Vexatious, the paper spoke vile, instead of rice it was wholly designed with bile, written in the ink of puss infectious and vomitous- tan knuckles clenched tight on the bile-made parchment, tremoring in with emotion seeping through tears -blood- rivulets down a churned face which displayed too much of a personality so long forgone, enraged, insulted by sacrilegious slander. A paper of cynicism- embodied cynicism, the corruption of everything that he had known burned by lies all knew were erroneous. Inside a tremble of power burned to his seal, cindering at his skin, but he mocked himself by the thought; 'even now, it remains only half powered.' Cruel simper upon his lips, derision unto himself and nothing in resemblance to humour, a paint of malign obstructing features that possessed a beauticious vision in joviality, corrupted.

It is henceforth derived that the Uchiha Clan of Konohagakure remains unbalanced in mental fortitude; under several depicted cases of perceived mental disfunction after the procurement of the Mangakou Sharingan. That is not accounting for those already severely affected by their own frigid chakra despoiling their bodies and primary psychology without the protection of a hanayome for equilibrium. It is under the opinion and proclamation of Konoha: That further methods of surveillance and precautionary measures are to be evaluated and implemented for the Uchiha; this in the interest of protecting the vulnerable citizen's incapable of proper self-defensive measures. This will also be in the interest of protecting the Uchiha Alpha from possible psychopathy and therefore injury upon themselves or their declared hanayome. In addition, separation from mass citizen population will be implemented, wherein the Clan of Uchiha will be reformed into a smaller district in the interest of civilian safety and surveillance.

Nidame Hokage

~ Senju Tobirama

Baneful, ignominious, draconian, one paragraph of pertained bias, betrayed as rationality. Enraged, the blond sat hunched over, sat upon the wood staring incredulously upon the oldened paper clutched near torn in his hands. Egregious, yet incomprehensible in manner, for in knowledge of his clan it would not be permissible to any of those residing in that time. Putting to expectation that Naori had still maintained her Regent Patriarchal status, she would cast away such a proclamation with a creased brow and furious express which tore into enemies. However, Naruto sat still with the comprehension, that though he knew the woman, he knew his clan, but he knew not the consequences of his death, nor Madara's departure had perpetrated unto the clan; perhaps a rarity, but the Uchiha were beholden to the stability of their Patriarch -and to lesser necessity, their Matriarch- Naori, though entirely capable had not been borne of the main family's blood and therein did not possess the same abilities a Teinai (Formal) Patriarch held. With Madara leaving had they lost a form of stabilization and became far more complicit to the Hokage's authority?

Then, came the recognition of his previous friendship with the Nidame, and anger departed morphed into confusion aligned with a form of tentative sadness. Naruto had no want to contemplate his own comprehension, yet still, it peeked through the crevices of blockading denial; had Tobirama detested the Uchiha entirely, marginally, as result of another unseen assault? He had no bid to analyze that thought, for in stabbing candour it was obvious the man had no significant trust in his Uchiha comrades: was it after his brother's death that he had found call to safeguard against his perceived perceptions in the illusion of precaution? Tactics most predominate within the man, careful statigy to portray those of the clan in dubiety, orchestrated, yet effectual, and indeed that spoke much of the village's disposition. His cheeks wet with that knowledge, their credibility so tarnished by a small played tactic and then Madara's attack; wherein he had not harmed the village -and though entirely of bias, Naru doubted he would have.- All of their cache had been demeaned and lost. Harrowing, yet placed a splnetic viewpoint on the history he had known from the academy, what had been taught; so dimmed from veracity as to be well-nigh false.

Shaking legs and he could hardly step without the sway of anger infecting his movement, yet though enraged his face was only but a passive, carefully carved from his experience in projecting happiness or amusement, as it were his want to smile was lesser then his want to kiss the leader of the former Hatake; illusory.

Dawn did in fact crest over the horizon in her orange beginning intermingling within a reddened smear, the dust of pink to the clouds softening. Illuminated cerulean frowning to the sight in thought. Knowing however, that a confrontation so early would only elicit further sanction unto him- likely for unnecessary aggression and/or disruption. Acknowledgement bid him little acceptance to the fact, yet he made his way back to the apartment he had not yet resided within since before his freedom, one which had allegedly retained a dead child. Grotesque, still with the direct malice inflected unto him from the council he bore no consternation towards the action. It weren't as if the citizens whom presented odium the longer he lingered would, they shadowed their expressions into a false illusion of pity, however. They would not their anger was cold, not brazen enough to procure an act.

Indeed upon entry, the odor of rot came swift to him, he flinched and momentarily held his breath in instinct, but sighed soonafter, it would be meaningless to attempt to breath the air, and he had little option. It was integrated within, yet in glance there was no body lingering inside the room- a relief, he had never enjoyed 'cleaning duty' whilst amongst his clansmen, thus amidst the penitentiary that this Konoha was; he doubted it would be more of a pleasant experience, indeed, it held the potential to be seen as implicational given his reputation within the shamble the village had become. He walked to the kitchenette, knowing that there was nothing inside, but placed the parchment he had near destroyed in the fire of his fist when walking, there was a meagre counter which had just enough space for that, and potentially, a bowl. A hand ran through his hair, then dropped fast as air only came when it sought long strands of silken hair that no longer remained. He threw his jacket off, and the door of his closet banged against the frame, eyes searching for only a second for a vintage piece of clothing he might wear; there were none. Scraps of clothing with holes, rips, stains, crusted blood- only they remained, folded on the broken shelves and hung precarious on the falling rack.

Then abruptly, a flashing of red flowed over his vision straining his corneas with intense pressure, there was a splattering of crimson- darker then its previous shade and freckling across in droplets he recognized without thought as blood. His throat stung aside the imagery, a sting in resemblance to the worst cut of a katana.

His knees hit the floor first, but his head swung back in face to the ceiling, bleak staring that pertained to nothing. Panting escaped, and his chest trembled, arms useless at his sides. It was a memory, he knew, the familiarity was encompassing, it had been of his death: Shades of red, a scream to his son, a plea to his husband. Though no true recollection came, no substantial image, still tears did not come forward to do their dance of emotion, and there was no outlet for the crush of feelings imposing. Teeth clenched as he stood once more, and his eyes shifted to the bundle of clothing he had dropped to the floor in accident, not ready to stare upon them in what they represented, however, to look unto their familiar fabric now his mind recast itself; originally he had taken the robes for the mere sake of remembrance. Taken them direct from the back of Naori's housing as they had been only minutely concealed -likely for the Alpha's own sake. It was entirely inapposite to wear them for himself, perhaps even an insult to the memory of his most precious dead friend. Yet still, he grabbed and held the softened fabric, thumb caressing it in reverence.

Clutched it then in ponderance, in embittering selfish want; he knew Kou, he knew well of the man whom he had been, his personal, his charms and ideals. He turned the cloth, as expected, bold and obvious bore the Uchiha kamon, the proud red and white symbol out-standing upon the beige hues. He traced its edges; fore he knew a method to hide to image- it was shameful indeed, one hiding their kamon from eyes, but it was accepted as appropriate if done whence surrounded by enemies. He deemed it acceptable. Discarding his clothing and dawning the familiar outfit, the comfort of the cloth, the less restrictive sensation of the flow it possessed, a taste of who he was now as near all others were gone. A simper graced his features, even as he used a minor seal -with hardly any chakra- to hide his family's crest.

He left his apartment, it did not feel as a home should and the air was crushing in all those memories he did not wish to recall.

The streets were all wrong onto his vision, though unbearingly known in his head, and he walked them without the issue of confusion. His destination was the park, though undoubtedly changed from what he wished to see, it was rather neutral from those around- only a few sparse bad memories were held in the land there. It was no plain field, there were children's equipment, swings and slides, a bench remained however, and he sat graceful upon it, training ingrained speaking that he was only obligated to do so. He did not slouch, though he wished to, and his stare remained only on his hands placed so properly over the beige of his friend's clothing, eyes wavering at the familiar sight. Should his gaze remain fixated there, he could falsify his own vision, and perhaps in turn the ground would change from concrete to grass, the leafs would ring louder in the wind, and a laugh would echo to his ears in the ring of his son playing with his father. Perhaps, all that would be in his sight whence he glanced upwards once more.

"A genjutsu..." His mind taunted him, wrong, yet enticing.

"Naruto? Is that you?" Was whispered carefully, he looked to her -his surroundings remaining- faced with the pink of her hair wisping gentle around her as blossoms, eyes tentative shaking as their mint tone pierced him, recalling Sakura-Lee through a fog. His attention brightened her aura however, and she smiled in approaching, upon instinct, he smiled back- he knew the game as he knew Madara's expressions. "You've been gone for ages, where've you been?" His smile did not shift, not even with the recollection that when he had first realized he was in the past; all he had truly thought about had been his former companions. Now he found their presence an imposition. If she cared to notice, it would be plain as the white on rice that his laugh was false.

He scratched at the back of his neck in habit. "Ah well, Tsunade-sa Tsunade-baa-chan sent me on a small mission." There was not an exact excuse he could use after all, indeed, he had no particular understanding of how long he had been gone or what had been said about his disappearance. Already regretful of his response to Kakashi's simple questioning and calm aura, it had been too much at the time, especially to be civil to a Hatake. Sakura, a Haruno, of the merchant clan, he could talk to without too much force of his lips.

"Ah, well, Jiraiya-sama has been looking for you, worried I think." He stopped, all motion did, movement stilled, wind did not blow, leafs stuck in motion, as did Sakura's arm as it brushed astray hair, there was no sound but the ring of a vague scream in his head and all sensation had left him. Mouth flattened into a line and eyes sharpened consistent with his fan's blades. It was gone within the beat of a hawk's wing before oxygen came back and the blond heaved a breath: Mentor, not son, he had to remember. Knowing that did not return the smile to his face however, emotions churned to morose and cerulean turning to the once more shifting leafs. Having seen the change, Sakura did alter topic. "Actually we have a lead on Sasuke-kun!" A grin blossomed upon the young Haruno, and it did manage to grasp Naruto's attention. Once more staring direct to his old comrade. Their gazes met; hers excited, his determined and somewhat guileful. Sasuke was an Uchiha, therein knowledgable further of their truths and secrets then any within the boundaries of Konoha- though he had been young at their demise. He pondered: Knowing of another who would hold far more information, and already Itachi sought him.

~0~

"Jiraiya-chan!" A songful voice came from the depths of the forest, near ominous, indeed should the shine of the sun's gentle rays not been casting luminous upon the man peacefully picking flowers, it would have been. Peaceful, the smoothest tone of mocha hair drifting within the soothing breeze, walnut skin only accenting. In a manner as the man stood, his hair was more graceful though Madara only glared to the sight- remembering; Naru's hair glinted in the light with powerful colour of the sun itself, lightened gold flowing with the wind. Hashirama grinned bright, walking forward in his grace that spoke only to those whom knew him of his experience as a battle shinobi. Madara forced his eyes away from the man; his grin far too similar to his hanayome. "How is my godson?"

Jiraiya squeaked, a happy sound as he squrimed to reach the excited Hokage, small arms reaching forward. Madara let his friend take his son.