Itachi Uchiha (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vindication) wrote2000-01-09 11:42 pm
vindication) wrote2000-01-09 11:42 pm
hiding my shame here shh
(It has been a long time since Itachi allowed himself to be taken into the false world of illusion. Though he knows it's not the same, that no technique can break the hold of this hallucination, he has no other way of comprehending what allows this machine to create such an accurate version of reality. A moment of curiosity that passes quickly, barely a ripple across the surface of his awareness -- in truth, perhaps a vague attempt by his subconscious to cushion his mind from the scene laid out before him:)
Hot wind whips at the loose hair framing his face, hardly deterred by the headband pulled tight across his forehead. In any other moment, he might have caught the inconsistency, but his focus is elsewhere; sharingan eyes locked dead ahead, at the tongue of black flame licking up the side of Konoha's shattered main gate. Lurid reds and oranges cast a foreboding glow against the smoke obscuring the night sky, and Itachi sucks in a sharp breath despite himself. The greasy grit of fine gray ash, of charred human flesh, coats his tongue, chasing that breath down his throat and into his lungs.
The singular flavor of war, a sickening taste he's never forgotten.
Hey -- a soft, too-familiar voice, just off his left shoulder (a presence unnoticed, an effect of the illusion or --?)
Itachi spins, instinctively reaching for kunai that aren't in the empty pouch at his thigh. Startled, then, by the milk-white guard that covers his arm from wrist to elbow but that's a thought that cannot demand his attention, either, not when
(no)
Shisui grins at him, teeth gleaming like naked bone in the darkness, all the easy familiarity that comes with years of close friendship -- grins like he isn't eight years a ghost, like his eyelids haven't caved inward without the pressure of eyes to support them. Hey now, don't look at me like that, he says, gentler still, and Itachi flinches like he's been struck. It's -- he's -- just an illusion. Just a memory, torn free from Itachi's mind and twisted now, best friend-kindred-occasional moral compass turned something else, courtesy of the CDC. And yet Itachi's sharingan knows the bright summer-grass hue of his chakra, diminished by the absence of his eyes but even now as familiar as his own.
Just like then, he's stunned to silence … but eight years is a long time. To grow. To harden if not to heal, scabs and keloid tissue to shield once-tender wounds. Itachi wonders if Shisui is meant to be his enemy, if that's what's meant by this unnatural meeting. He swallows hard to wet his throat, ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth. "Why are you here?"
That grin fades into a faint smile, a look he'd almost forgotten in the years between then and now. Two steady steps; a warm hand on Itachi's shoulder and never mind the way his entire body tenses beneath it in dread. The mission, of course. You didn't think I'd make you go alone, did you?
(Oh, but you did.)
The thing is, Itachi knows exactly what the other nin means. He pushes the stray hair from his face and nods once, as if Shisui could see it, surprised in a distant way that they're now the same height. Protect the village. Protect home … or whatever remains of it. Well … shall we?
Blind or not, Shisui wasn't -- isn't -- known for his speed by accident. In the next second he's gone, flickering from one space to the next, leaving behind nothing but little puffs of dust to mark his passing. A half-second later, Itachi follows, one of the precious few capable of keeping up with Shunshin no Shisui.
In a way, perhaps that relentless pace is a small mercy, each step providing nothing but brief glimpses of the carnage -- this way, there's simply no time to linger on a single scene, no time to react to the few weak cries and calls of survivors. Bodies litter Konoha's streets -- ninja, occasional anbu, civilians, children -- spilling out from collapsing storefronts and houses alike, some charred and mangled, others cut down and left to bleed out into the road. The charnel house stench of burning flesh and wood and spilled intestines hangs heavy in the air, pinned close to the earth by a haze of smoke that sets Itachi's eyes watering. When those visions become too much, Itachi instead turns his attention to Shisui's back, focusing on the red spiral set between his shoulder blades.
(He can't help but think of Naruto, now. He can't help but pray that the young ninja will be enough to keep this illusion from becoming a reality.)
When the streets become too cluttered with bodies and rubble, they take to the rooftops, moving like phantoms across charred beams and collapsing rooftops, following the brutal trail of wreckage that unerringly carves a path toward the Hokage's tower. Itachi fights off the sense of nausea rising like the bile in his throat, because he knows what's happening. Smart enough then, and certainly smart enough now, to know what's coming, who he is (they are?) meant to face.
They crest the smoking hulk of an apartment building a moment later. Shisui -- balanced on the edge of the flat rooftop -- throws out an arm in caution, one that almost catches Itachi across the dull gray material of his flak vest. Long fingers curl into a tight fist, then release to point almost accusingly at the street below, Shisui's other hand reaching for the tanto strapped across his back. Itachi doesn't need to look, not really. He can see and feel Sasuke's chakra from here, twilight blue and powerful enough to smother the flames creeping toward his position. But he does look, because it's his brother at the heart of this, because he's never allowed himself to be paralyzed by fear in the face of knowledge.
The boy is bending over a body, one whose feet spasm twice weakly against the street before falling mercifully still. Itachi's attention is drawn to a familiar mask lying in the rubble nearby, green stripes crossed with dark smears of blood. Tenzo, he thinks, and illusion or not -- the shock of an old comrade's final moments or the situation itself -- something vicious reaches through all his layers of careful defense to clench tight around his heart, a twist of grief so intense it rips the breath from his lungs.
Sorry, Shisui breathes, and Itachi shakes his head mutely. In the space between one heavy heartbeat and the next, Shisui is gone from his side, only to reappear on the street below, tanto drawn as he approaches Sasuke's turned back. As dangerous as he is vulnerable, blind as he is, it takes a significant amount of will to keep Itachi from crying out in desperation as he follows suit --
--to land squarely between the two.
(Just an illusion, he reminds himself. But it doesn't mean much at all, not when he can see the obscene ruin of spinal column where Tenzo's throat has been torn wide open, not when he's watching the blood dripping from the sword hanging from Sasuke's remaining hand to bead atop the dusty stone--)
He struggles for calm as Sasuke turns, eyes widening as he recognizes the first of his new opponents. Brother? There's shock in that word, fear and dismay and an almost childlike sense of betrayal as his expression slips from impassivity to something fierce and furious, edged with a familiar mania.
Itachi? Shisui's voice is questioning. Cautioning. Wary.
(Shit.)
"Stop this." Itachi may be addressing Sasuke, but it's a plea that goes far beyond his brother and this moment.
You saved them, his brother retorts, lips curling into an ugly snarl. You saved them, and they mocked your death.
"Yes."
You'd try to stop me?
"Yes." The sword sheathed at his back is as heavy as an accusation, but he stands steady, refusing to draw.
You're dead. You're deadIkilledyou --
It's all the warning Itachi gets before Sasuke charges, but he thinks it's enough. He gathers his hands together, weaving familiar seals, but he knows with absolute certainty it's not him his brother is aiming for -- Shisui is faster, and Itachi stumbles as his best friend shoves him out of the way and moves to engage, sparks scattering as blades collide, once twice again and Sasuke is talented but Shisui moves like water, like sunlight across the surface of the Nakano, parrying Sasuke's blade and ducking to plant a vicious kick squarely into the other nin's stomach.
Time seems to slow to a crawl. One beat. Another. In slow motion, Sasuke tumbles across the street, rebounding off the wall of a cracker shop, crouching low and gathering lightning in his hand. Pulse racing, Itachi gauges the distance between them, not enough room to summon the most basic form of Susanoo without bringing half the street crashing down on them and he can't risk it even if he wanted to--
--that lightning skitters up the blade of Sasuke's sword, shrieking like birds and Itachi's seen this one before, had been pleased then to see the signs of growth before his death. A beat, a breath, and he's moving now, sandals kicking up dust as he lunges for Shisui, grips his best friend by the collar of his vest and heaves with every bit of strength he possesses--
--the world is illuminated, highlighting the surprised o of Shisui's mouth as he's thrown against the opposite wall, out of the deadly path of that lightning spear. White as the flash of a familiar grin in the darkness, and the next breath never comes ; heat and energy punch through Itachi's chest, leaving behind charred bone and seared tissue and the sword at his back is a white-hot brand now, a conduit, an accusation --
Stupid, Shisui murmurs, dazed but blessedly alive.
("Yes", he'd say, had he the breath or the words.)
At his back, a scream of despair and fury torn from Sasuke's throat; that terrible chakra flares like a newborn star, engulfing the world--
FAILURE.
Hot wind whips at the loose hair framing his face, hardly deterred by the headband pulled tight across his forehead. In any other moment, he might have caught the inconsistency, but his focus is elsewhere; sharingan eyes locked dead ahead, at the tongue of black flame licking up the side of Konoha's shattered main gate. Lurid reds and oranges cast a foreboding glow against the smoke obscuring the night sky, and Itachi sucks in a sharp breath despite himself. The greasy grit of fine gray ash, of charred human flesh, coats his tongue, chasing that breath down his throat and into his lungs.
The singular flavor of war, a sickening taste he's never forgotten.
Hey -- a soft, too-familiar voice, just off his left shoulder (a presence unnoticed, an effect of the illusion or --?)
Itachi spins, instinctively reaching for kunai that aren't in the empty pouch at his thigh. Startled, then, by the milk-white guard that covers his arm from wrist to elbow but that's a thought that cannot demand his attention, either, not when
(no)
Shisui grins at him, teeth gleaming like naked bone in the darkness, all the easy familiarity that comes with years of close friendship -- grins like he isn't eight years a ghost, like his eyelids haven't caved inward without the pressure of eyes to support them. Hey now, don't look at me like that, he says, gentler still, and Itachi flinches like he's been struck. It's -- he's -- just an illusion. Just a memory, torn free from Itachi's mind and twisted now, best friend-kindred-occasional moral compass turned something else, courtesy of the CDC. And yet Itachi's sharingan knows the bright summer-grass hue of his chakra, diminished by the absence of his eyes but even now as familiar as his own.
Just like then, he's stunned to silence … but eight years is a long time. To grow. To harden if not to heal, scabs and keloid tissue to shield once-tender wounds. Itachi wonders if Shisui is meant to be his enemy, if that's what's meant by this unnatural meeting. He swallows hard to wet his throat, ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth. "Why are you here?"
That grin fades into a faint smile, a look he'd almost forgotten in the years between then and now. Two steady steps; a warm hand on Itachi's shoulder and never mind the way his entire body tenses beneath it in dread. The mission, of course. You didn't think I'd make you go alone, did you?
(Oh, but you did.)
The thing is, Itachi knows exactly what the other nin means. He pushes the stray hair from his face and nods once, as if Shisui could see it, surprised in a distant way that they're now the same height. Protect the village. Protect home … or whatever remains of it. Well … shall we?
Blind or not, Shisui wasn't -- isn't -- known for his speed by accident. In the next second he's gone, flickering from one space to the next, leaving behind nothing but little puffs of dust to mark his passing. A half-second later, Itachi follows, one of the precious few capable of keeping up with Shunshin no Shisui.
In a way, perhaps that relentless pace is a small mercy, each step providing nothing but brief glimpses of the carnage -- this way, there's simply no time to linger on a single scene, no time to react to the few weak cries and calls of survivors. Bodies litter Konoha's streets -- ninja, occasional anbu, civilians, children -- spilling out from collapsing storefronts and houses alike, some charred and mangled, others cut down and left to bleed out into the road. The charnel house stench of burning flesh and wood and spilled intestines hangs heavy in the air, pinned close to the earth by a haze of smoke that sets Itachi's eyes watering. When those visions become too much, Itachi instead turns his attention to Shisui's back, focusing on the red spiral set between his shoulder blades.
(He can't help but think of Naruto, now. He can't help but pray that the young ninja will be enough to keep this illusion from becoming a reality.)
When the streets become too cluttered with bodies and rubble, they take to the rooftops, moving like phantoms across charred beams and collapsing rooftops, following the brutal trail of wreckage that unerringly carves a path toward the Hokage's tower. Itachi fights off the sense of nausea rising like the bile in his throat, because he knows what's happening. Smart enough then, and certainly smart enough now, to know what's coming, who he is (they are?) meant to face.
They crest the smoking hulk of an apartment building a moment later. Shisui -- balanced on the edge of the flat rooftop -- throws out an arm in caution, one that almost catches Itachi across the dull gray material of his flak vest. Long fingers curl into a tight fist, then release to point almost accusingly at the street below, Shisui's other hand reaching for the tanto strapped across his back. Itachi doesn't need to look, not really. He can see and feel Sasuke's chakra from here, twilight blue and powerful enough to smother the flames creeping toward his position. But he does look, because it's his brother at the heart of this, because he's never allowed himself to be paralyzed by fear in the face of knowledge.
The boy is bending over a body, one whose feet spasm twice weakly against the street before falling mercifully still. Itachi's attention is drawn to a familiar mask lying in the rubble nearby, green stripes crossed with dark smears of blood. Tenzo, he thinks, and illusion or not -- the shock of an old comrade's final moments or the situation itself -- something vicious reaches through all his layers of careful defense to clench tight around his heart, a twist of grief so intense it rips the breath from his lungs.
Sorry, Shisui breathes, and Itachi shakes his head mutely. In the space between one heavy heartbeat and the next, Shisui is gone from his side, only to reappear on the street below, tanto drawn as he approaches Sasuke's turned back. As dangerous as he is vulnerable, blind as he is, it takes a significant amount of will to keep Itachi from crying out in desperation as he follows suit --
--to land squarely between the two.
(Just an illusion, he reminds himself. But it doesn't mean much at all, not when he can see the obscene ruin of spinal column where Tenzo's throat has been torn wide open, not when he's watching the blood dripping from the sword hanging from Sasuke's remaining hand to bead atop the dusty stone--)
He struggles for calm as Sasuke turns, eyes widening as he recognizes the first of his new opponents. Brother? There's shock in that word, fear and dismay and an almost childlike sense of betrayal as his expression slips from impassivity to something fierce and furious, edged with a familiar mania.
Itachi? Shisui's voice is questioning. Cautioning. Wary.
(Shit.)
"Stop this." Itachi may be addressing Sasuke, but it's a plea that goes far beyond his brother and this moment.
You saved them, his brother retorts, lips curling into an ugly snarl. You saved them, and they mocked your death.
"Yes."
You'd try to stop me?
"Yes." The sword sheathed at his back is as heavy as an accusation, but he stands steady, refusing to draw.
You're dead. You're deadIkilledyou --
It's all the warning Itachi gets before Sasuke charges, but he thinks it's enough. He gathers his hands together, weaving familiar seals, but he knows with absolute certainty it's not him his brother is aiming for -- Shisui is faster, and Itachi stumbles as his best friend shoves him out of the way and moves to engage, sparks scattering as blades collide, once twice again and Sasuke is talented but Shisui moves like water, like sunlight across the surface of the Nakano, parrying Sasuke's blade and ducking to plant a vicious kick squarely into the other nin's stomach.
Time seems to slow to a crawl. One beat. Another. In slow motion, Sasuke tumbles across the street, rebounding off the wall of a cracker shop, crouching low and gathering lightning in his hand. Pulse racing, Itachi gauges the distance between them, not enough room to summon the most basic form of Susanoo without bringing half the street crashing down on them and he can't risk it even if he wanted to--
--that lightning skitters up the blade of Sasuke's sword, shrieking like birds and Itachi's seen this one before, had been pleased then to see the signs of growth before his death. A beat, a breath, and he's moving now, sandals kicking up dust as he lunges for Shisui, grips his best friend by the collar of his vest and heaves with every bit of strength he possesses--
--the world is illuminated, highlighting the surprised o of Shisui's mouth as he's thrown against the opposite wall, out of the deadly path of that lightning spear. White as the flash of a familiar grin in the darkness, and the next breath never comes ; heat and energy punch through Itachi's chest, leaving behind charred bone and seared tissue and the sword at his back is a white-hot brand now, a conduit, an accusation --
Stupid, Shisui murmurs, dazed but blessedly alive.
("Yes", he'd say, had he the breath or the words.)
At his back, a scream of despair and fury torn from Sasuke's throat; that terrible chakra flares like a newborn star, engulfing the world--
FAILURE.