Chapter 3: Camouflage and Calculation
I fingered the high collar of the blue t-shirt my mother had bought me. My expression was blank, contemplative, but my fingers were restless, sliding over the embroidered Uchiwa fan to pick nervously at the individual stitches.
The high collar. Traditional among the Uchiha. Or perhaps just fashionable.
It didn't matter. What mattered was what it represented.
A target.
It was a strong identifier of "outsider" status. None of the civilian children in the village proper wore such things. Without the distinctive clothing, I could almost pass for a civilian.
Sure, the Uchiha were slightly paler than average, but the general stock of the Elemental Countries—despite outliers like Naruto—followed a standard template: dark hair, dark eyes.
Ninjas threw a wrench in that uniformity with their strange bloodlines, like the pupil-less eyes of the Hyuuga or the colorful hair of the Yamanaka, but they were the minority. The super-majority of humans were average.
And I was thoroughly average. A banal specimen of the Uchiha. Black on pale on black.
...Save for the shirt.
An affectation. An inconvenience. A mark of otherness that set me apart from the rest of Konoha.
That just wouldn't do.
I reached into my pouch. My fingers closed around the cold steel of a kunai.
I made a few, small, careful cuts.
Snip.
Nothing blatant. Nothing that looked like sabotage. Just the sort of marks that could be written off as training wear. A careful pricking of the seams. A little tear on the hem.
Accumulated damage. Eventually, the shirt would fall apart. It would die a messy death, opening the way for replacements.
If I wanted to separate myself from the rest of the pre-corpses in my clan, I needed to dress the part.
It would take time for my requests for grey long sleeves with normal collars to be met. But I could afford to wait for this.
It was the only camouflage I had.
x-X-x
November 24, 3 AK
It was a difficult problem. The math of survival.
I sat beneath my favored tree, watching the leaves turn from faded greens to dull browns and yellows. They clung reluctantly to the branches against a backdrop of an autumn blue sky, dulled by wisps of off-white clouds.
I only had a moment to catch my breath between exercises. But even this rest was invested in planning my next move.
What was more important?
Should I run another lap?
Pushups?
Chakra control?
My gaze lingered on the fallen leaves swirling in the wind. My shoulders twinged sympathetically at the chill. Perhaps I should practice my chakra today? Allow my muscles to rest?
No.
I had no time. I had no time for uncertainty. I had no time for experimentation.
I had to make do with off-the-cuff estimates and back-of-the-napkin calculations on how to invest the ever-dwindling number of seconds at my disposal.
I couldn't afford the time to find optimal strategies.
I couldn't afford not to be optimal.
Scritch. Scritch.
I scratched nervously at the back of my hand. Hard. Hard enough to break the skin.
Tiny beads of bright carmine welled up from the excessive force. I raised my hand and licked up the seeping blood absently.
The taste of copper coated my tongue. Thick. Syrupy. It stuck to my teeth and lingered on my breath.
A tangible reminder of my own transient nature. I was no more real than the shadows cast by the early morning sun.
Run.
Punch.
Focus.
Fingers.
Speed.
Stamina.
Chakra.
Jutsu.
Again.
Again.
Again.
My mind floated away from my body. I rose, setting to sprinting along the dusty track, my course momentarily decided.
Every second was precious. Every moment was another step up the infinite ladder of power. A ladder I needed to climb before the fire below caught up to me.
I could not allow missteps. A single serious injury, a single dead-end training routine... it could be the final nail in my coffin. The unrecoverable opportunity, gone forever.
The questions haunted me.
Should I be fast and light?
Should I be slow and durable?
Should I be clever and twisty?
What would Itachi think most useful?
What would convince the village I should be excluded from the purge?
I couldn't ask anyone.
I was rarely allowed outside the compound. The libraries were restricted to Genin and above. And the Uchiha? They wouldn't understand. They would see my desperation as "ambition" and try to shape me into a "proper Uchiha."
That path only led to the grave.
So, I smiled. I nodded along with the rest of the children in the classes that taught reading and writing. I allowed the subtle lessons of Uchiha superiority to wash over me, unheeded.
There was no help to be found there.
The wind in the trees sounded like the whisper of sand running through an hourglass.
Grain by grain.
Lost forever.
A million chances, and I could only take a few.
I needed more.
x-X-x
March 28, 4 AK
"He's only six years old."
"Almost seven. He'll be seven by the beginning of the semester. Itachi joined the academy at six. He graduated in only a year and now he's on track to become a Chunin!"
"Itachi is a prodigy. Hiroki is quick, but he isn't—"
"Bah! Hiroki is strong enough. You mollycoddle him too much. At least he takes his training seriously!"
"Too seriously, Genryusai! You aren't here. You don't see him coming home dripping blood after beating himself raw on the training posts six nights a week!"
"Do you think keeping him out of the academy will help? Do you think he'll stop beating himself bloody if we keep him out longer? You can't stop him, Yuki. He's going to be a ninja regardless of what you or I want."
I tapped a foot gently on the darkly varnished wooden floor.
The conversation cut off instantly.
My father pulled the faintly glowing eggshell screen open. He looked down at me with a stern, slightly disapproving gaze, though it was tinged with a dusting of paternal pride.
I blinked up at him placidly. Then, playing the part, I ducked under the hanging sleeve of his midnight blue kimono and climbed into my mother's lap, nestling my head in the folds of her pale lavender robe.
"I want to enter the academy," I said, keeping my voice small. "I need to be stronger. To make you proud of me. To be an example to the village of the value of the Uchiha."
I paused, letting a tremor enter my voice.
"I haven't even unlocked my Sharingan yet."
My voice quavered with emotion. My eyes focused on the stark white and red fan of the clan crest on the wall.
My parents probably interpreted the tremble as shame. My mother hugged me closer in comfort.
It was only fear.
I couldn't possibly stand against Itachi without awakened eyes. Not if I trained for a hundred years. Even then, it was a longshot at best.
My father spoke of Itachi as if the gap between us was bridgeable. But I had watched Itachi train.
He was flawless.
His form was perfect.
His chakra reserves were monstrous for his age.
I needed to press harder if I was to even stay in his shadow. The Academy would give me a chance to do so. More importantly, it would give me the opportunity to get a Jōnin sensei. That meant a significant boost in survival odds.
I would join the academy.
I would become strong.
Strength is Life.
Weakness is Death.
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