Beneath the university's oldest library, a labyrinth of corridors branched into a sprawling complex few knew existed and fewer survived to describe. The main laboratory stretched across three interconnected chambers, each larger than the last, with vaulted ceilings that disappeared into shadow. Recirculated air whispered through hidden vents, filtered until no organic trace remained except for the living things that entered on two legs and, occasionally, left on none. Here, in this subterranean research citadel, white-coated techs maneuvered with brisk efficiency around a surgical table suspended beneath an armature of industrial lights, just one station in a vast operation hidden from the world above.
The table gleamed with anticipation: freshly unwrapped gauze, steel scalpels, a pan of glinting bone needles. Vats of thick, fluorescent fluid pulsed in steady intervals, feeding the veins of an elaborate, branching apparatus that hung from the ceiling like the skeletal remains of some prehistoric beast. The head technician—a tall Beta with a receding hairline and hands that never shook—arranged the instruments in perfect order, his movements watched by four cameras in the corners and, more intently, by the man standing behind the glass.
Professor Orochimaru pressed his fingertips against the observation window, leaving a constellation of sweatless prints. He observed with a stillness that was, in itself, an act of patience: yellow eyes flat and unblinking as the team finished their final prep, voices muffled by the glass. He wore no lab coat tonight, just a black turtleneck and slacks, his posture loose but his attention so absolute the room seemed to bend around it.
The steel door behind him hissed open, accompanied by the faintest tremor of ozone. Obito Uchiha entered with the predatory grace of a cat burglar, dressed in an unblemished suit tailored within a millimeter of his bones. His bad eye was patched with matte black, the skin around it twisted but healed; the good one shone with a hard, transactional brilliance. He shut the door behind him with unnecessary quiet.
Orochimaru didn't turn. He continued to watch the proceedings, his mouth curled in a shadow of amusement.
Obito cleared his throat, voice pitched for privacy. "You're not even going to pretend you weren't expecting me?"
Orochimaru's response was a smile, thin as a wire. "I find it more efficient to wait until the truth arrives, rather than entertain its possibility."
Obito moved to the glass, assuming parade rest beside Orochimaru. Neither spoke as they watched the preparations below: technicians cinching leather restraints, checking fluid levels in hanging bags, recording data with practiced indifference. Between the two men hung something electric and dangerous—the aftermath of a power struggle neither had technically won, both calculating their next move while pretending to admire the view.
"Sasuke paid me a visit," Obito said, finally. "But you knew he would."
"Mm." Orochimaru's eyes never left the glass. "He came by my office as well. A resourceful young man."
Obito's mouth twisted into a smirk, his good eye gleaming with malicious amusement. "You let him get close," he said, drawing out the accusation like a knife. "The great Orochimaru, outmaneuvered by a college boy. I wonder—did you enjoy having little Sasuke in your office? Couldn't resist showing off, could you?" He leaned closer, voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "If you can't keep your ego and the research compartmentalized—"
Orochimaru's lips curled into a smirk, his yellow eyes gleaming with private amusement. "It was worth it to see the show," he interrupted, savoring the memory before his expression hardened to stone. "But he found nothing. What he suspects is, at best, a partial truth. He won't connect the rest unless you give him reason."
On the other side of the glass, the tempo changed from choreography to crisis.
The main door to the operating theater swung wide as a gurney rattled in, its cargo thrashing so violently the wheels screamed against the epoxy floor. The man on the stretcher—red hair shaved to a surgical stubble, skin so pale it seemed translucent under the fluorescent lights—was lashed down by three separate belts, each one digging into flesh unnaturally clean yet marked with precise, healed incision lines. The lead technician caught the foot of the bed with both hands, using his weight to steady it as the subject bucked upward, his paper-white arms nearly tossing an intern sideways.
Every head turned, the room's calm dissolved by the spectacle.
The patient's mouth tore open, and a guttural, wordless sound ruptured the dead air. Even through two inches of bulletproof glass, the scream was crisp, the kind of noise that made people in the next building over check their doors.
Orochimaru's lips parted slightly, a spark of interest ignited by the subject's stamina.
The speakers above the observation window piped in the noise, a hoarse, frantic rasp intercut with animal panic. "Let me GO—" It was barely words, more an assault on the air than a plea. He thrashed again, nearly upending the gurney, and three of the techs had to pile on to pin his limbs while another fumbled for a sedative.
Obito watched, unmoved. "That one's feisty."
"I prefer the term tenacious," Orochimaru replied.
A man in a different white coat entered the theater with a deliberate, almost meditative slowness. Kabuto's hair, normally pressed flat and precise, had been mussed by a long shift; the glint of his glasses was surgical in the overhead glare. He carried the syringe in his right hand, the plunger already preloaded.
Kabuto surveyed the writhing subject with the detached amusement of a child at an ant farm. He ducked the first wild snap of the redhead's teeth, pressed a thumb to the carotid just below the jaw, and in a single motion drove the needle home.
The effect was gradual. The subject's body kept fighting even as the muscles beneath the skin gave up. His head lolled, sweat dripping down the ruined stretch of his neck. The mouth kept moving, lips working on empty syllables, but the voice shrank to a rasp and then a whisper.
Kabuto straightened his glasses with a knuckle, then nodded at the techs. "All yours," he said, voice calm enough to freeze air.
They cut the belts and, with the efficiency of a pit crew, transferred the body to the steel table. New restraints were clicked into place, harder and less forgiving than before. Leads were taped to chest and temples, monitors blinking to life with a chorus of beeps. Someone inserted an IV, another swabbed the inside of the subject's elbow for blood.
Kabuto hovered, supervisor and scribe, entering notes on a tablet with his free hand.
Obito folded his arms, gaze flicking between the sedated man and the team. "Why waste resources on this—" he gestured at the restraints, the fresh indentations they'd left in the subject's skin, the torn paper gown "—feral thing? You're running a lab, not a zoo."
Orochimaru's reply was a sigh, long-suffering. "This 'feral thing' is the only subject to manifest secondary Omega characteristics after repeated exposure to the transformation protocol. He's survived doses that liquefied the organs of previous candidates. The fact that he's conscious at all is…remarkable."
Obito snorted. "I didn't realize we were grading on a curve."
Orochimaru didn't answer. Instead, he watched as Kabuto positioned the subject's head, fastening it into a padded vise. The techs, done with the basics, stood back as Kabuto adjusted a long, humming arc of steel above the redhead's brow. The instrument was a hybrid of a dental drill and a cold-war torture device, humming with subdued menace.
Orochimaru pressed a button on the glass, opening a one-way line to Kabuto's earpiece. "Increase the frequency. Let's see how long this one lasts before tissue rejection."
Kabuto acknowledged with a flick of his eyes. He keyed in the new parameters and braced himself.
The redhead's eyes fluttered, then snapped open. For a split second, they were sharp—blue with flecks of gold, bright even in terror. Then the machine engaged, and the subject's entire body arched, every muscle firing in a desperate, final protest.
The sound that came next was neither human nor animal. It was the sound of something sacred breaking.
Obito did not flinch. "You sure this is science, and not just a fetish?"
Orochimaru's laugh was soft, indulgent. "Why not both?"
The scream subsided, replaced by ragged breaths and a trickle of blood from the nose. The monitors steadied, then began a new staccato, signaling an anomaly.
With Kabuto's operation now automated—machines whirring, techs relegated to mere fail-safes—Orochimaru turned from the glass, his interest in the theater replaced by an equal and opposite intensity focused on Obito. The overhead fluorescents dulled, casting both men in a sour, low-light wash that made every angle of the observation room look more severe. The desk in the far corner beckoned: steel legs, pristine top, an array of folders aligned with military precision.
Obito followed, taking the seat opposite, posture mirroring a CEO in a hostile takeover meeting. Orochimaru didn't sit; he stood behind the desk, long fingers laced, his gaze more cobra than man.
Obito broke the silence. "I suppose you have something for me. You always do."
Orochimaru tapped a finger on the desktop, an arrhythmic metronome. "You saw the protocol work tonight. The subject's body is responding—not rejecting. In every previous attempt, the gene cascade failed at the third sequence. But in this one, it's holding."
Obito's patience was threadbare. "And?"
Orochimaru's lips peeled back, exposing immaculate teeth. "There must be an Omega somewhere in his genetic tree. Nothing else could explain the stability."
Obito's eyebrow twitched. "You're saying he's part Omega? That's your scientific breakthrough?"
"I'm saying there's a recessive factor, unaccounted for." Orochimaru opened a locked drawer, its mechanism purring. From within, he removed a manila folder, thicker than the rest. He slid it across the desk.
Obito glanced at the label—blank, save for a string of numbers and the word "Uzumaki."
He flipped it open, expecting the usual medical jargon and performance charts, but found instead a series of printed photos: candid shots of a blond boy, smiling too wide, the kind of face that survived every school yearbook. Beneath the photos, a profile summary:
NAME: Naruto Uzumaki. Year: 1. Secondary: Beta.
Obito's lips twisted, but his eyes stayed on the page. "What am I supposed to see here?"
Orochimaru's tongue darted across his lower lip before disappearing. "A possible explanation for our success with that subject," he said, nodding toward the observation window. "The boy in this file has been asking about him—possibly a relative. He's enrolled in my introductory genetics course, asking questions about missing students. His blood work might hold the key to why our current subject hasn't rejected the transformation."
Obito turned a page, reading the short bullet-point biography— orphan, foster placements, high school records littered with detentions, but nothing extraordinary. "So?"
Orochimaru's voice dropped, each word a measured threat. "I believe he is a latent Omega, disguised as a Beta. It would explain why he keeps evading detection."
Obito's laugh was a gunshot, sudden and contemptuous. "You can't tell the difference between a Beta and an Omega, and you want my help?"
Orochimaru turned away from Obito, his gaze drifting back to the operation room. "On the first day of class, I caught the briefest scent marker—unmistakably Omega." He paused, letting the silence stretch until Obito's patience nearly snapped. "But since then..." Orochimaru's lips curled into a thin smile. "The boy reeks of Alpha. The pheromones cling to him like armor, making it impossible to detect what lies beneath."
Obito closed the file, tossing it back across the desk with a thud. "Then test him. Take a blood sample, run your numbers."
Orochimaru pivoted back to Obito, lips curling into a thin smile. "Interesting that you haven't inquired about the Alpha's identity."
Obito's eye narrowed. "Fine," he said, voice tight with irritation. "I'll play your game. Which Alpha has been foolish enough to mark your little science project?"
For a long moment, Orochimaru only watched him, the smile growing sharper, more vulpine. "Who indeed." Obito gave him a blank look, waiting, Orochimaru sighed like Obito was making this less fun for him, "Sasuke Uchiha, your nephew."
Obito's face went slack, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before his lips began to curl upward. The smile spread until it split his face, and then he was laughing—a rich, delighted sound that filled the sterile room. "Sasuke," he said, the name now a gift on his tongue, savored like expensive wine.
Orochimaru watched Obito's laughter subside, then pushed the file across the polished surface with one pale finger. "I take it we have an understanding?"
Obito's fingers traced the edge of the file, his expression shifting from surprise to calculation. "Itachi," he said, the name like a curse on his tongue. "Always the protective brother, always one step ahead of us." His eyes gleamed with newfound purpose. "But now we have leverage. If Sasuke cares for this boy..." He tapped the photo of Naruto. "We won't need to hunt Sasuke. He'll deliver himself to our doorstep."
Orochimaru's lips curled into a reptilian smile. Itachi Uchiha had been thorns in his side for years—ever since the elder brother had discovered the preliminary tests on Sasuke. Even Orochimaru had to acknowledge Itachi's brilliance; the man had thwarted his every attempt to reclaim his most promising subject. But now, this unexpected attachment of Sasuke's had created a vulnerability. A way back in. And Orochimaru never left an opening unexploited.
Obito's fingers tightened around the file's edges, creasing the manila. His smile remained fixed, predatory, as he shook his head. "Sasuke," he murmured, almost to himself. "I thought I taught you better than to let someone get under your skin." Then he turned to Orochimaru, "I will have everything by the end of the day." Without waiting for more Obito headed for the exit.
Obito reached for the door handle, but Orochimaru's voice sliced through the air behind him. "Whatever you're planning, I need the boy intact. Damaged specimens are worthless to me."
Obito's hand fell from the door handle. He turned toward the observation window, where the redhead's screams still echoed through the speakers. A cold smile touched his lips. "Rest assured, Orochimaru. Your laboratory horrors will likely exceed anything I might devise." With that, he stepped into the hallway, the door hissing shut behind him.