[closed] it took all the man in me

[anbu]

Who: Itachi Uchiha and various.
When: Aereuer 13th.
Where: Looking-Glass House.
What: Memory sharing event.
Warnings: Mass death/genocide, war themes, gore, violence, trauma, child soldiers, very sad but cute brothers. I'll update if/as other things come up.





[To the vast majority of the Mirrorbound who cross its path, Itachi's mirror is plain and unassuming, its silver surface set into a black wooden frame. They will notice complicated carvings, some strange cross between Japanese calligraphy and other, indecipherable symbols unlike language. There are only two distinct images: the first is located on the upper left corner of the mirror and features an avian animal with beady, jewel-like red eyes; the second is located on the bottom right corner and features a pinwheel design. If further investigated, it'll become obvious the mirror also carries a burnt scent, as if the wood has recently been charred by fire.

Sasuke will see a much more detailed and familiar frame. The faces of their parents; the face of Uchiha Shisui; the Mangekyou Sharingan set within the shape of an actual eyeball; Akatsuki clouds; and the Uchiha fan directly beside the leaf's symbol of Konoha. It takes no guesswork to understand who this mirror is meant to represent.]

—

[OOC: Due to this event being exposition-heavy, scene specific, and intense (as well as a desire not to get too overloaded), I will not be writing any general open prompts! This also helps me keep each thread interesting and unique. That said, I'm open to plotting something. Feel free to reference my plotting comment here so we can hash something out. I have a list of memories here, but it isn't exhaustive. I can find something else if none of these are appealing.

Starters will be posted below as I write them!]

Comments

@alex, cw: eventual death/violence.

[anbu]

[Through the mirror, Alex will find herself in a cool and shaded hallway, the scent of piny wood fragrant in the air. To her left, large windows give a cut-out picture of the world she's now found herself inside: distant trees, clay and stone buildings with brightly colored rooftops, an entire city tucked into the crevice of a mountain. Closest to the window is what appears to be a large playground. A throng of children are playing on it now in chaos of pealing laughter and screaming excitement as the young students chase each other around the school yard.

An authoritative voice calls out over the group, and a door is opened, children filing in one by one. Their ages range from as young as six to as old as twelve, all of varying sizes, all bubbling with energy as they're split and divided into groups.

One child lags behind the rest. One of the youngest by far, the little boy is dark-haired and dark-eyed, watchful and careful of his surroundings as he wanders in.

Each of the doors slip closed. Only one will remain open, at the very end of the hall — and this one is where the boy enters. Alex will have no choice but to follow.]

@jonas, cw: mass death, war, childhood trauma.

[anbu]

[The stench is obvious first, a physical wall immediate and overpowering when Jonas steps through the shimmering face of the mirror. Whether or not it's placed, he will only need to take two more steps forward across the dirt path to discover its source: in every direction the desolation of violent combat is evident. Bodies are piled in makeshift mass graves or discarded singularly in the chaos of still-ongoing battle, forgotten casualties in the clash of nations. Most are unrecognizable, bloodied and torn at the hands of other enemy shinobi, but they are all most certainly dead.

Worse still is that not all of those bodies belong to fully grown adults.

What few soldiers remain are dispersed across the battlefield, though those numbers are quick and dwindling, some even attempting to flee outright. All of them are wearing headbands which glint silver under the light of a waning moon to reveal symbols: leaf, rock, hourglass, cloud — among others. It's difficult to place time; this eerie, lifeless hellscape has crossed a boundary into eternal night, but the truth is that the sun is somewhere on the horizon. Soon it'll bleed threads of superficial warmth back over the territory.

Jonas will notice, immediately in his peripheral, the fast-running figure of a small child, hardly older than a toddler. Alone amid all of this.]

@sasuke, cw: itachi being a very bad no good sibling, shitty parenting, eventually some death.

[anbu]

[After recognizing and crossing through the mirror, Sasuke will find himself on a familiar street, one tainted with a bittersweet nostalgia seemingly untouched by age. The path to their house follows one meandering road from the main entrance of the Uchiha compound. Both of them have walked it countless times in their life, though the way it appears now is a surreal experience.

All around, other members of the Uchiha clan are winding down their days, finishing errands or returning from workplaces elsewhere in the village, its youngest venturing back from the Academy. The energy of the compound is winding to a quiet, peaceful night.

At the home of Uchiha Fugaku and Mikoto, dinner has ended and bedtime routine has begun, though only one of the Uchiha sons seems to be present. Sasuke — much younger, round cheeks flushed and hair damp from a recent bath — is pacing the floorboards with stubborn energy. His mother calls out to him, Sasuke, it's time for bed! though it falls on deaf ears. In a front room, Fugaku is reclined and relaxed, parchment of various police reports spread across a low table, completely removed from the familial scene.

The second son is missing.]

@sephiroth, cw: eventual violence/death.

[anbu]

[The room is cold and black with shadow, expunged only by four candles in its corners, a place where daylight seems unable to reach, a hole carved deep into the belly of a mountain. Two figures occupy this room. One of them, an adult man, is crouched at its center like some regal dark god upon a shrine, demanding attention with his mere presence. Across from him kneels a much younger boy, at most ten or eleven, dressed in unfamiliar uniform.

"So you intend to join ANBU," the man named Danzou says. The boy nods his head at this statement. "An achievement is required to ensure you are a suitable candidate."

"A mission?"

"Yes. I have been put in charge of assigning you this mission," Danzou speaks down to him, deliberate with every word, each pause intentional. He is a cold and calculative man. Looking at him can be difficult, as his gaze is scrutinizing, picking everything apart. "There is a man in the ANBU, age thirty-four. On the surface this man lives an ordinary life. Perhaps he seems old to you as a shinobi. Recently, we've learned he is colluding with Kirigakure."

"Then I am to take care of this man—"

"I'm not finished," Danzou cuts across in a voice of ice. "Those of ANBU do their utmost to ensure no one else in the village learns their affiliation. He has a wife and two children, ages three and one. Despite his collusion, he is a great and capable shinobi, trusted by the Hokage himself. But if we permit a traitor, the village will never be strong. ... For someone as insightful as you, this tale is rather roundabout. Forgive me. But it is all for the purpose of having you know this man." The candles flicker in the corners. "Kill this man."

"Understood."

Danzou rises, a dark presence now tall and looming. "It is obvious at this point, but I believe the place you belong is within ANBU. You are permitted one comrade on this mission. I leave the selection to you. Take whoever you trust most." For a moment it appears that's all he will say, but then he continues: "While one person eats, another goes hungry. There are always people suffering in this fiction we call 'peace'. People burdened with darkness. Don't you think we should hold in contempt those who forget this fact and simply gorge themselves on peace?

Unless there is someone," Danzou goes on, "someone completely free of emotion to cut away the fraying edges, this world will never see tranquility. In the past I said you were the bearer of bad luck." He looks down on the boy. "You life will forever be shadowed by chaos. That's why you need to become strong enough to cut out the root of that chaos yourself. ... But that cleverness will make you suffer."

"I'll suffer?"

"Stop trying to hide yourself in front of me," Danzou demands, placing a hand on the boy's small shoulder. "The desire for true peace, wanting a world without war, is making you suffer. I know everything about you. The one who can bring about true peace is the one who has the deepest darkness inside of him. I believe you can become that person." The man smiles for the first time, though it's a wicked expression, almost lending an inhumanity to him. "Come to me, Uchiha Itachi."

The moment in that dim room stretches on eternal, Danzou with his hand on the boy's shoulder, smiling down. The boy says nothing in response. All he does is turn his head away, as if he can no longer bear to look the man in the eye. It's here the memory blinks out, leaving Sephiroth alone.

This doesn't last long, as another figure soon appears behind him, having followed him into the mirror. The same individual who confronted him on the street days ago — the same as the boy, though now a good decade older. He's frowning.] ... Sephiroth.

@stiles

[anbu]

[Stiles will come to find himself in a dimly shaded room, crowded wall to wall with people, all dressed in the style of shinobi. At the head of this room stands a taller man with stern features wearing the uniform of the Military Police Chief. Beside him is Itachi, no older than ten, dressed in a Konoha jacket.

"My son has been promoted to chūnin," Fugaku tells those gathered. Scattered applause and some echos of 'congratulations' fill the room. "Say a few words," the father tells his son. Itachi nods his head, then goes through a dry and emotionless spiel: he will devote himself body and soul to the path of shinobi, for the sake of Konoha, and for the sake of the clan, and he looks forward to walking alongside everyone.

It is then a voice calls out: "If a shinobi of Itachi's caliber joins the Military Police Force, it might improve the standing of Uchihas within the village." A chorus of approving, hopeful agreement spreads through the room.

"No," Fugaku announces, "I intend for Itachi to go into the ANBU instead."

This causes angry disruption among the gathered brethren.

"Our Military Police Force and the ANBU have clashed any number of times in pursuit of public order in Konoha!" comes a shout. Discordant voices join: criticizing ANBU, debating the intentions behind Fugaku's words, commenting on Konoha's treatment of the clan. The room fills with these loud and bitter resentments all at once.

"Listen to me!" Fugaku roars at the front, bringing calm and order back into place. "I understand how you feel. I feel the same. And as you all know, the ANBU is keeping watch over our compound secretly. In which case, we need to also have eyes on the village. This is what I hope for Itachi to do for us."

As the crowd begins to stir once more, the boy at his father's side speaks again in a voice barely louder than a murmur, "... But we are all comrades of the same village."

At once, heads whip around, electric tension splitting the air. "What did you just say?"

"One side does one thing, the other does it too. You kill your opponent, someone comes for revenge. And then a fight breaks out." Itachi stares at his feet. "You're looking at things from the perspective of who is your ally, so you can't see the big picture."

An unfamiliar man lashes out to grab Itachi by the collar, yanking him forward. Fugaku reaches out immediately to stop this. "Calm down," Fugaku says, then turns to his son. "Apologize, Itachi."

The moment hangs in silence. Fugaku continues, "I understand what you're trying to say. But you're speaking about an ideal which is not reality. Fighting and war are indeed linked with hatred. You are too young to understand the true predicament of those who are persecuted. If you could see what a difficult position we're in, you wouldn't speak so lightly or impulsively."

A sad look comes into the young boy's eyes as his gaze drifts from his father to the man who had tried to attack him. In a voice that almost disappears, he finally says, "I'm very sorry."

Here, the memory blinks out, and Stiles is left once again alone.]

[coherer]

(an outdoorsy scent is what draws jonas to itachi's mirror, familiar with it. it's wood burning, it's bonfires, it's alluring and simultaneously worrisome when it comes from aisles of flammable floorboards. to track down the source he need only lean near each, unrecognizable frame, a couple standing out to him but ignored in favour of stamping out whatever's alight—incidentally, when he arrives there's nothing there. the glass stands alone, reflective and rippling beneath a touch that was meant to brace him while he peered behind it.

jonas falls through and down the slope of a sheer hole dug shallowly in the ground, heel hitting the soft flesh of a dead body that has him pinning himself into dirt with a hoarse shout. with immediate regret for his resulting gasp, his hand clamps down over his mouth and nose to stifle the stench of putrefaction, turning to kick in a foothold and climb out onto his elbows with a lurching gag. spitting, raising his head, teary eyes drag yard by yard across a field emptied but for corpses of little ones, men, and women in inscribed headbands. it's a horrible nightmare, one a shaky claw at his arm won't wake him from, struggling shakily to his feet after pitching the contents of his stomach up into mud that clings to his cheek when at last jonas wipes his face.

and then he spots it.

a child, too young to be school-aged, darts into his field of vision. a child, alone without his parents who might've left him or died in whatever war's been waged. a child, forced to see blood and carnage and decay and disaster when simple death is already a concept too macabre for the young to learn. for an astoundingly long moment, jonas can do nothing but watch him flee and forget to breathe. shock stiffens his limbs, legs locking him in place—if you move, you'll die; if you call out, they'll find you—until, like a ghost presiding over and haunting someone else's life, his path is crossed unawares.)

... wait... (he mutters, dizzy stare widening and flashing to itachi, leaning into a sharp run.)

Wait! I-I won't hurt you, buddy; I just wanna' get you outta' here! (stride longer, jonas can just reach him. but just as he extends a hand to grab at his upper arm with a lunge that'd take them both to a protective roll onto the ground, willing to sacrifice himself to a few bruises and scrapes if it means covering this kid's face to the dangers around them, his fingers pass through skin and his momentum sends him stumbling onto his knees.) J-Jesus! What the fuck!

[eyeforaneye]

[ It takes him seconds to find his brother's mirror.

Even in this dream, hazy as his grasp on conscious reality is, he manages to find it again, drawn to it with an almost magnetic attraction. He remembers well the color and quality of his older brother's chakra, certain he can see it choking the edges of reflective glass even without the power of the eyes so carefully etched into the frame. Itachi's eyes. His eyes. Fingers brush near his temple as he regards the faces watching him, uncertain if he should step forward or walk away. These memories are private, sacred, hidden for good reasons. But for all of Itachi's lies, he always would've chosen harsh realities just to better understand him.

Decision made, he steps forward.

A dozen memories seem to wash over him at once when he hears achingly familiar voices, the laughter of distant family members or the gossiping of others that line a street he hasn't seen in years. The last time... it had been covered in rubble; why would anyone see a need to rebuild after Pain's attack? The Uchiha compound had been a derelict for years, after all, with a young boy always saying his apologies to the homes that he had to allow to fall into ruin. Now as he walks the main thoroughfare they look well-kept and full of life, but his steps don't linger near any of them. He has only one goal in mind.

When he reaches his old house he's reluctant to slide open the door, feeling every inch an intruder. Fingers hesitate on the wooden frame, startled into gripping it tighter when he hears his mother's voice from inside. Slowly but steadily he forces that door along its groove, unguarded emotions flickering over his face as he steps inside. Habit has him closing the door behind himself, well-aware of where his father would be seated and choosing instead to make for the stairs.

He isn't allowed to disturb the older man, after all.

His steps carry him to the upstairs hallway, halting just short of his own old room that he'd continued to inhabit for years after the house was otherwise empty. There's the younger him, upset over something he can barely remember. ]

... this is... my memory, or his? He was gone that night.

[mensrea]

[ With the events of the full moon still weighing heavily on his mind, the sight of the avian creature overlooking this particular mirror immediately brings Itachi to mind. This suspicion is further supported by the Japanese-looking symbols, though Stiles is hardly an expert in differentiating written Asian languages. The bottom-right corner of the frame is studied long enough that he’s confident he can replicate the design once he wakes up, to be sketched in his notebook and referenced later. It’s as he’s memorizing the pinwheel, face tilted close to the mirror, that he picks up on the scent of burnt wood. Stiles leans away, thoughtful; the frame doesn’t seem to bear any visible scorch marks. What does it represent? Thinking back to Itachi’s arrival in Aefenglom, Stiles recalls the burns on the man’s arms. Maybe it has to do with how he died.

Straightening, he considers the mirror a final time. There isn’t much more for him to investigate. And so, Stiles pushes through the glass surface.

The atmosphere that greets him on the other side is unnerving. While he understands logically that he isn’t actually the center of attention, the illusion created by his position in the room makes it feel as if every eye is on him. With goosebumps flaring up his arms, he turns away from the sea of cold and unfamiliar faces to instead look at the man who must be in charge. Beside him is…well, it has to be Itachi, doesn’t it? ]

Of course you had to be cute, [ he grumbles, annoyed he’s been dumped in a memory that might endear him to the elder Uchiha brother. ] You win this round. Brat.

[ The man – their father, apparently (guess the brothers got their pretty boy good looks from the mother, because woof…) – begins speaking. Chūnin takes a moment to click in his mind; this is the first time he’s heard it mentioned out loud. According to Sasuke, it’s the second of three shinobi ranks granted as a promotion after some kind of exam. Sasuke allegedly won all his matches, yet wasn’t promoted and remains a genin to this day. Meanwhile, Itachi can’t be older than twelve here and has already earned the promotion. So what? he scoffs inwardly, blindly loyal to a fault. Sasuke’s said that the shinobi system needs to change anyway. For all he knows, passing the exam involves questionable tests that Sasuke was better off failing. Like an Anger Expression Inventory? Stiles cringes and carefully packs away thoughts of Donovan.

Itachi’s practiced little speech is alarming to hear from a boy so young. Brows rising into his hairline, Stiles peers at the crowd to see if anyone is likewise disturbed about a child pledging his “body and soul” to the shinobi way. There’s nothing, naturally. Un-fucking-believable.

A discussion sparks, one that Stiles has some difficulty following. He’s quietly filing away information at rapid speed – Uchiha clan; poor standing in the village; village is called Konoha; will anyone ever explain what a hidden village is to me; animosity between the police and ANBU; do the Uchiha hold the majority of positions in the police force; is ANBU like the FBI or CIA –

The situation spins out of control. Stiles lunges forward to seize the man who has grabbed Itachi, useless though the action obviously is. Even as their father interjects, Stiles is gripped with furious incredulity at the response. If anyone had ever grabbed him like that – at any age, but especially as a child – the Sheriff would have put them through a wall. What is wrong with these people!?

When the memory ends, Stiles lingers. A cold anger burns him from the inside out. This is the world they come from? This is the family they were raised in? What a joke. A sick, twisted joke. Seething, he spins on his heel and exits the mirror. ]

@julian and jongdae, cw: violence.

[anbu]

[Crossing through his mirror, they will find themselves in the cool, green clearing of a dense forest. There is no immediate or visible path forward. Surrounded on all sides by a thicket of trees, animal life is distantly audible, although it may sound a bit sinister. Birdsong is not energetic or musical, instead a slow and insidious melody; insects hiss and buzz; and beneath all of that is a low, almost imperceptible growling, some agitated creature hidden in cover of foliage and canopy. This forest has no welcoming, serene atmosphere. Instead it hangs with a sense of death and gloom.

There is no obvious exit, so escape back through the portal of the mirror won't be possible, unfortunately. Better buckle in for the ride.

A rustle of noise comes sudden from the left. Upon closer examination, it appears to be a young boy, perhaps no older than nine or ten, walking at a brisk pace through the dense knot of trees. His direction isn't easy to discern, but the serious expression on his face and the certainty of his movements both imply he knows where he's going. It may be a wise idea to follow — whether to ensure the child wandering this place isn't harmed, or to see if he knows the path to an exit.

With some guesswork, it's possible to tell this is Itachi at a much younger age, although he won't react to any questions or intervention. Tailing him a short distance in silence only lasts so long; Itachi soon stops and looks around, alert. Three other young children appear out of the shadow, forming in a triangle in order to block all escape.

"Taking the chūnin exam all by yourself is suicide!" a boy shouts. "If you hand over the scroll like a good boy, we won't kill you. But if you're gonna fight back, then I can't promise anything."

It's noticeable then. In Itachi's hand is a scroll, the symbol for Heaven inscribed with Japanese calligraphy on it.

"So, be good and—"

"There's an item on the examinee qualifications for this test," Itachi's calm, even voice comes, "that you have to participate in a three-person cell. So why am I here alone like this?"

"Maybe your teammates ditched you," the girl in the group jeers, and one of the boys laughs.

"I was alone from the start," Itachi says. "Why doesn't it make you uncomfortable that I'm here alone? Why don't you consider the possibility that I was allowed to take the test alone? Don't you think there's some meaning behind that fact, when the basis for the test is the three-person cell?"

Fear begins to come over the opposing group of children, expressions struck with new realization. "Get him!" the girl shouts, and all at once they lunge forward, weapons brandished. Sharp-bladed shuriken cut through the air. Probably a good idea to get out of the way of this confrontation...]

[supersoldier]

[Even Sephiroth is not immune to curiosity. There were mirrors that flickered, glimmered, beckoned him in closer, that teased at the wonderment he often kept partitioned behind iron walls. One, set in a frame of black like his own, draws him near — the pinwheel-like design is intriguing enough, and when the glass shimmers a second, third, fourth time, Sephiroth chooses to step in.

What he finds is an exchange in a dark place, between a man who commands authority as though it were a weapon to be wielded, and someone younger whose dimly-lit face threatens to spark recognition. But Sephiroth does not speak — it is not as though he can interrupt memory, anyhow — and only watches, occasionally taking steps around the perimeter of the space like a green-eyed animal warily drawn to the unfamiliar.

A task is set before the young man. To kill another who might compromise them, who carries potentially traitorous intent. He thinks of home, briefly, of SOLDIERs who deserted their path— No, it isn’t the time for that.

It doesn’t matter. The mission is accepted, and the reward will be to join this “ANBU”, whatever it might entail. Talks of peace and its double-sided nature fill the space, yet Sephiroth remains placid, and again, he does nothing but listen until the images finally fade.

And then, a voice. He places it before he even turns around to look.]

Itachi. [The connection is made just as quickly, the reason for that stubborn sense of familiar now made clear.] ...You were tasked with an unforgiving mission. What did I just see?

[No apologies, no sense of awkwardness for stepping into his memory unasked. Few pry such things from Sephiroth with ease, and he isn't inclined, anyway. Their last meeting had been... interesting.]

[itsjiaheng]

Woah, holy shit..

[ jongdae had a dream once about being in a forest but the details were hazy at best. the most exposure he's had to nature thus far have been carefully cultivated public parks. it takes him time just to adjust to that; the gloom of the atmosphere is one thing but the alienness of it goes deeper than just being an extremely sheltered person. his eyes are slow to start seeing the foliage all around as more than just differently coloured blurs and he presses his hands against his ears to blot out the sounds a little before his senses start feeling overwhelmed.

he doesn't hear the rustling to his left, only aware that someone's there when he's startled by the boy's sudden appearance. the tips of his ears feel hot under his fingers given the wash of shame that rolled over him at how badly he'd reacted. to a kid.

why is there a kid out here anyway...? ]

Hey! You probably shouldn't be out here alone...

[ not that he's going to be an exceptional guardian or anything, but he figures he can help. he's bigger! he just doesn't realise his words are falling on deaf ears until he catches up and realises exactly who he's looking at. he hadn't had much to go by when he'd stepped inside. given that the itachi he knows is obviously not a child, he's sure that whatever's happening right now must have happened before.

he tries not to think too hard about the fact that despite his best efforts not to he can't help but crunch noisily through the underbrush which just feels even more loud compared to itachi's practised shinobi stealth and grace and all that good stuff.

the foreboding atmosphere is really starting to wear on him and he's tense and anxious by the time itachi stops, looking to the ten-year old like a lost puppy. ]

Oh, god damn it! Can you all just NOT?!

[ he's really lucky he's still standing after the way he'd jumped back when the three additional children suddenly(!!) appeared and he's extremely grateful that no one seems to be able to see him.

there's something not quite right about leaving a young itachi there alone and outnumbered, even though jongdae's fairly certain he can't do a thing anyway. still, he stays close and listens to the exchange.

he has Questions. what exactly is the chūnin exam and is that kid really serious about wanting to kill for a scroll??

the humour goes out of him all at once when he hears itachi's words and they land in a way he doesn't expect. "i was alone from the start." he frowns and his brows furrow as he stares in itachi's direction, like he wants to puzzle him out. surely itachi just meant it in the context of the test, seeing as the entire conversation's been about taking it alone and jongdae's just wildly overthinking it. it wouldn't be the first time.

but it is why he's distracted when the battle breaks out around him and he dives onto the ground at the first sight of a naked blade. he doesn't even care anymore about his dignity as he crawls and rolls away until he can hide out under a bush. he's sure he will regret this because horrible things live in bushes but there is also the other alternative of getting stabbed. which, honestly, is almost preferable to ending up with a bug in his hair.

one of those sharp looking shuriken lands just shy of his hand as he's considering crawling back out again and so he thinks better of it. even if he's immune to sharp objects here it all feels real right now so he's just going to be smart and hide. ]

Huh.. is that like a—.. aw, no way!

[ having identified the rogue shuriken as something Cool and Interesting, he leans a little to get a better view of the fighting from his awkward vantage point. the weapons are definitely sharp and it certainly doesn't sound like the sort of fighting you'd expect to hear among children.. ]

[anbu]

[The child continues on, oblivious to the kind hand that reaches out for him, and skids to a halt at the bottom of another trench of bodies where a wounded voice is calling for water. "Here," he says in a shaky voice, kneeling to pull out a bamboo canister to trickle water onto the lips of a fallen soldier. Something awful occurs then. The soldier, realizing the boy is dressed in shinobi gear, flashes a kunai out to strike—and the child reacts instantly with his own brandished blade. The man's throat is slit open. Soon he falls, dead.

"Father..." Over the boy's shoulder, another man has appeared. This is who he addresses. "Why did this shinobi try to kill me? I didn't do anything."

"Remember, this is a battlefield. In a few years you'll be a shinobi too. This war might end, but the reality of a shinobi doesn't change. This is the world you will step into."

Their voices carry over the silent graves of countless dead. Rain begins to fall, a quiet and thin drizzle. "Why did you bring me here..." the child finally asks in a shaky, stammering voice.

"You're a clever boy, Itachi. I wanted to make sure you saw this reality. Shinobi are creatures that fight. Never forget what you've seen here today."

The two speak little more after this, although if Jonas ventures near enough, he'll see the boy staring out over the surrounding area with tears painting his cheeks, crying openly.

Near-silent feet carry Itachi through his own mirror, into the flash of memory, ignoring the scene on display to pursue the trespasser in question. He appears behind Jonas suddenly, and yanks on the back of his shirt, bodily hauling him away from the trenches and bodies and his own childhood self.] Jonas, enough. [No inflection whatsoever.] You are not meant to be here.

[anbu]

[When Stiles reemerges from the mirror, nothing has changed in the environment. The owner of the mirror isn't waiting on the other side for confrontation or admonishment. Perhaps he's elsewhere in the Looking-Glass House, investigating the private memories of others, or perhaps he's sifting through his own memories to fish out someone else... whatever the reason, it must be a good one. For a man as private as Itachi to be absent this complete invasion of his life is unusual. Still, Stiles is safe from being overseen for now.

Behind him the mirror's face continues to shimmer, cool and glassy, completely unguarded from further prying.]

[anbu]

[The memory stretches an indeterminable length of time. Dying daylight fades in the window and dark reclaims its panes, night settling in at last. The young Sasuke is herded to bed, hair combed, teeth brushed, dinosaur toy secured under an arm with one last look toward the quiet entrance hall. Then his door is closed and peace reigns, apart from the movement of the two adults downstairs.

Were this Sasuke's own memory, it might have blinked out here with the swift approach of sleep. It doesn't. Instead the soft, faint noise of disturbance in the downstairs hall comes next, the sound of a side door sliding open with a whisper of wood panel. The reason for Sasuke's arrival on the street becomes suddenly clearer, as a younger Itachi enters the house, stopping to pull off his shoes in the entryway with trained silence to avoid attracting the attention of his parents where they've drifted further away. Then he ascends the stairs—and pauses outside of Sasuke's door, a still figure posed out of the light. His expression overall is difficult to discern, though the weary lines of fatigue are easiest to see through the gloomy shadow. He waits there for what seems an eternity, listening, before continuing on down the hall to his own room.

And vanishes within it.

The dream goes on for another hour, presumably the long and restless wait of the older brother's attempt at sleep. If Sasuke chooses to go into his room, he'll find Itachi seated on his bed in the darkness with black eyes staring straight down at the floor. Eventually he does climb beneath the sheets, little more than a body surrendering to exhaustion. Regardless of where Sasuke is, the dream at last fades out and he will have nothing more to see.

The owner of the mirror is still nowhere around, its face gleaming silver and eerie in the room where Itachi had first arrived.]

[anbu]

[He doesn't need to have witnessed the memory to know what it was, the room so familiar it coaxes a cold chill across his skin as soon as he steps in. An unforgivable mission... Is that the truth? A difficult one, of course, but not out of the realm of duty for a member of ANBU. It is as much as is expected of them.

Those underneath Danzou. Even now the man's face swims into his mind, dark and looming.

There is no point in concealing what this was. Sephiroth had seen enough to guess. And so:] It is expected for those who intend to join ANBU to complete a mission demonstrating their capability. In this case, I was tasked with the assassination of a man named Mukai Kohinata, a known spy.

[Standing in this bleak cave, it's easy to recall the series of events which led to his lethal encounter with Mukai. Such a foggy, distant moment in his past, shrouded now by everything else—yet here it rises again to the fore.]

It was a difficult mission. Even with the aid of another skilled shinobi at my side, we were fortunate to survive. [But they did. Or, he did, and Shisui found his death at the hands of the very man who haunted this memory. Itachi frowns, expression touched with a new remoteness.] ... You've seen a moment of my past.

[supersoldier]

[There is hardly room for Sephiroth himself to judge, and therefore none truly comes. A SOLDIER is expected to carry out orders just the same — and their recruitment process is perhaps as unkind, though in ways different than what he sees before him. Still, in that vein, there’s a thread of familiarity in a stranger’s memory. Shared obligation, duty, unquestioning.

And yet Sephiroth believes there to be something shadowing Itachi’s features; he wonders if this memory is particularly important, for good or ill. Or maybe his eyes deceive him. He does not believe so, but... maybe.]

But you succeeded. A difficult task surmounted, and all the more reason why you were fit for the job. [That, of course, is an assumption of the other’s feelings on the matter. Sephiroth is fishing, seeing what he can reel in. Curiosity dictates it.]

Is that not correct?

[mensrea]

[ Back in the Looking-Glass House, he falters. For some reason, Stiles had anticipated meeting Itachi on his return – as if the man possessed an uncanny, preternatural sixth sense for Stiles meddling in his affairs. Yet there’s no one here. No one to stoically reprimand the Arachne’s infraction. No one to stare him down with a coolly baleful look. No one for Stiles to take his misplaced anger out on after witnessing such a gross example of authoritarian parenting. No one to stop him from turning around and considering the mirror a second time.

Steeling himself, Stiles reenters it. ]

[coherer]

(staring at his hands, alarmed, jonas' breaths are huffed from him in a panic. his fingers dig back into dirt to rise up in spite of how desperately his tremors try to keep him down. this kid needs help, it's too dangerous, he'll be killed before his eyes if he—

can't even shout to warn the child, the dying soldier lashing out only to take a hit in turn. a four-year-old child slices through hard cartilage of the throat like the motion's second nature and blood bubbles forth from the gaping wound the man can't even weakly grasp closed. jonas falls silent after that, barely off of his knees, sinking back down on the edge of the trench with hardly a blink at the second voice that joins theirs.

he hears the discussion through a filter that sieves so many horrifying words that will all boil down to both "father," and "itachi." it's only once they stop speaking that he, considered young by his world's standards, puts it all together. this unnamed man is his bonded's dead parent, this monstrous person who forced his son to sprint across a field landmarked with the bodies of their comrades. his arm is the only defence jonas raises against the hand that fists into the back of his shirt, pulled back onto the bloody ground with a sharp gasp.

that they were raised into this is surreal, something his mind is unable to comprehend. like a stubborn mule, he finally snaps to with a dig of heels into the dirt, trying to slow itachi's progress as tears make easy tracks down cheeks red with stress. they were forced to see all of this so young, kids staring into the dead eyes of other kids, encouraged to think of wartime, praised for being there to absorb it. and who do they become, after they've grown?)

God, no– (whispered through clenched teeth before his voice breaks into a loud shout, slapping at itachi's wrist, turning onto a hip in a thrash to the side to slide instead on his shins.) No! Get the fuck off of me!

(terrified, trapped, jonas does the only thing he can think to do. he wrenches beneath itachi's grip and attempts to lunge at his waist, arms around him in a tight grab.)

[anbu]

[This time, the room where Stiles arrives has far fewer inhabitants: only three. They will likely be easier to place without aid. Itachi is there again, not much older, and his father is seated across from him – only now they are joined by another member of their family. A very young Sasuke is seated on the floor at Itachi's side, little legs curled under him and face pointed down. The room is dim, sunlight fading in a single window on the wall at the approach of the day's end.

"I'm told it's tomorrow," Fugaku says. "Ha, ha. That's my boy. It's only been six months since your promotion to chūnin, and you've already come so far." The air seems to hang between all three. It becomes obvious they're in the father's room, a study of some kind; Fugaku holds reign here. Notes are spread on a close table, police chief jacket hung on the wall.

"Tomorrow is a special mission... And I've decided to come along."

Itachi lifts his own head, looking his father in the eye. Still he says nothing. Beside him Sasuke continues to stare down, discomfort more visible than his older brother, yet unpracticed at concealing his emotions. A closer look will reveal Fugaku's bright red eyes, Sharingan lit across the irises.

"You don't have to worry so much," Itachi says. "And..."

"It's all right, Itachi..." This comes from Sasuke in a murmur.

"Tell him. Tomorrow is a big day for you, isn't it?"

"Tomorrow's mission is a very important one for the Uchiha clan!" Fugaku cuts over his two sons. "If you succeed at this mission, Itachi, your entry into the ANBU is essentially secured. You know that, don't you?"

Sasuke is visibly affected by his father's dismissal. His head lowers further, on the brink of tears.

"You know, I'm not going on tomorrow's mission, after all." Itachi looks straight ahead. A cold edge transforms the tone of his voice. "I'm going to Sasuke's entrance ceremony."

"Have you lost your mind? You know how important tomorrow is! What are you saying!"

"It's customary for relatives to attend the entrance ceremony. You must have received notice, Father."

A curtain of tension falls over the room, though it lasts only briefly. "Fine!" Fugaku caves, sighing. "All right. Enough. I'll go to the academy." He stands, leaving the room to join their mother at the dinner table. Itachi rises next with Sasuke at his heels, both brothers following their father out. Sasuke is a bit slower, a slight limp to his gait as he moves – a casualty of earlier's over-exuberance while training, though Stiles won't possess this information.

The clacking wood of the shishi-odoshi in the garden can be heard, peaceful and rhythmic through an open window.

Itachi glances down at his younger brother and attempts what appears to be a smile. It's stiff and strange on his young face. "Make sure you ice your ankle properly tonight."

"All right," is Sasuke's gloomy reply. His expression is complicated for such a little boy, processing more in his mind than is easily guessed.

Here at last the memory fades, and this time when Stiles turns to seek out the mirror, he'll find the older Itachi waiting in the opposite corner of the room. His eyes are narrowed almost to slits.] Let's go. [Get the fuck out!!!!!]

[anbu]

[The phantoms of this memory continue heedless of Jongdae's predicament, three against one. They dive at the younger version of Itachi in their bloodlust, weapons drawn to strike — and meeting their target. Sharp blades dig into the boy's belly and back at once, tearing into flesh, bright red blood splattering to the dirt and grass of the forest floor.

"Got him!" the girl shouts her victory.

Yet the boy's crumpled form bursts open, suddenly, a chaotic cloud of black-winged crows flying out in every direction, beaks pecking at hands and skin where it can be found. It disorients and panics the other team. They begin to scream, overwhelmed by the confusion of birds, dropping to their hands and knees and covering their heads.

A few meters away, Itachi leaps down from the high tree where he'd concealed his presence. With one word the crows flicker and vanish, jutsu released. The three other shinobi stagger up to fight, even shaken as they are, and there's a brief clash of fire and water — elemental jutsu hissing out in steam as Itachi's katon rapidly overwhelms the opposing team in a flare of hot flame.

"If you still want to go, I won't mind. Otherwise I need you to hand over the scroll. If you do, I'll let you go. If you don't, I'll be forced to get serious."

"Sh... Sharingan," comes the whisper, as the young boy's eyes bleed malicious red across the irises.

"I don't know if you've ever seen eyes like this before, but if you're shinobi, you should know what they are. Your techniques won't work on me."

The three children look stricken, overtaken by the fear of death. "Have mercy!" one of the boys wails, reaching into his bag to fish out the scroll and toss it across the ground.

Itachi moves to pick it up. "As long as you all understand." Then, in a flash, his figure flickers to the other side of the open clearing, behind his opponents. "I can't have you attacking me from behind. Take a nap here." Three quick strikes, and they collapse to the ground, unconscious.

The memory does not fade here. Instead the boy begins to walk again, further into the forest. Soon he'll be out of sight of Jongdae completely. Will he choose to follow?]

[anbu]

... I suppose.

[It's a dark admittance, little more than a murmur in his voice. He isn't certain why he feels compelled toward honesty. Having seen this past version of himself, memories are summoned into his mind like a reel of black shadow, blocking out the future and drawn from a repressed well of pain. He remembers everything clearly.

Speaking to Sephiroth is somehow easier than to anyone else who has yet to cross into his mirror. The man's speech is without regard or judgment; it feels as though anything he's said will not be twisted or questioned. A strange sensation.]

At the time, I believed this. Joining ANBU was my utmost goal. I believed it would take me closer to... [Here he trails off, quiet in the gloomy cave. The dream still hasn't faded. Should that concern him? How long has his mind lingered in this place?] In any case, goals change as they're achieved. I was welcomed into ANBU, but in understanding the consequences of that acceptance, perhaps it would have been better had I died under Mukai's hand.

We don't need to stay here.

[mensrea]

[ Upon arriving in the new room, his attention passes over the two smaller figures in favor of pinning the man with a dark, infuriated glare. This jackass again. Apparently, it’s time for more quality family memories. As he approaches, Stiles regards Fugaku suspiciously. The stark red eyes remind him of the vaguely similar pinwheel design on Itachi’s mirror. Are they linked? More concerning, Stiles is fairly certain that the Uchiha patriarch’s irises weren’t red before. He would have noticed something so distinctive. So, what’s changed between that memory and this one? Unease hunches his shoulders.

Drawing even with the other two figures, Stiles glances down at Itachi – and then does a startled double take, utterly disarmed by the sight of a child who can only be Sasuke. It’s so strange to see his friend like this, a too slight, too small body of knobby knees and bony elbows. Stiles might have found this version of Sasuke endearing, if he wasn’t otherwise preoccupied with the downward cast of an unhappy gaze. Oh fuck, he thinks with feeling, heart sinking. I’m definitely not ready for whatever the hell this is.

Their father begins to speak, inadvertently providing Stiles with a timeframe to work with. Six months have passed since the last memory and apparently Itachi has been granted a “special” mission. It seems odd to Stiles that their father would tag along; isn’t the idea for Itachi to eventually join ANBU, a group that already monitors the family? Why invite suspicion by drawing more attention to his involvement in Itachi’s life? Regardless, this doesn’t seem to be a pressing issue for Itachi. Instead, he contests for a different reason altogether.

After a moment of observing, Stiles finally grasps the dynamic at play here. Strong dislike for the patriarch swells into a black hatred that has him gnashing his teeth in a sneering scowl. He reaches down, hand passing through the back of Sasuke’s head – any paltry comfort he could possibly offer rendered useless. The relationship between Fugaku and his sons is impossible for him to reconcile; Stiles has dealt with his own father’s anger, resentment, and censure. This, though…this is too alien. He thinks of the ugly longing and envy that a harmless comment by the Sheriff to Scott had elicited, “Thank you, son I should have had.” It’s not even comparable to the cold disregard Sasuke is being treated to. God, this man is a piece of shit. Itachi manages to successfully pressure Fugaku into attending Sasuke’s ceremony and Stiles briefly feels a flare of appreciation and admiration for the older brother.

When the boys move to follow their father, Stiles is disconcerted to see that Sasuke is limping. He tries to examine the bad leg to gauge what happened, but the conversation distracts him. Then the memory is over. Left with the unpleasant sensation that there’s a hole in his gut, leaking stomach acid all over his insides, Stiles stares in the direction they left. Abruptly, he turns on his heel, grimly determined to sample another memory now, anything that’ll give him a better glimpse into this family’s life – and hisses out a shocked breath as he notices Mirrorbound Itachi in the corner. ]

Why was he limping? [ he demands hotly, remaining where he is. ]

[supersoldier]

[And in that reply, he hears what isn’t spoken aloud. Murmured tones outlining regret, perhaps, now bearing the gift (curse) of hindsight? He wonders what it is Itachi wanted to say, a statement that soon died on his tongue. Sephiroth doesn’t chase after it, but he tries to fill in the blanks in his own mind, unable to settle on one specific answer. An ideal? A person? A purpose? Sephiroth, too, would cling steadfast to the latter if given the chance, rooted firmly to a role he could call his own, should nothing else deter him.

But rarely were such wishes ever faultless, or so easily obtained. Time always weaves its doubts with the ceaseless hands of an expert craftsman.

He says none of this. Only offers a single sentence of— Not comfort. Simple truth.]

Maybe. But you didn’t know of these consequences then, did you?

[Useless to apply the advantage of the present to the past. That’s the folly of those who like to ruminate, and he would know that, too.]

I’ll leave if that’s what you prefer.

[eyeforaneye]

[ The longer Sasuke stays within the memory, the more he regrets stepping inside that mirror at all.

His questions are answered by the quiet sliding open of the front door, something he wouldn't have detected as such a young child but is more than sharp enough to notice now. It's quietly staggering to step back – needlessly, but out of habit – in order to allow such a small boy to pass him, unable to remember a time that he didn't feel so much bigger. Older. Wiser. Unknowable in his entirety.

Now he just looks frail and tiny, purposefully clothing himself in shadow away from his younger brother's reach in a way that makes his heart sink. Fingers curl into a fist at his side as he watches him guard his expression even now, their parents leaving their gifted older son to his devices without paying mind to that tiredness they must've noticed in him when he himself was so blind to it. Predictably he trails after the boy, hesitating in the mouth of his bedroom with a new kind of trepidation. How long has it been since he's stepped foot in this room? One he intentionally locked and closed off after the massacre, continuing to live in the memories just down the hall in some masochistic tribute that had turned him cold and obsessive. ]

I didn't know, [ he says quietly to that seated boy when he finally moves inside, heavy eyes fixed on him with a heavier heart squeezing tight in his chest. Fingers reach out, almost close enough to touch, before he pulls them back. ] You gave me eight years of peace and I cursed you for that. I didn't realize how much more it was than what you had.

[ Lips part to form an apology that he ends up whispering instead to the face of a mirror.

It's only a pause of a few seconds or so before he's forcing himself to walk back in. ]

[anbu]

[As soon as Jonas begins to fight his grasp, he slows, cautious even as he maintains the iron hold through that brief tantrum of physical protest. It's only when Jonas twists around and begins to drag at the shins that Itachi lets him loose. In time for the attempted tackle, those arms spread wide to snag him around the middle.

Without hesitation, Itachi jabs an elbow out and strikes him across the breastbone, hard enough that Jonas will be forced to stagger as all the air is driven out of panicky lungs. Then he snatches the boy's wrists, reining him in like one might restrain a wild trashing animal. He hauls Jonas to his feet and twists both arms behind him, putting Itachi at his back.]

Jonas. Calm down.

[This comes in low, steely tone of command.]

Breathe.