"I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship."
— Louisa May Alcott
--
Otis's eyes fluttered open. His vision swam in waves of gray and red, his skull still pounding from the blow that had ended his consciousness, but the first thing he felt was the coarse drag of dirt beneath his back. His leg was caught in the grip of a man who hauled him across the ground like a sack of rice. Every tug sent a jolt through his skull, still ringing from the blow that had knocked him out.
When the dragging stopped, the stench hit him.
Bodies.
All around him. Limbs twisted, torsos torn open—faces he had seen that other morning in Kibana village now slack in death. His stomach lurched when his eyes landed on the woman he'd passed in the street earlier—the one with kind eyes—her face now ruined by a sphere-sized hole straight through her skull. Blood matted her hair, dripping in thick rivulets into the soil. Just beyond her lay the old man who had spoken so proudly in the village square, chest caved in, jaw broken sideways.
Otis's pulse hammered so violently he thought his heart might tear through his ribs.
What… is this? Did I—
His chest seized. His hands shook violently.
No… No. NO. NO. NO. I didn't do this.
He forced himself upright despite the haze, his hands trembling, fury and fear tangling in his gut. "No…" he rasped, eyes darting wildly. "This… this wasn't…"
He blinked hard, forcing his gaze to the right.
There she was. The elder of Kibana village—the woman he had asked about the bandits. A gaping hole marked the side of her head.
Otis's throat went dry. He wanted to vomit, but the ropes cinched tight around his torso kept his stomach pressed, the bile crawling back down his throat instead. The taste of acid clung to his tongue.
His mind screamed.
This isn't me. This can't be me.
But the scene didn't care about his denial.
A shadow moved in front of him.
The Root ninja.
The bastard. His mask was blank, but his voice was dripping with smug authority, every word rehearsed.
"Look at your work," the operative murmured, voice empty of anything human. "You did well, weapon."
Otis snarled, his throat raw. He tried to lunge, but the ropes cut his wrists bloody.
"Weapon? You think I did this? I don't even remember—"
The operative crouched, tilting his head like an amused scientist observing a rat that refused to run the maze.
"That's the beauty of it," he murmured. "You don't need to remember. Everyone else will."
The words hit like knives. Otis froze. His chest collapsed inward.
This wasn't just slaughter. It was theater. A stage play written for him to take the blame.
The Ninja chuckled softly and then slapped him across the face, snapping his head sideways. Blood sprayed from his split lip.
"Struggle if you like," the man continued, voice smooth and almost bored. "In the end, they'll believe what they're told. The villagers will weep about the monster and Konoha will hear of the rogue who butchered innocents. And you?"
The mask leaned closer, so near Otis could see his own bloodied reflection staring back at him in the empty eyeholes.
"You'll doubt yourself. That's the first cut. The deepest cut."
Otis clenched his teeth so hard his jaw popped.
"Oh, is this the part where I break down and beg for forgiveness?" he rasped. "Or should I Cry like a child? Beg forgiveness? Maybe scream 'I'm a demon' for your amusement? Sorry, mask-boy—" his eyes burned with defiance, "—I don't play along."
The Root operative tilted his head again
Otis raised his chin, fury dripping through every syllable.
"You'll have to do better than that," he hissed. "Because if I ever get free, if I ever put my hands on you… I won't stop at killing you. I'll break you down piece by piece until even your mask begs for mercy."
The operative didn't respond. Instead, he drove his fist into Otis's stomach hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs.
Then he stood, brushing dirt from his gloves as if Otis were nothing but soil beneath his boots. He gestured to the shadows.
More Root shinobi emerged, faceless and silent. Some carried blood-stained weapons, others scrolls with forged evidence. A few already bore sacks that sagged with "proof."
One masked figure crouched beside Otis, pressing fingers to his neck. "Alive," he reported flatly.
Another spoke with cold finality: "Danzō-sama wants him intact. Patch the body enough to survive the transport."
The Root nodded. Two operatives seized Otis by the arms and dragged him again, his body scraping rocks and dirt. His head bounced once against the ground, rattling his brain, but he refused to groan.
He laughed instead.
Blood trickled from his lips, staining his teeth, but he kept laughing—ragged, wild, defiant..
The last thing he heard before blackness swallowed him again was the dry snap of a scroll being sealed, followed by the words,
"Let the village see the monster they want."
***
Meanwhile, in Konoha
The forest near the village edge was unnaturally quiet. Not the lazy silence of summer evenings—
Shisui crouched on the branch of an old oak, his sharp eyes tracking the masked man running below. A Root operative — his movements too precise, too mechanical, too detached to be anything else.
And he wasn't alone. Shisui had seen dozens of them in the past few hours, flitting in and out of the village like shadows.
His frown deepened. Danzo's dogs never move this openly unless something's cooking.
Dropping silently to the ground, Shisui blurred behind the operative, a hand pressing to the man's shoulder. Sharingan flared, spinning crimson.
"Genjutsu," Shisui whispered, almost playfully.
Chakra surged through his hand, and the Root's body stiffened, muscles locking into paralysis.
Shisui rifled through him quickly like a thief. His fingers found a hidden scroll tucked under the armor plate.
He unrolled it, scanning the contents. His playful expression drained away, replaced with sharp, cold anger.
So that's the game, huh…
The words on the scroll were simple but dangerous—propaganda orders, instructions for Root operatives disguised as civilians to spread a fabricated story,
Otis, the strange outsider boy, had slaughtered dozens of civilians in the Land of Fire.
It was character assassination—pure and lethal.
Shisui's jaw tightened. He didn't bother burning the scroll—he vanished in a flicker of movement, with scroll in hand.
When the Root operative blinked back to awareness a minute later, he stood trembling, drenched in cold sweat.
Why am I just standing here? Why can't I remember?
The fear wasn't that his body had been controlled. It was that he had no idea when it started—or when it would happen again.
--
(A/N)
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