Convergence: A Sasuke Fanfiction

KONOHA

A Month Later…

The crowd was absolutely rabid as we and the other qualifying candidates made our way towards the centre of the arena. Names were chanted and provocative jabs were hurled from above. We let our lips curl into a smile—Sharingan flickering into existence—as we waved at the mindless rabble in the audience seats. A primal roar of exhilaration ripped through the crowd in response and suddenly the name Uchiha was uttered by seemingly every soul in attendance.

As it should be, of course.

“Show off,” we heard Kiba mutter in response. The boy stank of envy. The poor thing.

“Stop fidgeting,” ordered Genma, the proctor for this exam. Being the target of the rebuttal, Hinata froze in response. “Stand still and face forward, towards the guests. You are all the stars of these finals, so act like it!”

We sent a thumbs up the Hyuga heiress’s way and, to our amusement, she shrivelled up further in response. Our attention flickered back towards the seats above, panning around until it slowly came to rest at the location of the seat of honour. Sharingan still active we could make out the wrinkles on the Hokage’s face despite the distance. The doddery fool leaned to the side, muttering something to the Kazehage by his side and the other Kage’s predatory gaze turned to regard us. We held the veiled man’s gaze for a moment before looking, letting our Sharingan fade back into the black.

“Ahem!” came the Hokage’s voice via loudspeaker as he addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen! Esteemed guests! Welcome, and a heartfelt thanks for gathering here in the Village-Hidden-in-the-Leaves for the Chunin selection examinations! We will now begin the matches of the final rounds between the twelve qualifying candidates. Please sit back and enjoy!”

The crowd roared once more in anticipation. It was tiring, to be honest; the pleasure humans found in exhibitions of senseless violence. Still, we smiled and waved, goading them on like the mindless lemmings they were.

“Listen up, all of you,” Genma said. “This is the last exam. The terrain is different, and so are the rules. You fight until one f you dies or admits defeat. Or unless I determine that a clear winner has already been decided, in which case I will stop the match before anyone is killed. Understand? All right then … Match one! Lee versus Gaara! You two stay down here, the rest of you. The rest of you proceed to the waiting room outside the arena.”

***

What is the meaning of meaning? What does it mean for something to mean something? Human language—words—in its most reductive state was a coalescence of unintelligible noises that, on their own held no meaning, but when pieced together, incomprehensibly found meaning. The tone; the pauses; the little lilts in words give further meaning to this… meaning.

Colours on their own had no meaning, but the mortal mind always finds a way to inexplicably assign meaning to them. Red; rage. Green; envy, disgust. Black; solitude. White; purity. It always does. It always will.

Of course, in our highest state, we found no use for meaning. For something to mean something, it must be explainable. Understandable. Comprehensible! ... For something to be comprehensible, is for it to be named. When you know something’s True Name—not just a descriptive term for it, but an accurate, all-encapsulating term—you can control it. A name is a symbol that allows you to reduce the thing and reference it simply. It allows you to capture the identity of something much larger in just a few syllables. To describe something in words is to give it a name—to encapsulate it, make it small…

To give yourself some power over it.

“...There is no language for such abysms of shrieking and immemorial lunacy, such eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order. A mountain walked or stumbled. God! … The Thing of the idols, the green, sticky spawn of the stars, had awaked to claim his own.”

These were the words of an enlightened mortal, one whose work we had the pleasure of perusing earlier in this life. In a way, it was the most beautiful thing the mortal world ever offered us. Like looking at one’s reflection on the surface of a turbulent, murky lake illuminated only by the dim rays of the moon peeking out from behind the cloud cover.

Vague and indecipherable, yet the closest thing to a portrait of our true self we would ever find.

What is the mortal mind to do when it perceives an entity that defies its capacity for understanding? A name falls short; a description shorter still. It is… the Ineffable. The thing which cannot be named. The Unnamable. The indescribable.

The incomprehensible.

When words fail, the mortal mind seeks out other means. Thoughts about divinity. Infinity. Experiences so strange they cannot be related; emotions so poignant they cannot be meaningfully expressed. What does it do with these things? If not with language, how does it describe it? Something the rational mind, eager to describe—and thus, understand—strains against.

In light of these thoughts, one could say, our existence is a demonstration of the climax of mortal limitations.

Our gaze returns to the arena to regard the lesser thing below toying with its meal. A creature of sand and hatred, not much unlike the little fox. The taste of blood in its chakra was sickeningly sweet, yet it could not crave it more. Consume and destroy, that was the code carved into its grains. It sought to verify its existence through the suffering of others. To find meaning through violence…

To define itself.

Our lips curled in disdain as the proctor called the match. Gaara flickered out of the arena, his bloodshot eyes radiating bloodlust as they turned to face us.

“Truly,” we think, “an inferior existence.”

***

The rest of the battles went by in a blur. Pointless and insignificant. Jejune.

Temari, Shino, Tenten and Neji all made it to the next round seemingly without any effort. Both our teammates were summarily knocked out of the race. It wasn’t unexpected. How disgraceful, however, it must be for Kakashi that only the student he blatantly refused to train was the one to not suffer a catastrophic defeat.

Of course, we had yet to battle Kankuro, but we all knew what the result of this match would be. We had known this since the moment the pairings were announced a month ago. We leapt from the waiting room into the arena, the sleeves of our noble kimono, as well as our silken mane, billowing in the wind around us. Our feet touched the ground in a swirl of leaves, dust and chakra. From the feminine screams raging through the crowd above, we guessed the audience loved it.

Nothing like a bit of dramatic flair to get a few hearts racing, after all.

“Are you done showboating yet?” Kankuro’s puppet asked. The boy hung from the construct’s back, wrapped up in bandages from head to toe and disguised as the puppet itself. We could see the little chakra threads extending from the puppet’s hard points to his twitching fingers inside his cocoon of fabric.

Our Sharingan flickered off and we tilted our head, as we regarded the boy. “I guess,” we told him.

“...I hate your kind,” he spat a few seconds later, perhaps sensing the mockery in our response. “You sleazy, lecherous lout. I know what your intentions are for Temari, and I promise, I am going to beat it out of that powdered face of yours. Gigolo.”

We smiled at the boy. “Since you care so much about your sister, I guess I’ll go easy on you after all,” we tell him.

The Suna-nin growled in response. Our smile remained, unabated.

“Begin!” Genma said, signalling the start of the match.

“...”

The arena suddenly fell silent. Kankuro’s puppet still disguised as himself remained where it stood. We were now a few dozen paces behind it holding the cocooned Suna-nin to the arena wall. Our grip constricted, wrapping tightly around his neck as our chakra flooded his system, causing the energy flow to grow turbulent and his control over his weapons of choice to turn nonexistent. The puppet behind us fell to the ground with a noisy clatter, the henge shrouding it dispelling in a cloud of white smoke. Kankuro’s cocoon of bandages slowly unfurled, revealing his face pale from asphyxiation. The Shinobi clawed at our wrist in desperation, his hands unable to pry off our chakra-augmented grip.

“I-I yield,” he mouthed.

“He yields,” we said, relaying the message to our stunned proctor.

“...T-the winner is Uchiha Sasuke!” Genma announced, still in disbelief, the senbon in his mouth nearly falling to the ground.

We let the Suna-nin go and he slid to the ground choking for air. The arena remained silent but slowly the crowd seemed to register Genma’s words. It wasn’t until we flickered back to our seat in the waiting area that they finally returned to their shouting, screaming selves. The noise was nearly unbearable. They seemed surprised.

Why? we thought to ourself. What were they expecting?