Convergence: A Sasuke Fanfiction

-KONOHA-

Something in the way we existed—forgotten, discarded beings, bare to the core as souls lost to the Styx—changed. Our perception, catatonic, locked against the emptiness of the void; a flare of desperation for a not-second ‘til a kindling of reality emerged again. Calming. Our memory laid bare; a flimsy string stretched unto infinity. Our core—our heart—without a pulse; eroded; nonexistent; then not; the cycle unending; until it was not.

Then, of course, our body was bound to the harsh geometry of language; our existence a singularity for the first time in what felt like aeons; leaving behind the structureless non-sequitur of meaning with which we roamed freely through open planes devoid of colour or concept. Awareness came as a blow to the soul; we vividly remember the first conscious moments of our mortal life filled with a feeling of near-perpetual dread and existential angst. Long before our untempered vocal cords could form coherent words; before the fuzzy haze in our vision cleared; before the turbulent ensembles of emotions that assailed us on a near-constant basis disappeared. A myriad of questions swam through our mind even as our human guardians—ginormous as they were back then—made nonsensical noises at us from where they were poised at the edge of our crib.

Why? We would cry out, fearful gaze roving the world around us. Who? What? Where?

In those moments in which our physical vulnerability became most apparent, we would wonder what resistance our feeble form could present in the face of the hostile universe around us. For a long time—at least until sheer rationality won out—the loneliness, despair and feeling of insignificance were utterly maddening, slowly chipping away at our feeble mind, syphoning at its core; eroding our s͚͍̘̠̖̣͙̰̖a̺͈͕̜͎ͅn͎̞̯̖̦i̟̫̹̼͍t̞̯y̱ͅ.

Then we felt it. A killing intent. An aura so sinister, so cruel, so malicious, that it eclipsed everything else we had experienced since assuming our mortal form. In our heart rose a soul-stirring horror. Then we laughed, much to the surprise of our older sibling who cradled us in his protective embrace. It amused us to no end, how low we let ourself fall. Such a minuscule existence frightened us; were we so weak as to succumb to fearing our own mortality?

Our fears dispersed, leaving us weary, listless and confused. No longer caring about our imminent demise or bodily harm did we discover the potent essence of ennui; the mortal’s perception of time utterly torturous. With time though, we grew larger and stronger and soon found ourself capable of some locomotion, serving the purpose of granting us a limit of autonomy. It was then, upon crawling out of the confines of our parents' domicile, our gaze no longer clouded by fear, did we first truly notice the full extent of the world we found ourselves in; a rather unremarkable sight it was; disappointing.

But despite our failed expectations—not that we could say for sure what said expectations were—we did truly appreciate its beauty, the apparent simplicity of it all; bewitching in a myriad of simple ways. Hours a day we would spend pondering on matters of the mundane from our post on the tatami mat by the door, Mother having left the shoji open for our convenience; her caring, ever-watchful eyes trained on us from the periphery of her vision.

We grew larger still and soon graduated from watching great swathes of trees sway hypnotically in the breeze, and clan members busying themselves with training and mundane work to occasionally shadowing our brother, Itachi, on minor errands out of our clan’s district into the village. Other times we went on aimless strolls up the mountainous height that was the Hokage rock. On such trips, we would sometimes pause to marvel at the anomalous gravitas and sense of sobriety the distant skyline had on us. It was only then we realised that despite the might of our collective consciousness, we were but an insignificant speck in the heart of an organic machine, tumbling along amongst its many, many gears. The mortality of our physical form thoroughly ensured this. We could feel it, the inability of the human mind to even begin to properly host our ego. Our consciousness. It felt… restraining.

Every day, tens of thousands would tend to the contraption that was this village, living and toiling in it, serving the mechanism of the burgeoning metropolis, making it bigger, better, story by insignificant story and idea by Jejune idea. On the days we toddled not on our brother’s trail, or spent hours staring in a ponderous haze as the world went through its phases, we pilfered father’s extensive collection, scouring through a myriad of scrolls in a never-ending quest for stimulation. In our free time, we would find ourself fixated on the oddest of things; the erratic flow of traffic through the clan’s district; the way the northern winds ruffled the iridescent plumage of ravens perched on the powerlines above; the twisting haze suspended in the air following the execution of a fire-based jutsu. Even the rivulets of sauce flowing down the length of a noodle hanging from a pair of chopsticks possessed the capacity to so fully enthralled us.

With time, life grew busier. Between training with Father, Brother and Shisui-kun, and attending the academy, we possessed less time to simply ponder in solitude, a distraction we had grown rather fond of. By the age of six, we had fully come to terms with the ineptness of the common man; any conversation we might have with most likely destined to be tedious and dim-witted, with social relations, in general, appalling and rote; both early tutelages in the recursive nature of the human experience.

Despite it all though, despite life’s many flaws, despite the multitude of fears that plagued our early life, and despite our recurring bouts of existential angst, we cherished our new existence; above all, we cherished the people in it.

***

The pain slowly seeped in, despair following closely behind. Rage came after, coursing through our veins as a writhing stream of corrosive chakra. We looked up, a shuddering exhale escaping our lungs as realisation dawned on us. A malevolent desire burned in a corner of our mind as a cold dark flame, scorching the very fringes of our being.

“...Why?”

The question slithered out of our maw as a guttural exhale. The accursed weasel remained silent, crimson eyes staring blankly at us. Itachi … We always wondered why Father named him after such an ignoble creature; tenjō no kotowari o shōakuseshi hitomi; heavenly eyes that see the truth of all of creation without obstruction. The myths of the Mangekyō’s divine clairvoyance probably weren’t myths after all.

“Why?” we asked again, our mortal form struggling to express the full extent of our ire; a splitting headache; a certain hollowness in the guts, afflicting us as a daemonic malediction. A pounding at the nape of our neck, and then something hot, like the sparks of a nascent flame, shooting up our spine and concentrating behind our temple. A warmth unlike that of tears wriggled and squirmed within our eyes. The world coloured red and the sparks became an inferno, enveloping our entire body. Our eyes, the core of the blaze, burned hot like magma.

“...Curiosity,” the beastly thing replied, its gaze unflinching. “I wished to measure my vessel; my worth.”

Our breath caught. A soft chuckle escaped our maw; laughter; cackling. “Your worth?” we asked releasing Mother’s cooling fingers from our grasp. Woe onto us, stalwart lover of mortal things. The foul thing we once called brother stared blankly at us; we stared back with a hopeless heart and hollowed soul.

Our eyes itched as two lines of hot, viscous tears flowed down our cheeks. Our intent heaved, heeding our call; the universe heaved back in protest. They were not coming back. Not Mother, not Father, not Oba-san Uruchi with her penchant for gifting snacks nor her genial husband. Nobody. They were gone. Forever.

Clawed fingers struck forwards, the air screeching as it was parted cruelly by our chakra-coated digits. With a harsh crack, we disintegrated a wooden pillar across the room. Itachi stood to our right staring down at us. Mockingly.

“Baby brother,” it said, “you’re weak. Pathetic. Do you wish to kill me? Settle for hating me instead … Hate me, and live like the failure you are. Continue clinging unto your worthless existence for as long as you can; this little I grant you for the sake of my own amusement.”

We were upon him the next moment, fist shooting towards his forehead; the weasel, true to his name, flickered for a millisecond before reappearing at the exit. Our gazes clashed and only then did we realise the extent of our folly. Crimson spun, twisting, morphing as it birthed a three-bladed shuriken.

“Tsukuyomi,” the weasel whispered. The world around us sloughed off, melting as if drenched in acid, to leave behind a perverted replica of its essence.

“Kai!” We resisted but the Genjutsu refused to dispel.

“Sasuke!” We swivelled on our heels to see Mother on her knees, Father by her side, his countenance solemn. “Run—” The weasel struck; blood gurgled past Mother’s parted lips; a crimson line formed around her pale neck; her severed head slid to the ground with a morbid thud: Father’s followed immediately after.

We blinked, struck senseless by the inexplicable suddenness of it all. A cold gasp; we blinked again, eyes watering as we fell to our knees. Lies. A clinical portion of our ego reminded us. They were already dead. Then, mockingly, the bodies disappeared, replaced by another caricature.

…He was toying with us, we realised.

***

How long has it been?

“Pathetic.”

How many times had it been now?

“Sasuke! Run!”

“Mikoto!”

We weren’t sure, but did it matter?

‘...measure my vessel; my worth,’ he said. ‘Curiosity,’ he called it.

Steel.

Blood.

Bile.

Tears.

The spiralling crimson orbs.

Rinse.

Repeat.

…

Repeat

Repeat

Repeat

Endlessly, the caricature played. With a hint of dramatic flair, it evolved with each new iteration; mocking us; mocking our inadequacy; our resolve. But the first memory remained; the original untainted by his filth. The swaying—ruined—Uchiha logo hanging from Oji-san Teyaki’s vandalised senbei shop; the cold corpses, young and old, littering the district streets; rivulets of the noblest blood pooling in the gutters. Our parents; murdered by a weasel.

The Weasel.

The door opened and in came a figure in white. Beautiful as mortals went. Dark-haired and lithe, the woman—a nurse, we realised after a moment of observation—stood frozen halfway into the room with a tray of medication in her arms.

“...Otousan,” she whispered, quivering under our gaze. The tray and its delicate contents slowly slid from her hands, and with a metallic clatter and the tinkling peal of broken glass, it hit the ground. We stared into her eyes, her soul, for a moment—our reflection haggard. Undignified—before looking away.

“Leave me.”

The nurse fled from the room.

A masked figure donning a flak jacket—ANBU—jumped onto the window sill in a display of superhuman agility as he drew a kunai from a pouch attached to his thigh.

"Sasuke?"

“I said, I want to be left alone,” we croaked, voice hoarse. We had been screaming, we realised. The rage still simmered within us, unabated, but we were far too exhausted to continue expressing it.

A brief pause.

"...Very well," the ANBU said into the ensuing silence before leaping away.

***

“Sasuke.”

“Yes?” We replied, blinking away the haze in our vision.

“Are you listening?” the Hokage asked staring down at us.

“Yes.”

“...Sasuke-kun, your brother, Itachi—”

“Murdered my clan out of curiosity; ‘to measure his vessel, his worth,’ he said.”

“...Has been placed in the bingo books,” the Hokage continued after a momentary pause, “as an S-rank criminal, to be brought in dead or alive.”

A pause

“...Is that all?”

“Itachi will face justice for his crimes, Sasuke-kun, I assure you that.”

“...And how do you expect me to believe that?” we asked, tilting our head in curiosity as we turned to face the man. “You failed to protect my clansmen from his wanton lust on Konoha’s soil; how do you expect me to believe you are capable of bringing him to justice? What use is the fanciful Kasa you wear on your head if even an entire clan is not safe in your care?”

The Hokage grimaced; we looked on, expression morphing into one of disappointment. The man disgusted us. His attitude, so replete with self-righteousness and hypocrisy. Undignified. Spineless. Weak…

Pathetic.

“You need not worry yourself, Hokage-sama,” we tell the senile, old thing. “I will sort this matter out myself.”

“...Forgive me, Sasuke-kun,” Sarutobi said with a sigh, eyes downcast, “I wasn’t strong enough. I know you must be feeling hurt but remember, it doesn’t matter what you do; if you live and die as you like. However, no matter what road you end up taking, again, remember, the village always comes first.”

I wasn’t strong enough. The words stung. With a painful exhale, we ignored the Kage, turning away to look out the window at the rainstorm brewing outside. The air was thick with the scent of cleaning solution, ethanol, and rain—undertones of copper and salt.

It tasted of blood.

Our blood.