and adjusts his mask, his sharingan spinning, waiting for the clouds to part and the winds to rise, and for the coming storm to finally wash over.