Chapter 11: Gravity and Gravel
The internal clock of a shinobi is a persistent, nagging mechanism that does not respect the concept of "recovery time."
At 04:30 AM, exactly, Obito's single eye snapped open.
The room was pitch black, save for the faint orange glow of the streetlights filtering through the thin curtains. Above him, Kenji snored with the rhythmic rasp of a clogged drainpipe. The air in the room was stale, recycled, and warm.
Obito lay still for ten seconds, running a diagnostic check on his body.
Heart rate: Resting. Chakra levels: Low, stagnant. Right shoulder: Aching. Right leg: Stiff.
He sat up, the movement silent. The mattress springs groaned softly, a sound that made him wince. In the field, a noise like that could get a kunai embedded in your throat. Here, it just meant he needed to oil the bed frame.
He swung his legs over the edge and reached for the nightstand. His fingers brushed against the cold, hard plastic of his prosthetic arm.
Putting it on was a ritual he had come to loathe. In the movies—both in his world and this one—cybernetic limbs were sleek, instant, and cool. In reality, it was a clumsy process of straps, buckles, and chafing.
He slid his stump into the socket. The silicone liner was cold against his skin. He pulled the straps tight across his chest and under his left armpit.
Click. Snap. Pull.
He rotated the shoulder. The joint whirred—a low, mechanical groan. It was secure, but it felt heavy. It felt like he was wearing a backpack that was only filled on one side.
"Equipment check," Obito whispered.
He stood up and moved to the small pile of clothes he had laid out the night before. His new black cargo pants, the navy blue hoodie, and a pair of white sneakers that Matron Satako had bought him.
He looked at the sneakers with disdain. They were soft. Too much cushion. They disconnected his feet from the earth. He couldn't feel the vibrations of the ground through the thick rubber soles. But he had no sandals, and the asphalt of this city was unforgiving.
He dressed quickly. He didn't pull the hood up yet. He needed peripheral vision, even if half of it was gone.
He slipped out of the room, leaving Kenji to dream of whatever spider-people dreamed of. The hallway was silent, the linoleum floor cold even through his socks. He navigated the shadows, avoiding the creaky floorboards he had mapped out in his mind over the past few weeks.
He reached the back door. He unlocked it—a simple deadbolt that a Genin could pick with a toothpick—and stepped out into the pre-dawn chill.
The city of Musutafu was asleep. The towering skyscrapers in the distance were dark silhouettes against a deep purple sky. The air was damp, holding the memory of yesterday's rain.
Obito stood on the concrete patio. He looked toward the north.
According to the map he had studied in the library, UA High School was five miles away. Uphill.
"Target acquired," Obito breathed, his breath misting in the cold air. "Objective: Reach the perimeter wall. Reconnaissance. Return to base."
Five miles. In his prime—which felt like a lifetime ago—he could run five miles in twenty minutes while carrying a pack. He could run it on tree branches. He could run it vertically up a cliff face.
But that Obito had two legs of equal strength, two arms for balance, and two eyes for depth perception.
This Obito took a deep breath, braced his core, and started to run.
The first hundred meters were a lie.
His body remembered the motion. Push off the ball of the foot. Drive the knee. Swing the arms. He felt a surge of confidence. The wind rushed past his ears. The rhythm of his feet hitting the pavement was steady. Slap-slap-slap-slap.
I can do this, he thought. I am still fast.
Then, he hit the first corner.
He leaned into the turn, expecting his body to follow. But his center of gravity was gone. The weight of the prosthetic arm swung wide, pulling his right side down like an anchor. He stumbled, his feet tangling for a fraction of a second.
He corrected himself, but the rhythm was broken.
"Focus," he hissed. "Compensate for the drag."
He adjusted his gait. He had to run with a slight list to the left to improved the balance. It felt awkward, lopsided. He wasn't gliding anymore; he was lurching.
He reached the main road. It was empty of cars, but the traffic lights still cycled through their colors—green, yellow, red—commanding an empty street.
The incline began.
Musutafu was built on hills. The road to UA was a steady, punishing climb.
Obito's lungs began to burn. Not the good burn of a workout, but the sharp, stabbing burn of atrophy. He had spent weeks in a hospital bed, fed through tubes. His muscles had withered. His cardiovascular system was out of practice.
He checked his mental timer. Six minutes elapsed. Distance covered: Maybe one mile.
He was slow. Painfully slow.
"Pick up the pace," he ordered his legs.
He pushed harder. The rubber soles of his sneakers slapped against the concrete. The impact jarred his knees. The vibration traveled up his spine and rattled the connection of his prosthetic.
Chafe. Rub. Chafe. Rub.
The socket was digging into his scar tissue with every step. It felt like someone was taking sandpaper to a fresh burn.
Obito gritted his teeth. Pain is information. Ignore it.
He ran past a convenience store. The clerk inside, a man with a cactus head, looked up from his magazine and watched the boy in the hoodie limp-run past the window.
Obito kept his single eye fixed on the horizon. He could see the shape of the school now. A massive glass structure, glittering faintly in the starlight. It looked like a castle. A fortress of heroes.
It looked impossibly far away.
His breath was coming in ragged gasps now. His throat tasted like copper. His vision swam.
Thump.
His toe caught on a raised crack in the sidewalk.
With no depth perception, he hadn't seen the elevation change. He didn't see the ground coming until it hit him.
He fell hard.
He didn't have the reflexes to roll. He slammed onto his right side. The plastic arm took the brunt of the impact, skidding across the concrete with a horrific SCREEEEEECH that echoed down the empty street.
Obito tumbled, skinning his left knee, before coming to a stop in the gutter.
He lay there, staring at a discarded soda can.
"Get up," he whispered.
His body didn't want to move. His right shoulder was screaming. The impact had jammed the prosthetic up into his armpit.
"Get. Up."
He pushed himself up with his left hand. He was trembling. He looked down at his knee. The cargo pants were torn. Blood was seeping into the black fabric.
He looked up at the school. It hadn't moved. It still mocked him from the hill.
He checked the distance. Two miles. He hadn't even made it halfway.
"Pathetic," Obito spat, wiping blood from his lip. "You call yourself an Uchiha?"
He forced himself to stand. His legs felt like jelly. The adrenaline of the start was gone, replaced by the cold, hard reality of his condition. He wasn't a ninja right now. He was a crippled twelve-year-old playing dress-up.
He took a step. His right leg buckled.
He caught himself on a lamppost.
Turn back, a voice in his head whispered. Go back to the warm bed. You can't do this.
Obito looked at the lamppost. He looked at his reflection in the metal. A wild-haired boy with dirt on his face and fear in his eye.
"No," Obito said to the reflection. "I don't retreat."
But he couldn't go forward. His body was at its limit. If he pushed more, he would pass out, and passing out in an unknown sector was suicidal.
"Tactical withdrawal," he corrected himself, his voice shaking. "Regroup. Repair. Re-engage."
He didn't run back. He walked.
The walk back was worse than the run. The adrenaline faded, leaving only the pain. Every step was a reminder of his failure. The sun began to crest over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold. The city started to wake up. Delivery trucks rumbled past. Early morning commuters walked their dogs.
They looked at him. A boy limping, bleeding, clutching a plastic arm. They looked with pity.
Obito hated the pity more than the pain. He pulled his hood up, shadowing his face, hiding his shame.
He reached the Sunrise Home at 06:00 AM.
He slipped through the back gate. He thought he was alone. He thought he could sneak back into his room, clean the wound, and pretend this never happened.
"You look like you fought a lawnmower and lost."
Obito froze.
Kyoka Jiro was sitting on the back porch steps. She was wearing her pajamas—a loose shirt with a skull on it—and holding a steaming mug. She didn't have her earphones in.
Obito didn't turn to face her. He kept his hood up. "I went for a patrol."
"A patrol?" Jiro blew on her tea. "Is that what we're calling it? Because from here, it looks like you face-planted into the sidewalk."
Obito turned slowly. He knew he looked a mess. The tear in his pants, the scuffed plastic arm, the dirt on his cheek.
"I encountered... terrain difficulties," Obito admitted stiffly.
Jiro patted the step beside her. "Sit down before you fall down. You're vibrating."
Obito hesitated, then limped over and collapsed onto the step. The cold concrete felt good against his burning legs.
"Here," Jiro offered him the mug.
"What is it?"
"Hot water with lemon. It's good for the throat. You sound like a dying crow."
Obito took the mug with his left hand. The warmth seeped into his cold fingers. He took a sip. It was sour, hot, and soothing.
"Did you make it?" Jiro asked. She wasn't looking at him; she was watching the sunrise.
"Make it where?"
"Wherever you were running to. You had that 'mission' look in your eye yesterday."
Obito looked down at the swirling water in the cup. "UA High School."
Jiro whistled softly. "That's five miles. Uphill."
"I didn't make it," Obito said, the bitterness coating his tongue. "I made it to the intersection of 4th and Main. Two miles. Then I... tripped."
He waited for her to laugh. He waited for the 'I told you so'.
"Two miles is far," Jiro said simply.
Obito looked at her. "It is less than half."
"It's two miles further than you ran yesterday," Jiro pointed out. "And you did it with a prosthetic that weighs a ton and one eye. That's not nothing, Obito."
She pointed at his knee. "You're bleeding."
"It's a scratch."
"It's going to stain the stairs. Matron Satako will have your head." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, colorful bandage. It had little cartoon cats on it.
Obito stared at it. "Cats?"
"It's all I had. Take it or leave it."
Obito took the bandage. He peeled the backing off with his teeth—a habit he couldn't break—and slapped it over the cut on his knee. The cartoon cats smiled up at him, ridiculous and out of place on a ninja.
"I will reach the wall," Obito said suddenly. His voice was quiet, but hard as flint. "Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I will reach the wall of that school."
"I know you will," Jiro said. She stood up, stretching. Her joints popped. "But right now, you need a shower. You smell like wet asphalt and despair."
Obito snorted. It was a weak sound, but it was almost a laugh. "Despair has no scent."
"Trust me, it does. Go wash up. Breakfast is in twenty minutes. It's oatmeal day."
"Glue," Obito corrected. "It is nutritional glue."
"Exactly. Fuel for the machine."
Jiro walked back inside.
Obito stayed on the porch for a moment longer. He looked at his sneakers. The white rubber was scuffed and gray. They weren't pristine anymore. They were worn.
He took another sip of the lemon water.
He hadn't reached the castle on the hill. He had fallen in the gutter. But he had gotten up. And he had walked back.
He stood up, wincing as his muscles protested. He opened the door.
Objective failed, he logged in his mental journal. New data acquired: Terrain is hazardous. Prosthetic requires recalibration. Stamina is at 20%.
He walked into the warmth of the orphanage.
Next mission starts tomorrow at 04:30.
And as he walked down the hall, the faint sound of cartoon cats on his knee crinkling with every step, Obito Uchiha felt the heavy, crushing weight of the world lighten, just a fraction. He was blank, yes. But he was beginning to fill the page with ink, sweat, and a little bit of blood.
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