Samui and Mabui were scheming in the shadows. The second that Cloud envoy squad rolled out for the Hidden Leaf, they'd slap a mission tag on themselves, slip outta the village, and drag Uchiha Makoto's ass back home—whether he liked it or not.
They knew the guy inside and out. Darui's whole "by-the-book" slacker vibe? Yeah, Makoto wouldn't even bother opening the door for that. And if he did, he'd probably just roast the dude and slam it shut. The man's chill on the surface, but cross him and good luck—he's got a spine of pure titanium. No way he's waltzing back with Darui without a fight. Plan B was non-negotiable.
Was there a tiny, petty part of them that just didn't want anyone else hauling him in? A little grudge over him ghosting them without a heads-up? Maybe. Hell if they could untangle that mess in their own heads.
Between the Land of Water and the Land of Lightning? A goddamn endless ocean—crashing waves, lurking sea monsters, the works. Regular shinobi would be puking their guts out for weeks just trying to cross it. Storms, beasts, enemy ninja—pick your poison.
But for Makoto, master of the Flying Thunder God? That ocean might as well be a puddle. Enough chakra, a marker, and bam—he's wherever the hell he wants. Distance? What distance?
---
Hidden Cloud Village – some sketchy back alley near the Raikage Tower
Tucked in a crack between stones was a weird-ass custom kunai, half-buried in shadow. Handle etched with funky seals, blending into the wall like it grew there. Silent. Waiting.
Then—ripples. Space twitched like someone skipped a stone across water. A whisper of a whoosh, barely louder than a mosquito. Air folded in on itself.
Next second? A kid pops outta thin air, lands light as a cat. Zero dust. Zero drama.
Makoto. Back like he never left.
He brushes off imaginary dirt, straightens his collar like he's about to walk a runway, and cracks a lazy grin—eyes bright, vibe screaming I own this place. Like he just stepped out for a coffee run, not teleported across half the damn continent.
Guy's got balls of steel and chakra to burn. He strolls toward the Raikage Tower—power central—like he's got all the time in the world.
Afternoon sun's hitting just right, bouncing off Cloud's jagged scale-stone walls, painting everything in dappled gold.
Main street's buzzing—ninja clocking out, others gearing up for missions. Then Makoto struts through like a damn celebrity crashing a dive bar.
"Holy shit—is that Uchiha Makoto?!"
One vet ninja freezes mid-step, blinking like he just got genjutsu-slapped.
"Didn't the Leaf Uchiha snatch him? What the fuck??"
Another dude's jaw hits the pavement.
"Yo, the clan head's back! Heading straight for the Raikage Tower!"
Gasps. Whispers. Chaos.
Word spreads like wildfire. Eyes lock on him. But nobody's got the stones to step up and ask what the hell's going on. Not when he's marching toward the big man's office like he's got a VIP pass.
Kid's young, sure—but he's the Fourth Raikage-approved head of the new Uchiha clan in Cloud. Population: one. Still counts. Dude's basically untouchable.
Makoto doesn't give a single fuck about the stares. Just keeps that easy swagger, even tossing a nod and a panty-dropping smirk to a couple familiar kunoichi. Cue the muffled squeals.
Makoto's the undisputed #1 fantasy of every Cloud kunoichi—and the #1 name on every dude's "This Motherfucker Must Die" list.
Popularity? Through the damn roof.
"OHMYGOD HE LOOKED AT ME!" One girl's face goes nuclear red, hand slapped over her mouth, eyes sparkling like she just won the lotto.
"Nah, bitch, that nod was for me," her friend hisses back. "Jesus, he grew up fast. I could eat him with a spoon… is my love life finally not a dumpster fire?"
Another one's straight-up muttering, thighs clenched: "Tonight's dream fuel… locked and loaded…"
Makoto catches the thirsty whispers behind him and just smirks. Cloud girls don't play coy—he's been soaking in that energy since day one.
---
Raikage's Office – tension thick enough to choke on
Everyone's huddled up, mapping out "Operation: Snag Makoto Back from Konoha." Contingencies, extraction routes, the whole nine.
BAM!
The door—thick enough to eat a detonating tag for breakfast—gets kicked open like it owes someone money.
Silence. Dead silence.
Every head snaps to the doorway. In Cloud, the list of people who can barge in like that? Short as hell. And one just got kidnapped a few days ago.
Then they see him: one hand in his pocket, the other swinging a bag, grinning like he's about to sell you oceanfront property in the desert. Makoto. In the flesh.
Every face in the room freezes. Time skips a beat.
The Fourth Raikage—eyes like goddamn dinner plates—stares like Makoto's a ghost. Dude even rubs his eyes with a fist that could pulverize boulders. Nope. Still there.
Samui and Mabui light up for half a second—pure joy—before panic slams in. The vault heist. The failed funding pitch. Both tied to this kid. Their eyes dart to the Raikage, whose face is going from "angry black man" to "about to fucking erupt."
Veins popping. Steam practically whistling outta his ears.
Both women internally: This dumbass didn't even swing by the house first?! Just waltzes in here while the Raikage's pissed enough to bench-press a mountain?!
Yugito (first time seeing the legend in person) sizes him up like he's a science project. This is the kid every girl in the village wants to bang? Dude looks like he's been chugging growth hormones. Thought he was a shrimp—how the hell's he almost a teenager already?
And he's not even sweating the Raikage? Ballsy.
---
"Yo, y'all busy? Raikage, lookin' real healthy, my man. Face red as a tomato—good circulation!"
Makoto says it like he's walking into a barbecue, not a war room. Zero fucks given about the "about to explode" vibe.
He saunters up to the Raikage's desk—buried in scrolls and "GET MAKOTO BACK" plans—and thunk, thunk—drops his cargo.
Two ice-cold, juicy watermelons. Two buckets of fried chicken, grease soaking through the paper, smelling like heaven and a heart attack.
One melon lands square on the open "Operation: Retrieve Makoto" scroll. Squish.
"Little somethin' I picked up… uh, outside. Local delicacies."
He's grinning right at the Raikage's baffled, furious face.
Before the big man can snap out of it, Makoto steps in close, claps a casual hand on that boulder of a shoulder—bro move—and in that split second?
Flying Thunder God seal. Slapped on. Silent. Perfect.
Makoto's not hiding the jutsu anymore. Might as well weaponize it. Personal teleport tag on the Raikage? Chef's kiss. Future "conversations" just got a lot more… direct.
Play nice? Cool. Everyone eats.
Act up? Makoto's smile twitches. Lightning-guided sauna, deluxe edition. Daily. With extra electro-therapy. You'll be glowing.
He steps back, plops into a chair like he owns it, and switches to full "earnest apology" mode.
"So yeah, my dumbass older brother and his wife got a wild hair up their asses and stormed in here a few days ago. Total shitshow. My bad."
"Came running back to apologize on their behalf. These goodies? My sincere 'sorry I let my family start World War III in your village' gift."
He leans back, arms spread, grinning like a kid who just torched the rulebook and brought snacks to the ashes.