Chapter 12: The Currency of Rust and Iron
The economy of a twelve-year-old in the modern world was a concept Obito found deeply insulting.
It was the first of the month, which meant "Allowance Day" at the Sunrise Home for Children. Obito stood in line in the Matron's office, watching as the kids ahead of him received small envelopes with beaming smiles.
When it was his turn, Matron Satako handed him a small, white envelope.
"Use it wisely, Obito-kun," she said, her glasses reflecting the morning light. "Save some, spend some. That's the rule."
Obito walked out into the hallway and tore the envelope open. He tipped it over his left hand.
A single coin fell out. It was gold-colored, heavy, with a hole in the middle. Five hundred yen.
Obito stared at it.
"Five hundred," he muttered. "What is the conversion rate? Is this enough for a kunai? A coil of wire? A ration pill?"
Kenji, who was leaning against the wall counting his own coins, laughed. "Dude, five hundred yen gets you a comic book and maybe a soda. Or five cheap chocolate bars."
Obito's face darkened. "A comic book? I am a ward of the state, and my value is equivalent to a picture book?"
"It's allowance, not a salary," Kenji shrugged, pocketing his coin. "We don't work, so we don't get paid. Logic."
"I work," Obito hissed, clutching the coin until his knuckles turned white. "I train. I clean windows. I endure your snoring. That is labor."
He stormed off toward his room, the coin feeling hot and heavy in his hand. In Konoha, a D-rank mission—finding a lost cat or weeding a garden—paid enough to buy weapons and food for a week. Here, he was being given scraps.
He couldn't be a ninja without gear. His sneakers were falling apart from his failed run to UA. He had no weights to strap to his legs. He had no tools to maintain his prosthetic.
He needed funds. And since he couldn't take a mission to assassinate a rogue warlord, he had to find another way.
The city of Musutafu was a labyrinth of consumerism, but Obito wasn't interested in the shiny malls or the toy stores. He wandered the older district, where the buildings were brick instead of glass, and the streets smelled of exhaust and damp concrete.
He walked with his hood up, his eyes scanning the storefronts. Bakery. Florist. Barber. Useless.
Then, he stopped.
A scent hit him. It was sharp, metallic, and smelled faintly of grease and ozone. It was the smell of the Uchiha district armory.
He turned his head. A small, cluttered shop sat squeezed between a laundromat and a ramen bar. The sign above the door was faded, the paint peeling: "Suzuki's Hardware & Scrap."
The window display was a chaotic mess of old tools, coils of copper wire, rusted gears, and engine parts. To anyone else, it looked like junk. To Obito, it looked like possibilities.
He pushed the door open. A bell jingled—not a digital chime, but a real brass bell.
The interior was dim and cramped. Shelves were stacked floor to ceiling with boxes of screws, bolts, and unidentifiable metal objects. The air was thick with dust and the comforting scent of machine oil.
"We're closed for lunch," a gruff voice called out from the back.
Obito didn't leave. He walked toward the counter, his sneakers squeaking on the wooden floor. He looked at a display of hammers. They were old, with wooden handles, not the plastic ergonomic ones he saw at the mall.
"I said closed," an old man emerged from the shadows. He was short, wearing a grease-stained apron and thick goggles around his neck. He had a white beard that looked like steel wool.
Obito looked at him. "I am not buying."
"Then get out. I'm not running a museum for brats." The old man, Suzuki, grabbed a rag and started wiping his hands.
"I need work," Obito said.
Suzuki paused. He peered at Obito over the counter, his eyes narrowing. He looked at the eyepatch. He looked at the plastic arm sticking out of the hoodie sleeve.
"Work?" Suzuki scoffed. "You look like you need a hospital, kid. What can you do? I don't need a mascot."
"I can clean," Obito said, pointing to the dusty shelves. "I can organize. I can lift heavy objects. I can... sharpen blades."
"Sharpen blades?" Suzuki raised a bushy eyebrow. "You think this is a samurai movie? I sell wrenches and pipes."
He walked around the counter, limping slightly. He stopped in front of Obito, looking him up and down. "And you've got one arm. A cheap government-issue prosthetic. Probably has the grip strength of a wet noodle."
Obito felt a flash of anger, but he suppressed it. He needed this.
"The arm is a tool," Obito said calmly. "I control the tool. And I have another hand."
He held up his left hand. "Test me."
Suzuki stared at him for a long moment. Then, he grunted and turned around. He picked up a box from the floor and slammed it onto the counter. It was filled with hundreds of mixed nuts, bolts, and washers, all covered in grime and rust.
"Some idiot apprentice knocked this over and mixed everything up," Suzuki grumbled. "Sort them. Bolts by size. Nuts by thread count. Washers by diameter. And clean the rust off."
He threw a bottle of solvent and a wire brush on the counter.
"If you finish before I close at six, I'll give you... five hundred yen."
Obito looked at the box. It was a tedious, mind-numbing task. It was exactly the kind of punishment Kakashi would have breezed through while reading a book.
"Done," Obito said.
The work was slow. The solvent smelled harsh, burning his nose, but Obito didn't mind. It kept him focused.
He sat on a stool, the box in front of him. He picked up a bolt with his left hand. He dipped the brush in the solvent. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. The rust dissolved, revealing the dull grey steel underneath.
Size: 10mm. Thread: Coarse.
He placed it in a small plastic bin.
He picked up the next one.
His prosthetic arm wasn't useless. He used it as a vice. He would pin a bolt against the counter with the plastic palm, holding it steady while his left hand scrubbed. It was awkward at first. The bolt would slip. The plastic would screech against the wood.
"Softly," Obito whispered to the arm. "Don't crush it. Just hold it."
He closed his eye for a second, feeling the vibration of the scrubbing through the plastic limb. He was learning the feedback loop. Pressure. Friction. Release.
Time passed. The pile in the box shrank. The piles in the bins grew.
Suzuki ignored him, working on a lawnmower engine in the back. But every now and then, the old man would glance over, watching the one-armed boy scrub away the rust with the intensity of a surgeon.
By 5:30 PM, Obito's left hand was cramped. His fingers were stained black with grease. But the main box was empty.
"Finished," Obito announced.
Suzuki walked over. He looked at the bins. He picked up a bolt. It was clean. He checked the thread. It was in the right bin.
"Hmph," the old man grunted. "Not bad. Missed a spot on this washer, though."
He tossed the washer back.
"It is superficial pitting, not rust," Obito corrected him instantly. "Structural integrity is intact."
Suzuki looked at him, surprised. "You know metal?"
"I know weapons," Obito said. "Metal is metal."
Suzuki wiped his hands on his apron. He reached into the register and pulled out a coin. Five hundred yen.
He placed it on the counter.
Obito looked at the coin. Then he looked at a shelf behind the counter. There, sitting in a dusty jar, were heavy lead fishing weights.
"I don't want the money," Obito said.
"Oh? You working for charity now?"
"I want those," Obito pointed. "The weights. And... some duct tape."
Suzuki looked at the jar. "Fishing weights? You going to the harbor?"
"Training," Obito said. "Leg weights."
Suzuki stared at him. Then he laughed. A dry, rasping sound. "You're a weird kid. You want to strap lead to your ankles and run around?"
"I need to be faster."
"Strap lead to your legs, and you'll destroy your knees," Suzuki muttered, but he grabbed the jar. He weighed out a kilogram of lead weights. He tossed a roll of silver duct tape next to them.
"Take it. It's worth more than five hundred, but you saved me a headache with those bolts."
Obito grabbed the items. He shoved them into his hoodie pocket. They were heavy. Good.
"Thank you," Obito bowed, a deep, formal bow.
"Yeah, yeah. Get out of here. I'm closing."
As Obito reached the door, Suzuki called out.
"Hey, kid."
Obito turned.
"If you come back next week... I got a box of carburetors that need stripping. Same deal."
Obito nodded once. "I will be here."
The walk back to the orphanage felt different. Obito's pockets were weighed down with lead, pulling at his clothes, but his step was lighter.
He hadn't been given this gear. He hadn't asked for a handout. He had traded labor for it. It was a transaction. It was honorable.
He found Jiro in the common room. She was tuning her bass guitar, a frown of concentration on her face.
Obito walked up to her and sat down. He pulled the roll of duct tape and the bag of lead weights out of his pocket and set them on the table with a heavy thud.
Jiro jumped. "What the... did you rob a plumber?"
"Supplies," Obito said, unwrapping the tape. "For my new training regimen."
He pulled up his pant leg. He placed two lead weights against his calf, just above the ankle. He wrapped the duct tape around them, securing them tight against his skin.
Rip. Stick. Smooth.
"You're taping lead to your legs," Jiro stated the obvious, looking horrified. "Obito, that's going to chafe like crazy. And cut off your circulation."
"I will adjust the tension," Obito said, working on the other leg. "In the village, we had leather weights with seals. This is... an improvisation."
He stood up. He felt the drag immediately. It wasn't much—maybe half a kilo on each leg—but combined with the heavy prosthetic, it made him feel like he was walking through water.
"Why?" Jiro asked, plucking a low string. Dummm.
"Because today I am worth five hundred yen," Obito said, looking at her. "Tomorrow, I want to be worth a thousand."
"You're not a product, Obito."
"I am a soldier without an army," Obito corrected. "I need to increase my value."
He walked toward the door. The weights clicked softly against his shins.
"Where are you going now? It's almost dinner."
"Stairs," Obito said. "I'm going to climb the stairs until my legs stop shaking. Then I'm going to climb them again."
Jiro watched him go. She shook her head, but a small smile played on her lips. She turned up the volume on her amp just a little bit.
Dum-dum-dum-dum.
A marching beat. Something to climb to.
Obito heard the bass line drift into the hallway. He paused at the bottom of the staircase. He looked up at the twenty steps leading to the second floor. With the weights, it looked like a mountain.
He took the first step.
"One," he counted.
He wasn't fast. He wasn't graceful. He was a boy held together by tape, plastic, and stubbornness. But as he climbed, the smell of machine oil on his hands reminded him that he could still fix broken things. Including himself.
"Two."
The climb continued.
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