Chapter Text
NOW
Sukea was born somewhere between Road to Yumei and Yama Mount. Clearly, he was doomed from the start: there was nothing concrete in dreams, and no root will take in a mountain named mountain. Perhaps his name came from the violent storm of that night, scaring away all living beings with an ounce of self preservation.
But in a world of conflict, self preservation sometimes did not factor in the list of reactions from others’ actions. For example, a mostly self sustentable villa - with very limited outside market and barely any worth for travelers - had nowhere to escape when ninja came out to play.
Running didn't help. Screaming even less. Sukea was forced face first in the days-old mud puddle, arm twisted painfully behind his back by a ninja that laughed when he heard his name.
“‘Scare’, huh?”, he digged his knee on the boy’s back. “You might need to live up to your name if you want to survive in this world, boy.”
The ninja did not believe he could, Sukea suspected.
He was taken to the center of Fuma villa, where the large common area was turned into a makeshift prison: one group full of other scrappy children like himself, and another of adults; both watched by mean looking ninja with Kusagakure’s headband.
Some children were crying their hearts out, others stared with wide eyes at certain grownup villagers, and others didn't look at anything at all.
The Kusa ninja dragged (by the arm, by the leg, by the hair) every resident to the agglomeration, and proceeded to quell the crying and begging with threats and occasional physical punishments.
This is just a warning, Kakashi Sukea thought, watching a civilian getting backhanded, and shrinking into the mess of children around him. They could've caused a lot more damage.
A man with a lean built and dark green hair stepped forward. Expression blank, arms dangling by his side, and still his mere presence rose the fear of prey; the crowd hushed.
(Kakashi did nothing against the wave of subtle, but steady, killing intent. One mistake will condemn himself and his teammates. Kusa and Konoha were supposed to be allies, but that mattered little when they were not supposed to be here.)
“People of Fuma”, the man's baritone propagated evenly. “I’ll be brief: you are to pay for the protection our Kage extended to this region when Taki tried to invade us. Protection that the daimyo was supposed to pay with coins and goods, but didn't. Now conflict is upon us once more, and the daimyo refuses to meet his original bargain”, he showed the palms of his hands. “Simply put: you are what we are owned.”
Voices of protests rose from the adults, one went as far as stepping closer, nearly spitting on his face. The man only watched calmly.
What did a predator have to fear against attained prey? The villagers were surrounded, out-weaponed and out-trained by the dozen Kusa ninja that circled them like a wild pack.
Out of the sudden, the man put a hand on the shoulder of the civilian elder that dared invade his space.
“Are you the village leader?”, he asked, somehow already certain of the answer.
The elder, tense like a bow string, swallowed, cleaned his throat, and said with barely any tremble: “There’s no formal title, but I am a trusted advisor of the people.”
The ninja, still holding onto the other’s shoulder, smiled. A small, polite thing from a gracious winner. “You understand, then, what it is like to prioritize the best for the many.”
The man then wiped out his face, and turned his back to listen to a report from an incoming subordinate.
Sukea's group was led separately from the other to line up against a low building wall. He couldn't see the adult group anymore, but he presumed that they, too, were ordered to strip naked.
It was an inspection lineup. Seventeen children, ages five to fourteen, trembled under three pairs of watchful eyes, while one ninja checked their hands, feet, armpit, teeth, scalp.
Sukea watched from the corner of his eye a boy a little down the line. The closer the inspector got, the more he shook. He shifted on his feet. Sukea could hear his breathing as if there weren't three kids between them.
(Do not fucking-)
Sounds of alarm turned everyone's attention. Their inspector took a step back; no one let up their guard on them.
One person belonging to the other group must have aggravated the wrong person. A kunoichi had him by the hair, uncaring of his begging, and only let him go because she had him where she wanted: at her feet, where everyone could see them.
Sukea recognized him now: it was Kuzo, the oldest son of the merchant family he came with. He was begging and sobbing, scared out of his mind, nothing like the mercurial youth Sukea met. From an unseen source (his parents?), gutural desperation.
“Bargaining for selfish reasons won't be tolerated”, the kunoichi announced at large, and cut the boy’s throat.
EARLIER
Kakashi arrived at Fuma villa after travelling for three days and two nights with merchants that bypass it every year during their seasonal three months of itinerary.
Although, if you asked the Funeno family (Hagari, Mai, and their son Kuzo), they would say that Sukea had been accompanying them since the start of their journey weeks ago, so their second child could stay behind to further their artisanal pottery apprenticeship.
“Sukea-chan”, said the matriarch, “please help Kuzo set up the tent.”
As an eager-to-please child, he did what was asked promptly beside a grumpy fifteen year old who was getting sick and tired of their traditional journey. Kuzo kept trying to argue with his parents about the benefits of changing routes.
Late that evening, long after Kuzo had last sold one of their personalized pots, and the couple had left to take care of sleep arrangements, Sukea timidly risked:
“Kuzo-san, can I go find us something to eat?”
Kuzo’s bored eyes looked at him before scoffing. “In the end you just got sick of it that fast, didn’t you?"
Sukea stammered, gesturing wildly.
“Whatever”, Kuzo sniffed, then said intently: “Tell you what: you take, say, a twenty minute break, and then when you’re back so do I.”
He nodded hesitantly, hardly in a position to argue with the merchant’s son.
“Great”, the older boy said dismissively. “Scram.”
Sukea obeyed.
Fuma was located somewhat between Kannabi and Owa Bridges, which made them a good route for travellers, but their lack of entertainment tended to discourage visitors. For a small villa, it hosted a surprising number of different establishments, like blacksmithing, gardening, jewelry, handmade accessories, and culinary based on freshwater fish and harvests of their fertile soil.
It was in one of those food stands that Sukea found what he was looking for.
“Excuse me”, he said, letting the cloth partition close behind him.
A weathered-looking woman accepting payment from two men welcomed him with a smile.
“I got it, granny”, a boy said with a resigned sigh.
“Good thing your father sent you to me”, the old woman clicked her tone. “How a healthy boy like you is afraid of work?!”
“I said I’ll take care of it, damn it”, the boy grumbled under his breath, and told Sukea: “You can sit here. Did you- What would you like?”
The woman sent him a faint nod of approval.
“Just a congee, please.”
The attendant looked impatient. “Traditional base or something else?”, he waved at a handwritten poster.
Sukea squinted at it.
“We’re out of beef stock”, the granny intervened casually. “So it’s either water or vegetable.”
“...Vegetable.”
She nodded, pleased, and ordered her grandson to prepare it. Sukea pretended not to hear her hissing that ‘sometimes we have to read for our customers, pay attention, boy!’ before disappearing with dirty bowls. He also pretended not to notice the surprised and embarrassed look the boy sent him, who then fired up their available additions.
“Here you go”, the attendant showed his first seller's smile to Sukea, putting down the steaming congee and the fried fish in front of him. “Carefull, it’s hot. Enjoy.”
Sukea ate quietly, glad that he caught the business on a slow hour after minding an open stand since morning.
Later, he hurriedly searched for a public toilet, aware that he was stretching his twenty minutes. There, he read the message his fellow chūnin, posing as the attendant, slipped. He needed a few instants to mentally decode it:
Star missed 1 check in. No new orders.
FOUR DAYS AGO
Kusagakure’s forest was similar as it was unfamiliar to the Konoha team. If it weren't for their strange flora, such as giant mushrooms, perhaps the humid heat with a penchant for rain would feel closer to home.
The charge in the air spoke of an incoming storm. The travelers they had been shadowing were already looking for a clear place at the skirts of the Road to Yumei to set up camp. Not much later, the trio of civilians, composed of father, mother and son, retired to the tent.
In the forest reigned the quiet prelude to a natural phenomenon, wild fauna instinctually ceding to one of the aspects of their existence.
Mikoto-taichō, layered in genjutsu, followed the targets. As agreed, so did Kakashi two minutes later. She was crouching over three sleeping bodies, her sharingan bright red even from his peripheral.
“It worked as discussed”, she informed him. “I can show you what they know.”
Kakashi looked into her eyes.
Later, alone with torrential rain drowning the darkness, he wondered at her caution to let the choice up to him whether he wanted to see what she showed the civilians, or hear an oral recount, despite the former being the more logical choice. His ability to live up to the person taichō created hanged on his understanding of how the Funeno saw him.
Beside him, three genjutsu-ed strangers snored the night storm away, convinced that the young Sukea with them was from a poor family that would be glad to have one less mouth to feed for a few weeks, and would welcome back a son with life skills under his belt that they couldn't teach him.
At this moment, Mikoto-taichō, Iaikiri Bai and Sahimoto Chen were running ahead to the villa of Fuma to prepare the next step of groundwork for their recon mission. There, they will choose a person to implant memories so that one of the chūnin could infiltrate the villa's daily life unsuspectedly.
As long as Kakashi and, probably, Chen, made sure to regularly be in sight of their genjutsu-ed person, the jutsu will hold. Without further interference, the fake memories will gradually fade, only to stir like a lazy blob if inquired purposely.
Mikoto-san’s genjutsu specialization was like a scabbing scratch: an easily ignorable itch but unmistakable when you poked it, and all it left behind was faint, discolored skin.
The sharingan wielder was a fearsome thing, indeed.