The Konoha Quartermaster's Office was exactly as soulless as you'd expect a government building to be. It smelled of ink, old paper, and a faint, chemical tang that I guessed was industrial-strength hair dye. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile, unflattering glow on rows of neatly folded, depressingly drab uniforms. This was where personality came to die.
"Next."
A clerk with the bored expression of a man who had seen it all gestured us forward. Machi slid our requisition forms across the counter.
"Two standard Genin Corps kits," the clerk droned, not even looking up. "Pants, shirt, jumpsuit, gloves. Dye is in aisle three."
We shuffled down the aisle, the silence between us thick with unspoken misery. We were officially shedding our old selves. The shelves were lined with bottles of black, brown, and a particularly unappealing shade of dishwater gray.
"So this is it," Machi muttered, picking up a bottle of black dye. "We're really doing this."
"Better to look like a grunt than a target," I said, grabbing a bottle of black for myself. "My hair is a 'come-stab-me' blue. Yours is a beacon for every enemy with eyes."
She didn't argue. We took our new identities to the checkout, along with two sets of the standard uniform: one was the long-sleeved dark blue shirt with the Uzumaki spiral on the shoulder, paired with navy pants and a chainmail underlayer; the other was a simple, one-piece gray jumpsuit. Both were now ours, the cost to be siphoned from paychecks we hadn't even earned yet. We were already in debt to the machine that was about to grind us down.
Later that night, the cheap bathroom mirror reflected back two strangers. Machi's vibrant pink-purple hair was gone, replaced by a severe, dark navy that seemed to absorb the light. It made her look older, harder. My own hair, despite using the same black dye, had settled into a deep, two-toned brown, the stubborn blue refusing to be completely erased. We looked like shadows of our former selves. We looked like soldiers.
The Genin Corps training program was less of a curriculum and more of a systematic attempt to break our spirits. The first week was a blur of mud, sweat, and the endless shouting of the man we only knew as "Sir." Every day was the same. Pre-dawn laps around the training ground until we threw up. Taijutsu drills against a partner until one of you couldn't stand. Then, the obstacle course.
It wasn't like the one in the Academy. This was a monster of splintered wood, muddy trenches, and water pits designed to punish failure. We ran it over and over, our bodies screaming in protest, until the motions became mechanical.
Machi took to it with a terrifying ferocity. Every order to do pushups, every harsh word, every punishing drill—she channeled it all. Her anger, which used to be a wild, unfocused thing, was now being forged into a weapon. Her punches became sharper, her kicks more brutal. The slender girl I knew was being replaced by a dense, powerful brawler. One afternoon, slogging through a muddy course, her long hair came undone. The instructor was instantly on her. "Pinkie, your hair! Fix it or give me fifty!"
Wincing under his verbal assault, Machi didn't hesitate. She whipped out a kunai and, with a single, vicious slice, cut her hair off at the neck. The long, pink-purple strands fell into the mud. She never looked back.
I, on the other hand, adapted differently. I played the part they gave me. I was the slacker, the brown-haired screw-up. I did my punishments with a grumble, I complained just enough to be annoying but not insubordinate, and I let them think they were breaking me. But while my body was going through the motions, my mind was racing. I was watching, learning, and planning. Three years. I had to get us strong enough in three years.
The other washouts learned quickly to keep their distance. Me and Machi were the instructor's favorite targets, and no one wanted to get caught in the blast radius. We became an island of two. We were partners in every drill, the only ones who had each other's backs. We'd share a silent lunch, too exhausted to talk, and at the end of the day, we'd trudge home together, our bodies aching but our unspoken bond growing stronger with every shared misery. We were no longer just teammates. We were soldiers. And we were all each other had.
But I knew the truth, me and Machi were the strongest in this entire company of cannon fodder. ( a company meaning 100 to 250 soldiers)
(3rd Person - Training Ground 3)
"Again."
Minato's voice was calm and encouraging. Kakashi stood on the surface of the pond, his single visible eye glaring down at his feet in frustration. A leaf was stuck to the sole of his sandal, but it was slick with a film of water. He was using too much chakra, pushing himself off the surface instead of adhering to it.
"You're thinking of it as a show of force," Minato explained, sitting cross-legged on the shore. "Water-walking isn't about power, Kakashi. It's about balance. A constant, steady output. Too little, and you sink. Too much, and you have no grip."
Kakashi let out a frustrated sigh and tried again, concentrating. For a moment, he found the balance, standing perfectly still on the water. A flicker of pride crossed his face before he took a step and promptly shot off the surface, skipping across the pond like a stone before splashing down near the opposite bank.
"Closer," Minato chuckled. "You have immense power, but your control is like a wild river. We need to build a dam."
Kakashi swam back to the shore, soaked and sullen. "My father had incredible chakra control," he said, his voice barely a whisper. It was the first time he had mentioned Sakumo voluntarily.
Minato's smile softened. "He did," he agreed. "He could channel the perfect amount of lightning chakra into his blade to cut through anything without wasting a drop. But he didn't learn that overnight. He learned it through endless, repetitive practice. Mastering the basics is what allows a genius to truly shine, Kakashi. It's the foundation upon which all great jutsu are built."
He stood up and walked to the edge of the water, stepping onto its surface as if it were solid ground. "Come on," he said, offering a hand to the boy. "Let's try again. Together."
Kakashi looked at the offered hand, then at the man who was now his guardian. For the first time in a long time, the rigid anger in his posture eased, replaced by a flicker of something new. A flicker of hope. He took Minato's hand and stepped back onto the water.
(1st Person - Judai's POV)
The next three months passed in a slow, grinding haze. The instructor, a man we now knew was named Ito, had seemingly taken a particular glee in torturing me and Machi. Our days were a monotonous cycle of physical exertion that left us sore, and our nights were filled with a bone-deep exhaustion that sleep couldn't seem to cure. We were being molded into obedient little soldiers, every instance of our old personalities—my smart-ass remarks, Machi's explosive temper—was beaten out of us with laps, pushups, and endless drills.
Machi's physical strength improved dramatically. She'd taken my advice to heart: they could kick her out, but she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of making her quit. Her slender arms gained lean muscle, and her taijutsu became brutally efficient.
She didn't have the technique of Tsunade's boulder breaking punches but all I'm saying is she could learn them if given the chance.
I also filled out, but the endless physical punishment was having a strange effect. My chakra control, which was already garbage, only seemed to get worse. But I kept one thought locked in my mind, a mantra on the worst days: This is a mission. Just survive.
The only bright spot for either of us was each other. We were the "troublemakers," isolated from the rest of the class. We spotted each other during sparring, shared water on the obstacle course, and walked home together every night in near silence, too tired for words.
Lately, though, the exhaustion had become something else. It was a leaden weight in my limbs, a constant fog in my head. Even Machi, who had the endurance of a warhorse, was starting to falter. We were falling asleep in class, our reflexes were slowing, and we were both eating twice as much as before but still feeling drained. Something was wrong.
Ito must have noticed it too. One afternoon, a kunai embedded itself in the desk in front of me, inches from my hand.
"PISS-BOTTLE! WAKE UP!" he roared. "I guess you want a record number of punishments today, don't you? Since Pinkie was sitting there with her eyes closed as well, she can join you."
"Yes, Sir," we both droned, getting up to start our laps.
As you can see, even though our hair was now dyed like they wanted we still couldn't be left alone to blend into the crowd exactly. Each trainee had a nickname, a past, and none of us could escape it to be anything else.
"Not this time," he said, his voice dangerously low. "I want both of you to remain after class. We need to discuss your behavior."
Hours later, after the other grunts had filed out, Machi and I stood at attention in the empty classroom, waiting. Ito walked in, his face unreadable.
"What the hell is wrong with both of you?" he asked, forgoing any pretense of military formality. "The past few weeks, you've both been slipping badly. You're falling asleep in class, and I've seen Lover-boy practically carrying you home every night, Pinkie. Are you eating right? Are you not sleeping?"
Machi answered first, her voice tired. "I don't know, Sir. I've been getting nine, sometimes ten hours of sleep and eating twice as much as I did in the Academy. I feel fine in the morning, but as the day goes on, I just get more and more worn out."
"I feel the same way, Sir," I admitted. "By the end of the day, I feel like I've been training for a week straight without eating. I have seconds at lunch and still have no energy."
Ito stared at us, rubbing his chin in thought. I could see the gears turning in his veteran chunin brain. This wasn't normal fatigue. This was borderline chakra exhaustion, but we hadn't been doing any heavy jutsu training.
"Both of you," he said finally. "Strip down to your underwear."
"Here, Sir?" Machi stammered, her face instantly flushing a shade of red that clashed horribly with her hair.
"Yes, here, Pinkie. Now," he commanded. "Consider it a training exercise. Your ten years to ugly for me to consider you a woman so don't give me that look. Modesty is a luxury you can't always afford on a mission. If your bathing, 2 hours into enemy territory, and the enemy spots you are you going to fluster beat red and try to cover yourself. Allowing the enemy to finish hand signs. Or jam that rusty kunai down their throat and complete the mission. Just do it."
"Yes, Sir," we both replied. I turned away, trying to give Machi some privacy as I shakily pulled off my uniform. I stood there in my boxers and t-shirt, deliberately averting my eyes. But curiosity is a powerful thing. I peeked.
For a split second, my brain short-circuited. She was just in her panties and a simple camisole top, but seeing her like that, vulnerable and real, was… a lot. I've spent two lifetimes with her and never seen her like this. My nose started to itch, and I felt a familiar heat rise in my cheeks before I quickly turned my back to her completely, staring at the wall as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Is something wrong, Judai?" she finally asked, her voice quiet giving me chills.
"Um, no," I replied, my own voice strained.
I could practically feel her smirking behind me. "Judai-kun," she whispered, her voice a soft, teasing purr that sounded dangerously like she was mimicking someone. "Don't you want to look at me anymore?"
My brain, already running on fumes, completely gave up. The world tilted, my vision went dark, and the last thing I remember was the sound of Machi giggling as I hit the floor.
(The Instructor's Perspective)
Ito watched the boy crumple to the ground and had to physically restrain himself from laughing. Teenagers, he thought, shaking his head. Even as hardened soldiers, they're still just kids. The girl, Haruno, was trying to look mad, but the triumphant sparkle in her eyes gave her away.
He picked up their discarded uniforms from the floor. He'd seen this kind of chronic exhaustion before, but only in ninja subjected to chakra-dampening seals or poisons. As he folded Machi's shirt, his thumb brushed against an unusually thick seam along the collar. Frowning, he examined it more closely. It wasn't just thick; the stitching was irregular, forming a complex, repeating pattern.
A seal.
He quickly checked Judai's uniform and found the same thing. Identical, low-level chakra restriction seals, expertly woven into the fabric of both their shirts and pants. They weren't strong enough to completely stop their chakra flow, but they were designed to constantly leech it, to hinder their growth, to ensure they would struggle and eventually fail. This wasn't poor performance. This was sabotage.
But why? Ito wondered. Why would someone go to such lengths to sabotage two clanless grunts? This wasn't some random prank. This was a calculated, long-term operation. He knew he was out of his depth. He needed to talk to someone who understood the darker side of the village, someone who knew about seals and conspiracies. He needed to talk to his old friend. The one who had made ANBU before a career-ending injury had forced him into retirement, running a small supply shop. He needed to talk to Hiro.
(Danzō's Lair)
Deep beneath Konoha, in a chamber devoid of light and warmth, Danzō listened to the report from his operative.
"The instructor, Ito, has become suspicious, Danzō-sama," the masked Root ninja said, kneeling. "He has taken the subjects' uniforms."
"It was only a matter of time," Danzō rasped, his voice like grinding stones. "The seals have served their purpose. The subjects have been isolated, their potential dampened, their spirits ground down by mediocrity. The system has done our initial work for us."
"What are your orders, Lord Danzō?"
"Let Ito investigate. Let him follow the breadcrumbs. It will lead him nowhere of consequence," Danzō said, a crooked smile playing on his lips. "The real test for the subjects is about to begin. It is time to see if they are worthy of being rebuilt by Root. Watch them. An opportunity to approach them will present itself soon."