A Measure of Darkness

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep." Reincarnation!OC

— Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

PREMISE

A Measure of Darkness

Dying is warm.

There is darkness, darker than closed eyes, disorienting.

I always hated the dark. Couldn't tell what was in it. I was used to people's facial expressions—the tell-tale signs that gave away their inner feelings, was used to seeing things that were dangerous so I could avoid them. With darkness, came deprivation. No hearing, no smelling, no touching, no tasting. It was only my consciousness telling me You still exist despite me no longer having the body of a college student.

I doubted I really existed. And I feared if I didn't believe I existed, then I didn't exist. Then who would I be? What would I be?

Is this a coma? I thought. Am I going to wake up fifty years later? Would my family pull the plug?

I wrote a personal letter to my family. They had all read it before I flew fifteen hours away. One of the sentences was bleak: If I end up on life support, pull the plug. I don't ever want to be a burden on you. The last thing I need is waking up and finding out we're homeless, or something.

I wondered if I died, would they get any money? God knows they needed it.

I'm really dead? Huh. I didn't accomplish much...

A part of me felt a heavy, soul-breaking sadness. And a part of me, well, hoped for a redo.

Once again, I'm whole.

Once again, I live, my mind stuck in this new life's subconscious, akin to a fly buzzing around just out of sight, to be absentmindedly swatted at. This existence is me, suffering in silence, as a two-year-old child shrugs away my presence. A child made up of altered pieces of me—be it whatever I am within this darkness.

At the moment everything is blurring together, spiraling, and despite my terror, this new existence is not completely foreign. The memories captured by this body feel like my own if lacking my entire consciousness. A part of me feels emotional connections to the child's parents—my parents?—because this mind so vividly recalls a time that, when all my complex needs could only be communicated by sobbing, they were there. They supported me. They comforted me. It warms me eve now.

Yet my consciousness is telling me this can't be right. I was a college student, wasn't? Can't say I was the best student possible, and maybe I never took my professors seriously, but I was practically an adult. Not a child.

That would mean I was born again, right?

My mind won't stop racing.

The kid stealing fragments of me swings his legs in the tall chair, toes grazing the metal legs, as he knits his sweaty hands together. His heart accelerates as fast as my thoughts do.

What's going on? he thinks, and like all his memories that have bled into mine, I know he doesn't speak English. Is Mama okay? I hate not knowing...

From the thin wall behind him, he can hear the occasional yell.

It sends a shudder through him because Mama has never yelled in pain before. He never wants to remember the voice, but he can't escape it. The scary, foreign sound only attaches itself to his memories further.

I understand, however. He can't actually be me, right? He should know.

Even from this darkness, I feel his paranoia. It feels just like my own. My paranoia about my real mother being hospitalized, about dying.

This kid, even if he wasn't me, needed help.

It's okay. Mama's gonna be okay.

I stop resisting.

The part remaining separate starts to coalesce into the boy's consciousness, making it less like a movie and more like a play and I'm the star. My mind is still amazed at my circumstances. My body acts using muscle memory that no altered awareness can change.

It's silent now, has been for a long while. The fading colors in the room make me feel lonely. Objects and decorations become more undefined and I know it's the same for me too, to become part of a growing shadow created by a setting sun. Then an impulse. My body leaps out of the chair, walks to the sliding door with lilies painted a vivid red and black, sticks small fingers into the crack, and parts it open.

That's what I was doing, huh?

"Mama," I hear my new voice say, looking around blindly as my eyes readjust, "are you okay?"

A weary voice calls me—it is not Mama—and I move towards that sound blindly, nearly stumbling into the wet nurse when my vision adapts enough. Her hands are pale against the red towel—rather, the previously blue towel now smeared with stains. It reeks even more than the room did: a thick, salty scent. The room contains towels, some medical equipment, and the bed where two adults are. Before I know it, the kid's—my heart swells with recognition.

There is Papa sitting on the bed's edge, facing away from me and to Mama, speaking in hushed tones.

The kid's curious and so I am. I want to barge past the wet nurse and see, but as I tilt my head and get a glimpse of Papa's face, something isn't right.

That's Fugaku.

Huh? Why is that so familiar—wait.

That's Fugaku Uchiha: Itachi's father, Sasuke's father, my father.

A show? A show? This can't—what is this? A dream?

This isn't real.

The kid side of me doesn't worry about anything. Impulsively, he says to the nurse, "Is Mama okay?"

That's Mikoto. That's Mikoto Uchiha.

"Yes, she is just fine. Mikoto-sama has given birth to your new baby brother." She hums pleasantly but with a small note of fatigue.

I'm an Uchiha.

Don't I die in the future?

What kind of dream is this? Get brought back to life just to die?

"Can I see, Mama, please?" The kid part of me is trying to peer over the nurse's shoulder.

"After Fugaku-sama finishes the bathing, you may see—at your father's discretion."

Soon both versions of me settle as different memories intermingle. The body so used to this world becomes a crutch of sanity. Ah, I'm Fugaku's son. I'm Takenaka Uchiha. And the one being born—I helped Mama pick a name, I remember, it came to me so naturally—

"Come here," orders Papa, cradling a bundle of cloth with a red, alien face and dark hair. "Look closely now. This is your blood brother."

I poke at my brother's hot, fleshy cheek with a knuckle and can't stop this painful smile. "He looks weird. Kinda cute, though. Itachan's going to be a lady killer!"

"You must stop being around that man," Papa grumbles, retracting my brother a small bit, referring to my Casanova grandfather.

And at my ear, the wet nurse hisses, "Use his proper name! Else your brother's going to think that pet name is his actual name!"

I smile delicately, like this kid's—my etiquette teacher taught me. Like I see Mama do. "Yes, ma'am. Itacha—Itachi Uchiha!"

The one who murdered all the Uchiha.

In a show.

I watched.

I can't grasp the reasoning behind this, so I resort to the all too human response of deny deny deny. Maybe it's cowardly or foolish; I figured if I can remain sane and get through this, it will redeem my action.

I know a few things already.

A, two years before the birth of Itachi Uchiha on the ninth of June, Takenaka Uchiha was born on the nineteenth of March.

B, Itachi Uchiha is born five years before Naruto is, assuming Itachi is still born in the proper year as canon. Which I'm definitely confident in.

C, I distinctly remember that there are three faces up on the Hokage Rock and there has been no Third Great Shinobi World War yet.

D, as eldest, I'm the default heir of the Uchiha clan. In the future, that should prevent Itachi from being too overworked. He may be able to play with Sasuke and be a child.

(—does that also mean that both Itachi and I are possible candidates for the Uchiha Massacre? The tragedy happened when Itachi was thirteen. I've got thirteen years to wait for anything to come about.)

E, this boy, my new body, can understand Japanese far better than I ever could at two. Granted, he is the son of a leader in a world about to war. Naturally, his father made sure he could speak Japanese.

F, I know that I have no intention in waiting thirteen years for this massacre to play out. My existence has already thrown off the balance of this world. I intend to keep it that way. Because—no matter how idealistic this sounds; just the perk of being American—I want to be a part of this world or dream or wherever. If somehow my existence could change a life, I will act immediately.

Besides, whether the kid part of me intended to or not, I'm attached to these people.

Yes, these people that were once nothing but ink and paper, puppets to an omnipotent author. It's through this kid that I can remember nothing but their passion as my second parents. That alone changed these fictional characters into real people.

Yes, it hurts knowing my own parents are now a distant dream. My family... my friends... everything I loved as a hobby, my future dreams are impossible, but I have a chance at making difference.

A part of me, though, is bitter. I'm no super fan of this series, I don't know every single detail, and I was mostly cynical about the Uchiha Clan. There was an equal amount of pros and cons. I didn't make a decision to support or hate the clan. Now? Well, I have no choice to accept my fate as an Uchiha.

If I told anyone I know the future, would they believe me? Or call me crazy?

What is there to gain from going insane, other than certain death? I'd be like an unwanted king, poisoned by my son as I sipped wine from my goblet.

I won't allow Itachi Uchiha to become the prodigy that murders his clan. I'll become the prodigy so he can have a childhood. No one deserves such a sad, unforgiving life.

What if I slaughtered all the Uchiha in his place?

I refuse to believe in that outcome.

I just need to play my cards right and not waste this. I get the feeling that if I die again, I may not have another chance at life.

PREMISE END

Yet another human-born-in-Narutoverse story—le gasp!—and an Uchiha OC at that? Ah. It's not the most original concept ever, but the Uchiha Clan is really fascinating and (before Shippuuden) I really rooted for the underdog clan.

This segways into my premise: a big brother of Itachi Uchiha who, using his status as the first born and eldest son of Fugaku, tries to prevent the clan downfall and genocide, somehow turn a clan prone to hatred and being ostracized into something accepted in the Leaf's community, and other things planned. I really want to divulge into the Uchiha lifestyle, but slowly, so as to not overwhelm readers with too many details.

Bonus: he's a dude OC. As much as I love the female-empowerment Naruto-fanverse is brimming with, I think a boy would have to do... less proving to be a leader. As example, males were always leaders in the Uchiha Clan and in many clans in general (Asura, Hagaromo, Madara, Fugaku, etc.). If this OC were female, logically speaking, this universe may be very biased in choosing her younger brother Itachi as a leader. Cruel. Unfair. But realistic. I hate it. You should too. But it's plausible.

And, y'know as a bonus, I really want this OC to save our cinnamon roll Itachi (too pure, too sweet for this world) but even I don't know how broken Itachi will be by the end of this.