"No," he said, voice low, and then stood abruptly. "No -- that's not what I meant."
If his hands were shaking again, Sasuke ignored it. They would steady with a blade in them: they always had. Weaponry had been a comfort all this time, death far from unfamiliar, and yet it had never struck home what it meant to open a throat or cut through an artery in the name of the village. It still --
It still didn't mean something Sasuke could fully comprehend, not really, not when he couldn't stop hearing the wet, startled gasp of the stranger he'd killed, couldn't stop seeing the hatred frozen on the boy's face. But his teacher was all reason, and every senbon or kunai Sasuke had ever hidden in his clothing with the eager excitement of a child was a tool for murder, and Obito was right. Sasuke had known the answer before he'd asked what should I do.
He just hadn't -- hadn't known it deeper than the coldest top layer of his skin, hadn't let it sink in past that. Hadn't wanted it to. Had thought -- maybe they'll listen to reason, after dealing with civilian clients for years, after taking home paycheques from the petty wars people fought for causes far less than vengeance. An assassination on the border, a host of shinobi villages ready to take the first mission against Konoha to arise, and the inevitability of word spreading: telling the truth, trusting in goodwill, letting the news grow that Konoha-nin could be used with less impunity than a knife.
He'd run scenarios as a child in the Academy, flanked by Naruto's insistence on the straightest line from one point to the next on one side, Hinata's textbook patience and surprising deviousness on the other. They'd been told --
"There are always more paths than you see at first," he said, mouth twisting, eyes averted to the memory. "We were taught that, but it wasn't true, was it, Obito-nii-san? Not always."
Not now: there was only exit route now, only the pressing dawn outside, a world about to wake and wonder where a household of innocents were.
Inhale, exhale. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin.
"This is my fault," he said, and kept his voice steady. "Give me the order to take care of it, Hokage-sama."
no subject
If his hands were shaking again, Sasuke ignored it. They would steady with a blade in them: they always had. Weaponry had been a comfort all this time, death far from unfamiliar, and yet it had never struck home what it meant to open a throat or cut through an artery in the name of the village. It still --
It still didn't mean something Sasuke could fully comprehend, not really, not when he couldn't stop hearing the wet, startled gasp of the stranger he'd killed, couldn't stop seeing the hatred frozen on the boy's face. But his teacher was all reason, and every senbon or kunai Sasuke had ever hidden in his clothing with the eager excitement of a child was a tool for murder, and Obito was right. Sasuke had known the answer before he'd asked what should I do.
He just hadn't -- hadn't known it deeper than the coldest top layer of his skin, hadn't let it sink in past that. Hadn't wanted it to. Had thought -- maybe they'll listen to reason, after dealing with civilian clients for years, after taking home paycheques from the petty wars people fought for causes far less than vengeance. An assassination on the border, a host of shinobi villages ready to take the first mission against Konoha to arise, and the inevitability of word spreading: telling the truth, trusting in goodwill, letting the news grow that Konoha-nin could be used with less impunity than a knife.
He'd run scenarios as a child in the Academy, flanked by Naruto's insistence on the straightest line from one point to the next on one side, Hinata's textbook patience and surprising deviousness on the other. They'd been told --
"There are always more paths than you see at first," he said, mouth twisting, eyes averted to the memory. "We were taught that, but it wasn't true, was it, Obito-nii-san? Not always."
Not now: there was only exit route now, only the pressing dawn outside, a world about to wake and wonder where a household of innocents were.
Inhale, exhale. He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin.
"This is my fault," he said, and kept his voice steady. "Give me the order to take care of it, Hokage-sama."