The air in the Uchiha compound hung heavy, thick with something unspoken. It wasn't just the humidity of late summer pressing down—it was the weight of eyes, the murmur of voices that hushed when I drew near. I walked the stone paths, my sandals scuffing against the ground, and felt it: tension, coiled tight, ready to snap. A year and a half—maybe less—before the massacre tore it all apart. Before Itachi's blade carved a wound too deep to heal. I couldn't let it happen. But knowing and stopping it? Two different beasts.
The walls seemed to lean in as I passed, their shadows stretching long in the fading light. Whispers trailed me like ghosts. An elder's voice, low and clipped: "The Hokage's watching us closer now." A woman's reply, sharp with bitterness: "They've never trusted us. Never will." I kept my head down, my fists clenched at my sides. Six years old, but my mind was a storm, older than my body, sharper than it had any right to be. I'd mapped it out—the timeline, the players. Danzo, that bastard, was the spark. The village was the tinder. And the Uchiha? We were the firewood, waiting to burn.
---
The market was a cacophony when I slipped out later, the bustle a mask for the venom underneath. Stalls lined the streets, their awnings flapping in the breeze, but the chatter was what caught me—jagged, biting. "Heard the Uchiha are stirring again," a fishmonger muttered, scaling a carp with quick, angry strokes. His neighbor, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, nodded. "Too proud, that lot. Danzo's got the right idea—keep 'em in check."
I froze mid-step, the words a knife in my gut. *Danzo.* His name was a curse I couldn't shake, a shadow that loomed too large. Him and his mentor, the Second Hokage—two peas in a pod, sowing distrust like it was their life's work. The Second had called the Uchiha cursed, their Sharingan a mark of madness. Danzo took it further, whispering poison into every ear that'd listen. The Uchiha weren't evil. Flawed, sure—proud to a fault—but loyal. I'd seen it in Mikoto's gentle hands, in Fugaku's stern resolve. The village didn't care. Fear had taken root, and Danzo was watering it.
"Damn him," I hissed under my breath, my nails digging into my palms until they stung. The crowd pressed around me, oblivious, their voices a dull roar. I wanted to scream, to grab them by the collars and shake sense into them. *We're not your enemy!* But words wouldn't cut it. Not against Danzo's persistence, his quiet, creeping malice. I needed more—proof, power, a way to rip his lies apart before they choked us all.
---
Back at the compound, the courtyard was a hollow shell, the sun sinking low, painting the stones in shades of blood and gold. I paced, restless, my thoughts a snarl of thorns. The silence was too loud, too heavy. I needed to think, to plan, but the air felt like it was closing in.
Footsteps—soft, measured—broke the stillness. I turned, and there was Itachi, his face a calm sea, but his eyes… they were storm-weary, shadowed. Ten years old, a Chunin already, but he carried a burden that bent even him.
"Menma," he said, his voice a quiet thread. "You're restless."
I forced a smile, thin and brittle. "Just thinking."
He stepped closer, his gaze cutting through me like a blade. "About what?"
My throat tightened. How much could I say? How much did he already see? "The clan," I said, low, testing the waters. "The village. It's… off."
His brow twitched, a faint crease. "Off how?"
I swallowed, picking my words like they were shards of glass. "People are talking. In the market, on the streets. They think we're dangerous."
Itachi's face didn't shift, but his eyes darkened, a flicker of something raw. "Talk is cheap, Menma. Don't let it get to you."
*Cheap.* But it wasn't cheap—it was deadly, piling up like dry leaves before a spark. I wanted to shove the truth in his face, tell him what I knew, but my tongue stayed heavy. "It's not just talk," I said, sharper than I meant. "It's Danzo. He's fanning the flames."
His jaw tightened, a rare crack in his mask. "Danzo's a councilor. He's doing what he thinks is best for the village."
*Best.* The word twisted in me, sour and wrong. "We're the village too. We're not some threat to be caged."
He looked away, his profile sharp against the dying light. "It's not that simple."
I bit my tongue, frustration boiling. *Not that simple.* His favorite dodge, a wall he threw up to keep me out. But I wasn't just a kid—I knew the stakes. "Maybe not," I said, softening my tone. "But I don't want the clan to pay for it."
He exhaled, a faint, tired sound. "Neither do I."
The silence stretched, thick with everything we couldn't say. I wanted to trust him, to lean on that quiet strength, but the story loomed in my head—Itachi, blood-soaked, standing over the dead. I couldn't let it come to that. Not him, not them.
---
Morning came too fast, the sun slicing through my window like a blade. I woke with a spark—a plan, rough and unformed, but something. Knowledge was my edge, but I needed more than academy drills. The village's secrets, its jutsu, its dirty little lies—that's what I craved. And Hiruzen was the gatekeeper.
I found him in his office, the door half-open, pipe smoke curling lazy in the air. I knocked, firm but light. "Hokage-sama?"
He glanced up, his weathered face splitting into a smile. "Menma. Come in, boy."
I stepped inside, dipping my head in a bow. "Hope I'm not bothering you."
"Never," he said, setting a scroll aside. "What's on your mind?"
I took a breath, steadying the tremor in my chest. "Our talk, a while back. The Will of Fire. It's stuck with me. I want to learn more—history, jutsu, anything to make me stronger. To protect this place."
His eyes gleamed, warm and approving. "That's a fine goal, Menma. Knowledge is power, especially for a shinobi. What are you after?"
"Scrolls," I said, letting a hint of eagerness slip through. "Old ones. From the archives. Techniques, strategies—whatever can help."
He rubbed his chin, pipe dangling from his lips. "The archives aren't open to just anyone. But you… you've got promise. I could arrange it. Supervised, mind you."
I nodded, burying the thrill that surged up. "Thank you, Hokage-sama. That's all I ask."
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "You're a rare one, Menma. Keep that spark alive."
I left with a win, small but sharp. The archives were a treasure trove—seals, forbidden arts, the village's hidden bones. If I could dig through them, I might find something to shift the game. But a year and a half—maybe less. Time was a noose, tightening slow.
---
That evening, the compound was still, the air cool and crisp. I sat on the engawa, legs swinging, watching the sky bleed into dusk. Mikoto's voice floated from inside, soft and warm, humming a tune as she worked. Sasuke's giggle cut through, bright and fleeting. I shut my eyes, letting it sink in. This—this was why. These moments, this family. They didn't deserve Danzo's axe, Hiruzen's silence.
Heavy steps jolted me upright. Fugaku loomed, his face carved from stone, his eyes dark and unyielding. He stopped beside me, staring out at the fading light. "Menma," he rumbled. "You've been pushing yourself."
I nodded, cautious. Fugaku didn't chat. "Yes, sir."
He glanced down, his gaze a weight. "The clan needs that. Strength. The village—they've turned their backs on us. Always have."
My pulse spiked. This was a tightrope. "I've heard the rumors," I said, slow. "People whispering."
He snorted, harsh and cold. "Whispering? They're shouting it in their heads. Danzo's got them convinced we're monsters. The Hokage just sits there, blind."
I swallowed, throat dry. "What's the plan, then?"
His fists clenched, knuckles whitening. "We endure. Show them our worth. But if they come for us—we fight."
The air went taut, his words a loaded blade. The coup. The spark that'd light the massacre. I couldn't let it ignite. "Sir," I said, steady despite the churn in my gut, "fighting'll bury us. There's got to be another way."
He turned, eyes narrowing. "And what's that, Menma? You're a child."
I held his stare, unflinching. "Talk to Hiruzen. Force him to hear us. Prove we're not what Danzo says."
He barked a laugh, bitter and hollow. "You think he'd care? He's too scared to act."
"Maybe," I pressed, "but if we don't try, we're done either way."
He studied me, silent, his face a mask. "Bold words. Too bold. But… maybe there's something there."
He walked off, leaving me with a thread of hope—thin, fraying, but real. If I could nudge him toward peace, delay the rebellion, I'd have breathing room. Time to unmask Danzo, to save them.
---
Next day, I threw myself into training, sweat and grit my only relief. Shisui met me by the river, his grin a fleeting light. We sparred, a whirlwind of fists and feet, chakra snapping in the air.
"You're quick," he huffed, ducking a punch. "But I'm quicker."
I smirked, lungs burning. "Give me time. I'll outrun you."
He laughed, sidestepping. "Big talk, kid. Prove it."
We collapsed on the bank after, breathless, the tension a distant hum. I stared at the sky, then rolled the dice. "Shisui," I said, quiet, "can the clan and the village ever fix this?"
His smile faded, eyes sharpening. "Heavy stuff, Menma."
"I mean it. It's important."
He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "It's a mess. Old wounds, mistrust. The Uchiha feel cornered, and the village… they've never let us in. But I think we can bridge it. We have to."
My chest tightened. Shisui saw it—the rift, the hope. But he'd died for it once. "What if someone's pushing the divide?" I asked, careful. "Making it worse?"
His gaze snapped to me, wary. "Like who?"
I shrugged, playing dumb. "Just saying. If someone wanted us gone, how'd they do it?"
He frowned, thinking. "They'd stir the pot. Plant lies, stage trouble. Paint us as traitors."
My heart thudded. He was close—too close. "And you'd stop it?"
He nodded, grim. "I'd try. Dig up the truth. But it's a steep hill—trust breaks easy, fixes slow."
I stood, brushing off dirt. "Thanks, Shisui. Good to know."
He grinned, but it was tight. "Don't carry the world, kid. We'll sort it."
I wanted to believe him. But wanting wasn't enough.
---
The archives became my refuge. Hiruzen's pass got me in, and I dove deep—scrolls on jutsu, clan lore, dusty politics. The librarians watched, bemused, a six-year-old poring over Jonin texts, but I was the Hokage's pet project. They let it slide.
One scroll stopped me cold—a faded rant from the Second Hokage. "The Uchiha's power is their curse," it sneered. "Their eyes breed chaos. They're a risk." I slammed it shut, hands trembling. This was the seed—Danzo's gospel, the village's fear. I needed to uproot it, show the Uchiha's heart—their loyalty, their losses.
But how? Documents? A public stand? My mind raced, desperate, grasping.
Time ticked down. A year and a half—maybe less.