Chapter 4: The Frequency of Frustration
The cafeteria of the Sunrise Home for Children was a battlefield of sensory overload, far more chaotic than any skirmish line Obito had ever held in the Land of Grass. It wasn't the threat of death that made it overwhelming; it was the sheer, uncoordinated volume of life.
The air smelled of boiled cabbage and disinfectant, a sharp contrast to the earthy scent of the forest borders he was used to. Dozens of children, each a walking anomaly of biology and physics, were shouting, eating, and accidentally activating their powers. A boy with springs for legs was bouncing incessantly near the window, creating a rhythmic boing-clank, boing-clank that drilled into Obito's skull.
Obito sat at the far end of a long, scuffed table, his tray untouched. He was staring at a bowl of white rice. It was the only familiar thing in this entire alien world.
"You're doing it again," a voice droned from across the table.
Obito looked up with his single, dark eye. Kyoka Jiro was sitting there, her chin resting in her hand, her earphone jacks lazily tracing circles on the table surface. She wasn't eating; she was just observing, her eyes half-lidded and bored.
"Doing what?" Obito asked, his voice low. He was still getting used to the way his own voice sounded—raspier, deeper than before the accident.
"You're glaring at the rice like it insulted your ancestors," Jiro deadpanned. "It's just starch, Uchiha. It won't bite back. Unlike the stew on Tuesdays."
Obito didn't smile. He looked down at his right hand—the prosthetic. It was a bulky, beige casing of plastic and metal that terminated in stiff, mechanical fingers. Dr. Hori had adjusted the tension springs that morning, claiming it would help with his grip. Instead, it just made the hand feel like a loaded trap waiting to snap.
"I'm not glaring," Obito muttered. "I'm... strategizing."
"Strategizing how to pick up a spoon?"
"Yes."
It was a humiliating admission, but lying to the girl who could hear his heartbeat seemed futile. Obito took a breath. He reached for the metal spoon with his prosthetic. The movement was jerky. His shoulder muscles contracted, sending a signal to the sensors lining the stump of his arm. The signal was supposed to translate into a smooth grasping motion.
Whirrr-click.
The plastic fingers snapped shut too early, missing the handle and hitting the table with a loud clack.
A few kids at the next table turned to look. One of them, a boy with blue skin and fins, snickered.
Obito felt the heat rise up his neck, burning his ears. He pulled his arm back, hiding the plastic hand under the table.
"Stupid," he hissed to himself. "Useless junk."
"You're trying too hard," Jiro said softly. She wasn't mocking him. She was looking at his arm with a clinical curiosity. "I can hear the servos whining before you even move. You're tense. Your muscles are bunching up way before you send the signal."
Obito frowned. "And how am I supposed to relax? It's not my hand. It's a tool. A ninja masters his tools, but this... this is like trying to write calligraphy with a shovel."
"A ninja," Jiro repeated, a small smirk playing on her lips. "You really stick to that bit, don't you? Fine. If you're a ninja, stop treating it like a foreign object. Treat it like... I don't know, a really heavy glove?"
She picked up her own spoon, twirling it effortlessly between her fingers. "Rhythm, Obito. Everything has a rhythm. Even machines. Listen to the hum."
Obito closed his eye. He tried to tune out the bouncing boy and the shouting. He focused on the low, electric buzz of the prosthetic attached to his body. It was a constant, annoying frequency, but it was there. Hummm... click.
He opened his eye. He didn't try to force the hand. He just let his shoulder drop. He visualized the chakra flow, even though he couldn't push chakra into the plastic. He visualized the intent.
Reach. Grasp.
The arm moved. Slower this time. The fingers opened. He positioned them over the spoon.
Close.
The fingers curled. They clamped around the metal handle. It was awkward, and he was holding it like a toddler holds a crayon, but he had it.
"There," Jiro said, nodding approvingly. "Not graceful, but functional."
Obito lifted the spoon. It trembled, but he managed to scoop some rice and bring it to his mouth. He ate it. It was cold and slightly mushy, but it tasted like victory.
"Thanks," he mumbled, looking away.
"Don't mention it," Jiro said, finally picking up her sandwich. "I just got tired of hearing your stomach growl. It was interfering with the bass line I was listening to."
The afternoon was reserved for "Quirk Counseling and Physical Education." For most kids, this meant going to the gym and blasting targets or lifting weights. For Obito, it meant sitting in a small, quiet room with a therapist named Mr. Yagi (no relation to the hero, apparently, just a common name).
Mr. Yagi was a man made of soft edges. He spoke softly, moved softly, and had a Quirk that allowed him to make small objects float gently.
"Today, Obito-kun, we are going to work on fine motor skills," Mr. Yagi said, placing a bowl of glass marbles and an empty bowl on the table. "I want you to transfer the marbles from one bowl to the other. One by one."
Obito stared at the marbles. They were small, smooth, and slippery. The enemy.
"This is ridiculous," Obito said, crossing his arms—or trying to, before the plastic arm got stuck on his shirt fabric. "I need to be training my body. I need to run. I need to build my stamina back up. Sitting here playing with toys is a waste of time."
"You cannot run if you cannot balance," Mr. Yagi said patiently. "And you cannot fight if you cannot hold a weapon. Your file says you want to be a... hero? Or was it a leader?"
"Hokage," Obito corrected automatically. "The leader of the village. The one who protects everyone."
"A noble goal. But a leader must have patience. Go on. Try."
Obito glared at the bowl. He reached out. The first marble slipped through his plastic fingers like water. The second one shot out across the room when he squeezed too hard.
Clack. Roll. Roll.
"Damn it!" Obito slammed his flesh fist onto the table. "Why can't I just use my left hand? I can do everything with my left!"
"Because the world is two-handed, Obito," Mr. Yagi said, levitating the escaped marble back into the bowl. "And because giving up on half of yourself is not something a Hokage would do, is it?"
That struck a nerve. Obito gritted his teeth. He thought of Kakashi. Kakashi wouldn't complain. Kakashi would have mastered this stupid arm in an hour. Kakashi was a genius.
I am not Kakashi, Obito thought bitterly. I am the dead last. But I am an Uchiha.
He spent the next hour sweating profusely, his face twisted in concentration. He managed to move three marbles. Just three. But when the session ended, he felt more exhausted than he had after a full day of D-rank missions.
Walking back to his room, Obito felt the heavy weight of melancholy settling on his shoulders. The hallways were empty; most kids were outside enjoying the twilight.
He passed by a room with the door slightly ajar. Music was coming from inside. Not the pop garbage they played on the TV, but something raw, angry, and rhythmic. It sounded like metal clashing against rock.
He peeked inside. It was Jiro's room.
She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by instruments. An electric bass, a small amplifier, and piles of sheet music. She wasn't playing; she was just listening to a record spinning on a turntable, her eyes closed, bobbing her head.
Obito knocked on the frame.
Jiro's eyes snapped open. She saw him and turned down the volume.
"Spying on me, ninja-boy?"
"I heard the noise," Obito said, stepping in. "It sounded... like a landslide."
"It's called Punk Rock," Jiro said, a hint of pride in her voice. "It's about being loud when people want you to be quiet."
Obito looked at the guitar. It was sleek, painted a deep purple. "You play?"
"Trying to," Jiro sighed, picking up the bass. "My parents are pros. I have big shoes to fill. But my fingers..." She held up her hands. "I get calluses, but sometimes the vibration from my Quirk messes up my playing. I hear the mistakes before I even make them."
Obito sat down on a beanbag chair in the corner. It was surprisingly comfortable. "I know how that feels. Knowing you messed up before it happens."
He looked at his plastic hand. "Back home... before I came here... I was always late. I was always clumsy. I tried to breathe fire, and I burned my mouth. I tried to throw shuriken, and I hit my own foot."
Jiro chuckled. "You're really selling yourself as a top-tier warrior here."
"But I never stopped," Obito said, his voice firming up. He looked at her, his single eye intense. "I kept training until I could do it. And I did. I saved my teammates. I... I think I did."
The memory was fuzzy. The rock falling. The push. Had he saved Kakashi? He had to believe he did. Otherwise, what was the point of this pain?
"So, you're stubborn," Jiro concluded. She strummed a chord. The deep vibration resonated in Obito's chest. "That's a good quality for a hero."
"I told you, I'm not a hero. I'm a shinobi."
"Potato, po-tah-to," Jiro waved her hand. "Hey, you said you trained? Can you teach me something? Not ninja magic, but... focus? You sat there for an hour moving marbles without screaming. I heard you through the wall. I would have smashed the bowl."
Obito blinked. "You want me to teach you?"
"Just a little. Reciprocity. I help you with the rhythm of the arm, you help me with... patience."
Obito looked at the girl. She was the first person in this world who didn't look at him with pity or confusion. She looked at him like an equal. A fellow struggler.
"Okay," Obito said. He sat up straighter. "But my training is strict. No complaining."
"Deal."
"First lesson," Obito said, pointing to the floor. "Meditation. Close your eyes."
Jiro rolled her eyes but complied, setting the bass aside. "This is boring already."
"Quiet," Obito ordered, though a small smile tugged at his lips. "Listen to the room. Don't just hear it. Feel it. Where is the vibration coming from?"
"The fridge in the hallway," Jiro answered instantly. "The fan in the vents. And... your heart. It's beating fast."
Obito flushed. "Ignore the heart. Focus on the fan."
They sat there for twenty minutes. For the first ten, Jiro fidgeted. For the next five, she tapped her jacks on her knees. But for the last five, she was still.
Obito watched her. He wasn't meditating. He was studying her chakra—or whatever energy these people had. It was different. It didn't flow through coils; it felt like it permeated their very DNA.
"This world is strange," Obito whispered to himself.
"Did you say something?" Jiro asked, opening one eye.
"No. Keep focusing. If you move, you run ten laps."
"You're a tyrant."
"I'm a teacher."
For the first time since waking up in the white room, Obito felt a sense of purpose. It wasn't a mission. It wasn't a war. It was just two kids sitting on a floor, listening to the hum of a broken world, trying to find a rhythm that made sense.
Later that night, Obito lay in bed. Kenji was snoring in the bunk below—a sound like a chainsaw cutting through wet wood.
Obito held up his plastic hand. The moonlight caught the beige surface.
He concentrated. Reach. Grasp.
The fingers curled into a fist. Smoothly. Quietly.
He held the fist for a moment, then released it.
"One step," he whispered to the darkness.
He turned to his side, careful not to crush his shoulder. He closed his eye. The nightmares of the cave would come, he knew they would. But tonight, maybe the sound of Jiro's bass guitar would play in the background, drowning out the sound of the cracking rocks.
He drifted off, the ghost of a smile on his scarred face. The path to becoming Hokage was gone. But a new path was opening up. He didn't know where it led, but for the first time, he wasn't afraid to walk it.