A/N: Had some IRL stuff that slowed me down for a bit, but I'll be back to somewhat more frequent updates now.

Chapter 4: Mobilization

Glory is a lie, a lie we tell ourselves to send our young to die on the orders of old men. A lie on which is built the edifice of war, the foundation of that process which takes in young men and women on one end and spits out hardened killing machines on the other. Shell-shock, some call it. Battle fatigue, we called it once. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, we said later. Glory, it was known in the days of old, and in these days in this false world that sends children and teenagers to fight and die in the names of their villages.

What had changed to set off the Second Shinobi World War, as now they were calling it, that hadn't already been true? What political facts had been laid bare that weren't already known? There was no surprise assault, no Pearl Harbor, no fundamental change in what was known or who hated. War, though, war doesn't need an excuse. War is the continuation of politics by other means, so said a general from my home universe. War is more than that, though, because though it might be monotonic with politics, it is discontinuous, and once it has begun there is no turning back, not really.

Peace, you see, is a fragile thing between neighbors. It doesn't happen by accident; it is the product of constant diplomatic efforts anywhere there is a border. Even in peacetime, there are accidental border crossings by civilians and soldiers. There are misunderstandings, diplomats and tourists arrested or tried or killed, insults and errors and grievances and all manner of problem that must be smoothed over. Only by the constant pressure of diplomatic and political will is peace maintained. And somehow, somewhere in the last few months, that will was sapped from our leaders.

Some said it was Hidden Mist that started things, with The Iwasaki Incident. After that, they told us, the war was inevitable. Others argued that the reprisal from Hidden Stone to the Kagabu delegation's diplomatic insult was unforgivable, and left Hidden Leaf with no other options. The truly foolish might have point out that The Iwasaki Incident was actually precipitated by Leaf ninja, and there was no need for Hidden Leaf to escalate after. Those who said that sort of thing don't speak for long. Whatever the case was, though, the political will to back down was gone, and neither Hidden Cloud nor Hidden Mist would stay out of things when the fighting heated up. Everyone at the top wanted this war, though the world would bleed for it.

Glory, they told us, awaited us. They didn't tell us that there was no glory for the dead, that glory tasted like the dust of trails on the tongue and felt like the blood of children on the hands. Duty, they told us, compelled us to defend our homes. They didn't tell us that we'd fight far from our homes, that The Land of Rivers was home to no Leaf ninja, nor the Land of Rain or Hot Springs or any other border country. Honor demanded we fight, they said, but I already knew: there was no honor in war, in the stink of sweat and death and all the other things I would cover myself in to survive another day.

"I'll lead a squad," I said, to the surprise of my colleagues. "Though I am only a Special Jonin, I would serve Hidden Leaf to the limits of my abilities. Please, Lord Hokage, give me a chance to prove myself."

The words are awkward in my mouth, like a bite of a dry sandwich with nothing to drink, but something must have struck true with the leadership. I was a rising star, they knew. There was a lot I could teach a squad of Genin, skills I could pass on, perhaps even an heir for my summons. As a Special Jonin, I was a bit under-ranked, but exceptions have been made in the past, and the hunger in their eyes, the desperation for every leader they can find, told me I'd get the job. I could only hope to have an Uchiha under my command, who might awaken those eyes I so desperately needed, who might be someone I could bind to me with love and duty and honor and glory and all the lies that hold together our society.

The squads were larger, of course. This was war, and they'd been pushing out oversized classes of Genin for years during the run-up in hopes of squeezing every drop of talent they can from the Land of Fire's pool of would-be ninja. Left unsaid was the truth that many of my students would die, so a three-man squad would quickly fall below minimum operational size. Fifteen students they gave me, but they gave me more then students, too: to my surprise, they assigned my two former teammates from when I was a Genin to co-lead the squad with me.

"To lighten the load," he said, and expected me to believe. "We wanted to make sure your team stayed together."

"We don't trust you," he meant, but he didn't know I knew it. I wasn't a clan ninja, after all. An orphan with no ties to the village. A prodigy, yes, but with few friends other than his teammates. Not a major flight risk, no, but they wouldn't take any chances. Not with a war on, a war in which an enterprising clanless ninja might find an opportunity to defect.

Though I expected nothing of him, the caution in his actions left a sour aftertaste nonetheless.

We only had a day and a half before we move out. That evening, I went to stand at our training ground, that grassy glade with the forest and the river and all the things a young ninja might need to become something more, something greater. A place for memories, a place for sacrifice, and a place to be alone, before however many months of bunking, living, eating, and fighting alongside so many others. I'd never had peace in Hidden Leaf, but here I might find a moment of stillness. After all, if you can't find silence in the eye of the storm, where else can you look?

I should have known he'd be there too. Seated with his back against the tree, his head tilted back and his eyes closed, he looked like he had the peace I sought.

"Hakkō," he muttered, without opening his eyes. "Looks like we'll be fighting again."

Impressive. His senses clearly have gotten better, if he could feel or hear me coming from that distance without sight. I must be having an off day. I ambled over and took a seat against a tree near him.

"Not bad," I admitted.

"That I heard you coming?"

"Well, that, and the double meaning."

He grinned. "Heh, I figured you'd get the joke. Couldn't ever put one past you, could I? Though, I don't think either of us will be able to afford a fight on the trail. We'll likely have our hands full with the fifteen Genin they're giving us. Fifteen! Can you believe it?"

"It's more unbelievable you're wearing the flak jacket," I replied with a snort. "I wouldn't have figured you one for armor, not with your defensive techniques. Being able to surround yourself in a barrier should be good enough, shouldn't it?"

"Only if the barrier stops everything, which it doesn't, or if I have the chakra for it, which I won't always," he pointed out. "I've got better uses for my chakra these days-summon animals."

I raise an eyebrow, though it was a useless gesture since he couldn't see. "Oh really?"

"Yeah, I'll show you on the tomorrow. They're really something. Anyways, fifteen kids, man. I really can't believe it. And I'll be teaching them all."

"We will be teaching them all," I said. "And more leading than teaching. Honestly, we likely won't have much time for it what with the war, accomplishing our objectives, and trying to keep them alive. I'd be surprised if most of them survived, much less learned anything. Though, I suppose surviving a war has a way of impressing learning on someone all its own."

Silence fell in the clearing. A minute passed, then another.

"You really meant it, back then, didn't you?" His voice was strained, as though he was about to break into sobs.

I eyed my teammate. He hadn't moved, but a certain stillness was on him, like he was waiting for something. What he expected me to say, I couldn't tell you; I didn't have a clue what he was talking about. But he seemed to want me to say yes, and who would I be to deny him? Still...

"I'm sorry if it came out poorly," I said, and let that sentence hang there.

"Then you did mean it," he said, his voice accusing. "Somehow-somehow you knew this would happen. Another Great Shinobi War. One as bloody-and as terrible-as the first. You always said you expected another one to come, but how could I have believed you? I was just a kid, man. I didn't know about this. Hell, I'm still a kid."

"Not by shinobi standards," I grunted. "We haven't been kids for years."

"You know what I mean," he replied. "I-I haven't had a life, I haven't grown up. I wanted to see the world, to become famous, to meet beautiful women and get drunk in foreign lands, to find a wife and have kids and make my legend. And now what will become of me?"

After a moment, I realized he was sobbing. I sniffed the air, stuck out my tongue to draw in the moisture and feel of it, and realized that he was drunk, too. I must be having an off day indeed, to have been detected by a drunk ninja to not have realized sooner how drunk he was.

"You're afraid, aren't you?" I asked.

He didn't reply.

"Afraid you'll die?" I pressed on.

"No," he whispered. "Not that. Afraid… afraid you will. She will. They will. Afraid that this is it for us, and our chances. That this is the twilight of our life, the calm before the storm, and it will be the end for all of us, soon. I'm afraid of the end, Hakkō."

In this moment, I felt bad for him, and I knew I couldn't let him be. I had to reach out to him, somehow.

"Then, let me tell you a secret," I said. "And listen close, because I won't repeat this more than once. You know my name, Hakkō, with the character for star-crossed?"

"Of course I do."

"To be star-crossed is to carry the burden of fate. It means to find all the world set against you, sometimes. It means to feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and know that with one stumble it will all be over. But it also means that you have a chance, however slim, because you are 'star-crossed' and not 'doomed' by fate. And so you keep on going on. And on top of that…"

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes, that means that I'm afraid, too."

The next day, I met up with my teammates, our fifteen doomed students, and our hopeless orders for this worthless war. Genin, most of them just out of academy, with only the barest of armor and weapons. My teammates wore flak, and heavy armor would impede me more than help, but these children had made no such decisions. They came with what they had, and it wasn't much.

Looking at the team in front of me, I already knew we were in for a bad mission, for there were no clan children. No Hyuuga, Sarutobi, Uchiha, Inuzuka, Akimichi, no eyes for me to steal or bloodline limits to be leveraged in battle. Fresh, green Genin with minimal training given to three Special Jonin. Up-and-coming Special Jonin, to be sure, but not famous ones. So, we were a fodder squad. Footsoldiers. They'd expect the Genin to die off in bits and pieces, or in swathes in the great conflicts of the war, to fight and die and bleed to keep their leaders alive. Maybe a few would survive to learn what we had to teach; maybe not.

So when I unrolled our mission scroll detailing a far-forward independent border action in the Land of Rivers, I wasn't surprised. An independent unit on a border with a foreign country, undermanned and with only unblooded Genin as soldiery, we were disposable. As my squadmates grinned at the thought of frontline action, I wondered if I was the only one who understood just what we were getting into.

We were allotted two weeks for logistics and travel time. Two weeks to cover hundreds of miles, but for ninja that's manageable. No, these two weeks were to prepare. Two weeks to train these children into soldiers, two weeks harden their hearts and teach them to kill.

Two weeks to find a way to stay alive in the crucible of war.