"Those who do not understand true pain can never understand true peace." - Nagato
———
Itachi sat in the backseat of the car beside his mother, his small hands resting on his lap as he processed the vehicle that carried them forward with such unnatural smoothness.
A car. The word had surfaced in his mind unbidden, along with fragments of understanding that felt borrowed rather than learned. It was a carriage, but far more advanced than anything that should exist—a machine powered by an engine rather than horses or chakra. He could feel the subtle vibration of that engine through the leather seat, a mechanical purr that spoke of controlled combustion and precision engineering. No visible means of propulsion, yet they moved with steady acceleration along a paved road that was too smooth, too perfectly constructed to be anything from his previous world.
The concept unsettled him in ways he couldn't fully articulate. In his shinobi life, technology had existed but remained relatively stagnant—kunai, shuriken, explosive tags, the basic tools of warfare refined over generations but never fundamentally transformed. Chakra had been the great equalizer, the source of power that made technological advancement seem almost unnecessary. Why develop complex machines when a jutsu could accomplish the same task?
But this world had clearly taken a different path.
The car represented a level of mechanical sophistication that suggested centuries of development without chakra as a crutch. Or perhaps chakra didn't exist here at all. The thought made his chest tighten with something close to panic. He'd reached for his chakra earlier and found nothing—an absence so complete it had been like reaching for a limb that had been severed. If this world lacked chakra entirely, then everything he'd been, everything he'd trained for, all the power he'd accumulated meant nothing.
He was just a child. Powerless. Vulnerable.
Itachi turned his attention to the window, seeking distraction from that disturbing realization.
The landscape that rolled past was pastoral in a way that triggered memories of Fire Country's outer territories. Large stretches of land extended in every direction—fields divided by neat fencing, some planted with crops he didn't recognize, others lying fallow in preparation for future planting. Forests rose in the distance, dark green and dense, their boundaries sharp against the cultivated land. A few structures dotted the landscape—buildings that combined traditional architectural elements with that same modern construction he'd noticed in the compound.
It was rural. Isolated. The kind of setting you'd expect to find far from major population centers.
And that was what struck him as truly strange.
The clan compound he'd just left wasn't part of a larger community. There was no sprawling marketplace beyond its gates where merchants hawked their wares and villagers rushed to purchase daily necessities. No dense residential districts where civilian families lived in close quarters. No other clan compounds visible on the horizon, each one a fortress unto itself but united under the broader umbrella of village governance.
In Konoha, the Uchiha compound had been situated within the village proper—albeit pushed to its edges in those final years, isolated as a method of control and containment. But even in that marginalization, they'd been part of something larger. The Hyuga compound was visible from certain vantage points. The Akimichi, Yamanaka, and Nara clans all maintained their territories within walking distance. The Hokage Tower rose above it all, a constant reminder of the political structure that bound them together.
Here, there was nothing. Just his clan's estate standing alone in the countryside, separated from whatever civilization might exist beyond this rural expanse.
The isolation troubled him.
Historically, clans had bonded together out of necessity. The Warring States period had taught that lesson in blood—scattered clans fighting endless territorial disputes, children dying in conflicts that accomplished nothing, power fractured across hundreds of competing factions. The formation of hidden villages had been revolutionary precisely because it pooled resources and strength. United clans could maintain standing armies, establish trade networks, defend against larger threats that would overwhelm any single group. They could create academies to train the next generation properly rather than throwing children into battle with minimal preparation. They could build infrastructure, develop new techniques, advance medical knowledge.
Cooperation bred prosperity and protection. Isolation bred vulnerability.
Yet this clan—his clan now, apparently—sat alone in the countryside as if such concerns didn't exist. As if the threat of attack was so minimal it didn't warrant the security of numbers. As if they could afford to be self-sufficient without the economic and military advantages of a larger community.
Which suggested something fundamental about this world.
Perhaps it wasn't like his previous one. Perhaps this world wasn't defined by constant warfare and the grinding machinery of military conflict that had shaped every aspect of shinobi society. His old world had been harsh in ways that civilians could never fully comprehend—a world where children were trained as killers before they'd lost their baby teeth, where six-year-olds graduated from the Academy and were sent on missions that might end in their deaths. Where wars were fought with human waves, where numerical advantage sometimes mattered more than skill, where children served as sacrificial pawns in strategies designed by men who'd never had to watch those children die.
Deceit had been everywhere, constant and corrosive. Trust was a liability, honesty a weakness to be exploited. You stayed on guard always because the moment you relaxed was the moment a kunai found your back. Allies became enemies with a change in political wind. Peace was merely the interval between wars, a time to rest and prepare for the next inevitable conflict.
Itachi had been shaped by that world, molded into a weapon by necessity and circumstance. He'd made his choices within that context—terrible choices, unforgivable choices, but ones that had made a cold, logical sense when the alternative was war on a scale that would have consumed the entire shinobi world.
And he was so tired.
Tired of the weight of those choices. Tired of calculating death tolls and acceptable losses. Tired of living in shadows and lies. Tired of being the villain in everyone's story, even when he'd been trying to save them.
If this world was different—if it was gentler, more peaceful, less defined by violence and war—then perhaps he could have something he'd never had before.
A choice.
The freedom to decide how to live rather than having his path dictated by duty and necessity. The possibility of a life without misery, without regret, without the constant pain of knowing that his existence hurt the people he loved most. Maybe in this world, he could be something other than a weapon. Something other than a sacrifice on the altar of the greater good.
Maybe he could just be...
A soft hand settled on his head, gentle fingers threading through his hair.
"Rei. Are you alright?"
Itachi turned toward his mother, pulled from his thoughts by her concerned voice.
"You've been looking out the window for an extended period of time," she continued, her expression somewhere between amused and worried. "This is so unlike you, my child. Usually you would have already happily bombarded me with questions by now."
Her smile was warm but confused, clearly finding her son's uncharacteristic silence unusual. The behavior pattern she described—enthusiastic, inquisitive, talkative—painted a picture of who Rei had been before Itachi's consciousness had taken residence in this body.
So I'm supposed to be an energetic kid.
Itachi grimaced internally. Of all the personalities he might have inherited, it had to be that one. He'd been a serious child even before the Third Shinobi War had stripped away what little innocence he'd possessed. The few people who'd known him in childhood—Shisui, his parents, a handful of clan elders—had often commented on his unnatural gravity, the way he carried himself with an awareness beyond his years.
Playing the role of an enthusiastic, cheerful child would be difficult. Exhausting, even.
"I'm alright, Mother," Itachi said, keeping his voice calm and adding a smile that he hoped looked genuine and reassuring. "I was just contemplating something."
He met his mother's gaze as he spoke, taking the opportunity to study her features properly.
She was beautiful in a refined way that suggested aristocratic breeding. Early thirties, he estimated, though she maintained herself well enough that she could pass for younger. Her face was oval-shaped with high, elegant cheekbones that caught the light filtering through the car windows. Her skin was pale and flawless, speaking to a life protected from harsh sun and manual labor. Dark eyes regarded him with maternal affection and intelligence in equal measure. Her eyebrows were perfectly shaped, her nose straight and refined. Dark hair fell in soft waves around her face, styled with casual sophistication that somehow managed to look both effortless and expensive.
She wore minimal makeup but what she had applied was expert—a touch of color on her lips, something subtle around her eyes that made them seem larger and more expressive. Diamond earrings glinted at her ears, small but clearly genuine. Everything about her presentation spoke of wealth, status, and the kind of attention to appearance that came from being regularly scrutinized by high society.
This was a woman accustomed to judgment and expectation. A woman who understood social performance and the importance of maintaining face.
And right now, she was looking at him with motherly concern that made something in his chest ache unexpectedly.
"Have you been reading lately, Rei?" she asked, her expression shifting toward amusement. "I didn't expect you to have the word 'contemplating' in your vocabulary."
She chuckled softly, clearly finding her young son's word choice endearing rather than suspicious.
Itachi grimaced again internally. Of course a child—especially one characterized as energetic and enthusiastic—wouldn't typically use such vocabulary. He'd made a mistake, let his natural speech patterns slip through when he should have been more careful about maintaining the appropriate register for this body's age.
"Yes, I have been reading in my spare time, Mother," Itachi said coolly, the lie flowing easily from years of practice at deception.
What else could he say? How else could he explain a six-year-old using sophisticated vocabulary without raising more questions than he could safely answer? Better to establish himself as precocious, as a child who'd been secretly expanding his knowledge through reading. It was plausible enough, and it would give him cover for future slips.
His mother's expression softened further. She placed her hand over his smaller one, her palm warm against his skin.
"I want you to tell me if everything's alright, Rei," she said, her voice taking on that particular tone of worry that all mothers seemed to share regardless of what world they inhabited. "Do you understand me?"
The concern in her eyes was genuine. Real. She loved this child—loved him—with a fierceness that was visible in every line of her face.
Something twisted in Itachi's chest. His own mother had loved him like that once, before he'd killed her. Before he'd destroyed everything she'd built and everyone she'd loved in a single night of blood and horror.
"Yes, I will, Mother," Itachi said, forcing a smile that he hoped would soothe her worry. He made his voice gentle, reassuring, the tone of a child promising to be good.
It seemed to work. His mother's expression cleared, worry giving way to delight.
"What a cute child you are," she cooed, reaching out to cup his face affectionately.
The casual affection, the easy love—it was almost painful in its simplicity. This woman had no idea that the consciousness behind her son's eyes belonged to someone else entirely. Someone who'd long ago forfeited any right to maternal love.
"Your father will be there," his mother said suddenly, shifting topics with the fluid grace of someone moving through a mental checklist. "And some of our family friends."
The statement was clearly meant as a reminder, confirmation of information Itachi should already possess about today's plans.
Which presented a problem.
Itachi had no idea where they were going or what event they were supposed to attend. Whatever memories or knowledge had belonged to the original Rei hadn't transferred to him—or if they had, they remained locked away somewhere he couldn't access. He was operating blind, forced to navigate social situations without the basic context that would make them navigable.
He wanted to ask. The questions lined up in his mind, ready to be voiced. Where are we going? What is this event? Who will be there? What's expected of me?
But he refrained.
Asking would reveal his ignorance, and ignorance would raise questions. A child who'd been informed about today's plans wouldn't need to ask about them. At best, he'd seem confused or forgetful—concerning traits in their own right. At worst, he'd seem like someone else entirely had taken over her son's body.
Which was, of course, exactly what had happened.
So Itachi remained silent, watching the countryside roll past through the window. He would have to navigate whatever came next without preparation, reading social cues and adapting on the fly, the way he'd learned to do during his years as a spy.
It was just another performance. Another role to play.
He'd done it before. He could do it again.
Even if he was tired. Even if he'd hoped that death would finally let him rest.