Chapter 5: The Market of False Idols
The concept of a "weekend" was foreign to Obito. In Konoha, days were measured by mission parameters, training schedules, and the rotation of guard duties. You rested when the job was done, or when you were dead. There was no arbitrary designation of two days where the world simply decided to stop working.
Yet, here he was, standing in the gravel courtyard of the Sunrise Home on a Saturday morning, surrounded by children buzzing with a manic energy that made his skin crawl.
"Alright, listen up!" Matron Satako clapped her hands, the sound sharp in the crisp morning air. "Today is our monthly supplies trip to the Kiyashi Ward Shopping Mall. Remember the rules: Stick to your buddy, stay within the designated zones, and absolutely no quirk usage in public spaces. I'm looking at you, Kenji."
Kenji, who was currently stretching his spider-like fingers toward a low-hanging branch, groaned. "Fine, fine. No fun allowed."
Obito stood near the back, adjusting the strap of his eyepatch. He felt exposed. He was wearing the orphanage's standard-issue outings clothes: a generic gray t-shirt that was slightly too big and blue shorts that offered zero tactical advantage.
"You look like you're about to be executed," a voice deadpanned beside him.
Obito glanced down. Kyoka Jiro was standing there, wearing a black jacket over a band t-shirt, her earphone jacks plugged into a small music player. She looked comfortable in her skin, or at least, more comfortable than he felt.
"I don't like crowds," Obito muttered. "Too many variables. Too many blind spots."
"It's a mall, Obito, not a battlefield," Jiro said, pulling one jack out. "Though, considering the Saturday sales, you might not be wrong. You're my buddy, by the way. Matron assigned us. Try not to get lost."
"I don't get lost," Obito lied, straightening his back. "I have an excellent sense of direction."
"Uh-huh. You walked into the broom closet yesterday looking for the bathroom."
" The architecture here is nonsensical!"
The group was herded onto a public bus. This was Obito's first experience with modern mass transit. He had seen the metal beasts roaring down the streets from his window, but being inside one was a different ordeal. The smell of diesel, old fabric, and too many bodies pressed together was suffocating.
Obito sat by the window, Jiro taking the aisle seat to shield him from the press of people. He watched the city roll by. The buildings were endless. Glass, steel, concrete. No wood. No earth. It was a fortress of a civilization that had forgotten nature.
"How do they defend this?" Obito whispered, mostly to himself. "There are no walls. No watchtowers."
Jiro heard him, of course. "Heroes defend it," she said, tapping her finger on her knee to a rhythm only she could hear. "They patrol the streets. And the police."
"Police..." Obito tasted the word. "Civilians with badges. And Heroes... mercenaries in costumes."
"Don't let the other kids hear you say that," Jiro warned, though she didn't look angry. "Most of them would die to meet a Pro Hero. Being a hero is the dream."
"It's a job," Obito corrected, remembering Kenji's words. "A job isn't a dream. A dream is... something you live for. Something you'd die for."
Jiro looked at him then, her dark eyes searching his face. She didn't have a comeback for that.
When they arrived at the mall, Obito's senses were immediately assaulted. The sliding glass doors opened with a hiss, unleashing a blast of air-conditioning and a wall of noise. Music blared from hidden speakers. People were everywhere—hundreds of them.
And the lights. It was brighter inside than it was outside. Neon signs flashed in every color imaginable, advertising food, clothes, toys, and electronics.
Obito flinched, his hand instinctively going to his right side where a kunai pouch should have been. He grasped only the empty air near his hip.
"Breathe," Jiro said, nudging his elbow. "Follow me. We need to get you clothes that don't make you look like a prison inmate."
They navigated the crowds. Obito walked with a stiff, unnatural gait. His prosthetic arm was heavy inside the sleeve of his gray shirt. He was hyper-aware of it. Every time someone brushed past his right side, he braced for impact, expecting pain that wasn't there, or worse, that the arm would detach and fall off.
They entered a clothing store called "Urban Zenith." The music here was louder, a thumping bass that vibrated in Obito's chest.
"Okay," Jiro said, moving to a rack of hoodies. "The budget is small, but we can make it work. What's your style?"
Obito stared at the clothes. They were ridiculous. Shirts with loud prints, pants with unnecessary zippers that didn't open pockets, jackets that were too short or too long.
"Practical," Obito said. "Dark colors. Durable fabric. Something that doesn't restrict movement."
Jiro rummaged through the hangers. "So... emo ninja. Got it."
She pulled out a navy blue hoodie and a pair of black cargo pants. "Try these. The cargo pants have pockets for your... whatever you put in pockets. Rocks?"
"Tools," Obito corrected, taking the clothes.
The changing room was a small cubicle with a mirror that seemed to magnify every flaw. Obito struggled with the pants. The button was a challenge, but he used the technique he had practiced with the spoon. Focus. Visualize. Clamp.
He managed to dress himself. He pulled the hoodie on. It was soft. Surprisingly soft. He pulled the hood up over his head.
He looked in the mirror. The shadows of the hood obscured the upper half of his face, hiding the eyepatch. The dark clothes made him look slimmer, sharper. He didn't look like the broken boy from the hospital. He looked... almost like himself. Like a shinobi in exile.
He stepped out. Jiro was waiting, looking at a display of sunglasses. She turned and looked him up and down.
"Not bad," she nodded. "You look less like a victim and more like a suspect. It's an improvement."
"It's... acceptable," Obito said, tugging at the sleeves. The right sleeve covered the plastic joint of his wrist perfectly. "It hides the arm."
"That's the point," Jiro said. "Come on. We have an hour left. I want to check the music store."
They left the clothing store and drifted toward the upper levels. As they walked, Obito noticed something that made his stomach turn.
Everywhere he looked, there were faces. Not real faces, but images. Posters, cardboard cutouts, screens. All of them displaying the same few people.
A man with blonde hair and a smile so wide it looked painful.
A man with flames for a beard.
A woman in a skin-tight suit.
"All Might," Obito read the name on a giant banner hanging from the ceiling. 'The Symbol of Peace! Buy the new Action Figure now!'
They passed a toy store. The window display was a battlefield of plastic. Hundreds of small All Mights were lined up, smiling frozen smiles. Children were pressing their faces against the glass, begging their parents for one.
Obito stopped. He stared at the display.
"In my village," he said quietly, "we had faces carved into the mountain. Stone faces. They watched over us. They were solemn. Silent."
Jiro stopped next to him, following his gaze. " The Hokage monuments? You mentioned them."
"Yes. They were carved to honor the protectors. To remember the history." Obito pointed at the plastic toys. "This... this is a mockery. They sell their image like it's candy. How can you respect a protector who is sold in a box for 500 yen?"
"1500 yen, actually," Jiro corrected. "And yeah, it's commercial. But... see that kid?"
She pointed to a small boy, maybe five years old, holding an All Might doll. The boy was beaming, puffing out his chest, looking fearless.
"That doll makes him feel safe," Jiro said softly. "It makes him feel like he can be brave. Maybe it's not about the plastic, Obito. Maybe it's about the symbol."
Obito watched the boy. He remembered the goggles Minato-sensei gave him. They weren't expensive, but they meant everything to him. They were a symbol of his knighthood.
"Perhaps," Obito conceded, though the distaste remained. "But a symbol that can be bought is a symbol that can be broken."
"You're really cynical for a twelve-year-old," Jiro sighed. "Come on. Music store. Now."
The music store was a sanctuary for Jiro, but a torture chamber for Obito. The noise was chaotic—three different songs playing from different stations. He waited near the entrance, leaning against a wall, watching the flow of people.
His eyes scanned the crowd. Threat assessment.
Civilian. Civilian. Civilian. Threat? No, just a large man. Civilian.
Then, he saw something.
Two older boys, teenagers, were walking past a smaller kid near the fountain. One of the teenagers bumped into the kid, knocking his ice cream to the floor. The teenager laughed and kept walking.
Obito's body moved before his brain gave the order.
He stepped into their path.
The teenagers stopped. They were tall, wearing high school uniforms. One had horns protruding from his forehead.
"Move it, half-pint," the horned boy sneered.
Obito stood his ground. He was shorter, lighter, and crippled. But he looked up at the boy with his single eye, and he didn't blink.
"Apologize," Obito said. His voice was calm, the same tone he used when reporting to a captain.
"Hah?" The boy looked at his friend. "Did you hear that? The pirate wants an apology."
"He knocked the food from the child's hand," Obito said. "It was deliberate. Apologize and replace it."
The horned boy stepped closer, looming over Obito. "Or what? You gonna cry to your mommy? Oh wait, you're wearing orphan clothes. No mommy to cry to."
Obito didn't flinch. He felt a cold rage settling in his chest. Not the hot, explosive anger of his past, but a cold, sharp clarity.
"Or," Obito said, "I will make you regret it."
The boy laughed and reached out to shove Obito. His hand aimed for Obito's right shoulder.
Obito saw the movement. It was slow. Sloppy. Telegraphed.
He couldn't use Ninjutsu. He couldn't use Taijutsu effectively. But he knew how to move.
He pivoted on his left foot, dropping his center of gravity. As the boy's hand came forward, Obito didn't block it. He let it pass over his shoulder.
Then, he used his plastic arm.
It was heavy. It was hard.
He swung his right torso, bringing the hard plastic elbow of the prosthetic up and into the boy's solar plexus.
He didn't need to squeeze. He didn't need fine motor control. He just needed momentum and the hardness of the material.
THUD.
The air left the boy's lungs with a whoosh. He doubled over, gasping, eyes bulging.
"What the—!" The second teenager started to step forward.
"Hey!"
A security guard was running toward them.
Obito stepped back, his face blank. The horned boy was on his knees, wheezing.
"Problem?" Jiro's voice cut through the tension. She appeared beside Obito, looking from the gasping boy to the security guard.
"He tripped," Obito said simply.
The security guard arrived, breathless. "What's going on here?"
"My friend here got dizzy," the second teenager lied quickly, grabbing the horned boy's arm to haul him up. He glared at Obito with fear. That hit wasn't normal. It was too precise. "We're leaving."
They scrambled away, disappearing into the crowd.
Obito watched them go. He felt a throb of pain in his stump where the impact had transferred, but he ignored it.
"You hit him," Jiro whispered, not looking at him. She was looking at the security guard who was now eyeing them suspiciously.
"Self-defense," Obito muttered.
"With the bad arm?"
"It's not a bad arm," Obito said, rubbing the plastic elbow. "It's a hard arm."
He walked over to the small kid who had lost his ice cream. The kid was staring at him with wide, watery eyes.
Obito reached into his pocket—his new cargo pocket. He pulled out the few coins he had been given for lunch.
"Here," Obito said, handing the coins to the kid. "Buy another one. And hold it tighter next time."
The kid nodded, sniffling. "T-thank you, Mister Pirate."
Obito froze. Pirate.
He touched his eyepatch. A small, bitter smile touched his lips.
"Ninja," he corrected softly. "But close enough."
The bus ride back was quieter. The sun was setting, casting long orange shadows across the city. The artificial lights of the buildings were starting to flicker on, competing with the twilight.
Obito sat next to Jiro, his new hoodie zipped up to his chin. He felt tired. The adrenaline of the confrontation had faded, leaving behind the ache in his shoulder and the fatigue of the sensory overload.
"You're crazy, you know that?" Jiro said, breaking the silence. She was looking out the window, her reflection ghosting over the passing city.
"I did what was required."
"You took on a high schooler with a quirk. You have no quirk and one arm. That's not required. That's suicidal."
"He was a bully. Bullies are weak. They rely on fear. When you don't show fear, they crumble."
Jiro turned to look at him. She plugged one of her earphone jacks into her phone, then offered the other one to him.
"Here," she said.
Obito looked at the jack. "What is it?"
"Music. It helps... block out the noise. If you're going to keep fighting the world, you need to know when to tune it out."
Obito hesitated, then took the jack. He awkwardly placed it in his left ear.
Jiro pressed play.
A slow, melodic rhythm filled Obito's ear. It was a bass line, deep and steady, like a heartbeat. Then a guitar joined in, melancholic but driving.
The world is heavy, but I can carry it... the singer crooned.
Obito leaned his head back against the seat. The music drowned out the engine, the chatter of the other orphans, and the chaotic thoughts in his head.
He looked at his plastic hand resting on his lap. It was still just plastic. But today, it had protected someone. Today, it had been a weapon.
"It's not bad," Obito murmured.
"Yeah," Jiro said, closing her eyes. "It's not bad."
As the bus rolled back toward the orphanage, Obito Uchiha didn't feel like a hero. He didn't feel like a Hokage. But for the first time in weeks, he didn't feel like a ghost. He was just a boy, listening to a song, wearing a new hoodie, ready to face whatever tomorrow would throw at him.
And tomorrow, he decided, he would figure out how to climb that tree. Without falling.