8Hello all!
So this came about through a series of "what if..." thoughts.
I've noticed that when it comes to SI/OC fics, most of the time, the SI/OC is given their own character to play. Occasionally, I'll come across a fic where the SI/OC is put into the role of canon character, however, when that character's gender doesn't match the SI/OC, it's changed to fit. So what if we didn't do that?
This is the result.
In the End it All Begins
This is how it ends.
Her younger sister has just graduated college and they have gone out for dinner to celebrate. The restaurant is busy, but the food is good and atmosphere is nice. It has been a while since all of them have been at one table, what with her moved out of their parents' home and her sister away at school. Her little brother is happy to see them, all smiles and teasing banter. Her parents are fondly exasperated at the lot of them, jokingly wondering why they ever complained of the quiet.
It's nice.
And then it's not.
Something must have gone wrong in the kitchen, a gas leak or something, because the net thing she knows, everything is fire and pain and screaming. She can't hear – everything is quiet. She remembers the explosion, but then it's silent.
That doesn't make sense. Where's the sound?
She blinks and sees fire and smoke.
She's fairly sure that fire makes noise, a snap or a crackle or a something. She's looking right at it. Yet the flames are quiet.
She feels dazed and heavy and then she realizes that she can't move. Something's pinning her down. Oh, it's her father. Her father is on top of her. Why is her father on top of her? He was just sitting next to her, why is he on top of her?
Her brow furrows as she blinks down at her father, confused. She's dazed and heavy and she feels wet. Why wet? Doesn't fire dry things out?
Red.
There's red everywhere.
So much red.
Her father is not supposed to be red.
Why is he red?
She feels her breath catch and suddenly, her chest hurts. Then everything hurts. She's dazed and heavy and she hurts and everything is red. Blood is red.
She twists, tries to move, to do something, but all she manages is to turn her head.
Oh, it's her sister.
Her sister is next to her, but her eyes are wrong. Her eyes are empty and glassy and staring at nothing. That's…that's not right.
Then she sees the glass and the wood and the twisted metal and the redredred pooling on the floor.
Her eyes burn and her throat feels like it's swollen shut. This is wrong. This isn't how it's supposed to be. Where are her mother and brother? Where are they? Why aren't they here helping them?
There's too much red.
Too much, too much, too much.
Where are they?
She cranes her neck, twisting, turning, trying to see, to find them, where are they?
Her brother is too far away to reach. She can see him though, and he's wrong too. Why is he wrong too? He's not supposed to look like that. His skin isn't the right color – why does it look like charcoal? He's…he's missing parts. He's red, just like the others. Why is he red?
Her mother is next to him, still and silent. She's burning. Flames lick at her flesh, searing, burning, ravaging. She's not moving. Why isn't she moving?
She can't breathe.
She can't breathe and she hurts and there's too much red and why aren't they moving?
Her eyes are burning and wet and she knows she's crying because it hurts, it hurts so bad and she knows why they aren't moving – oh she knows, but she doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to think it because that will make it real. She doesn't want this to be real.
There's a man leaning over her, eyes wide, lips moving. He's talking, to her or someone else, she doesn't know. Either way, she can't hear what he's saying. She can't hear anything.
She's dimly aware of her father's weight being moved off her and she wants to scream at them, yell at them, tell them to give him back, but she can't. Her throat closes on the words and her mouth won't move, her thoughts to sluggish to even comprehend how to speak in the first place.
She wants her father back.
She wants her mother, her sister, her brother.
She wants them back.
They're gone.
No, no, no, no, no, they can't be gone, give them back. She needs them. She does, they're hers, what is she supposed to do without them?
They're gone.
They're gone and there's nothing she can do about it.
The man is back his lips are still moving and she is very certain that he's talking to her but she still can't hear him so she doesn't know why he bothers. It doesn't matter anyway. She blinks but when she tries to open her eyes again, they won't, they're too heavy and she just doesn't want to. She's tired. So, so, so tired.
She doesn't want to and she's tired and she hurts.
She wants to sleep.
So she does.
When she wakes up, the first thing she's aware of is screaming.
The loud, wailing kind that sounds more like sobbing than anything else.
Who is it?
Who's screaming?
Oh.
It's her.
She's the one screaming.
They're gone, her mind whispers, They're gone, they're gone, they're gone, gone, gone, gonegonegonegone.
She screams and cries and sobs and she doesn't stop.
She can hear again, can hear the broken sounds ripping out of her own throat and only dimly registering that they're wrong, they don't sound right, her voice doesn't sound like that. She's distantly aware of other sounds in the background, but they don't matter, nothing matters. She hears someone making soothing sounds, hands petting her, arms holding her, trying to calm her.
She doesn't want to be calm.
She wants to scream and keep screaming until the darkness sucks her back under.
Still her body can only handle so much and air is apparently still very much a need. She has to stop, if only for a moment, and her eyes open and everything is startlingly clear after the fire and smoke and the redredred.
There is a woman hovering in her field of vision. She has dark hair and dark eyes and pale skin and she looks vaguely familiar in a way that she just doesn't care to place at the moment. The expression on the woman's face is something like horrified awe and were she rational, she would wonder what could possibly cause such an expression.
But at this moment, she doesn't care.
She just doesn't.
They're gone.
They're gone and they aren't coming back.
They're gone and they aren't coming back and she's still here.
She screams.
Mikoto looks down at her son, now sound asleep in her arms.
Her son who has spent the first two hours of his life screaming. It was heart wrenching. Nothing she did soothed him – not sound or touch or sight. Nothing she tried worked and the nurses said it was best to let him get it out of his system.
Her little Itachi had finally exhausted himself and fallen asleep, but all Mikoto can remember is crimson eyes glazed with tears staring back up at her.
"Did you see?" she whispers to her husband who is standing silently beside her.
Fugaku wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses close. "I did."
The Mangekyō Sharingan.
Her son, new to the world as he is, has the Mangekyō Sharingan.
A power that is only spoken of in stories; a power that is so rare, even in their clan, that only a handful of people have ever activated it.
And Itachi has it.
How? How is such a thing possible?
She doesn't know.
She doesn't know if she ever will.
She doesn't think she wants too.
What she does know is that Itachi is her son, her child. And regardless of what powers he has and what they mean for him, she will love him.
Because he is hers and she is his and that is what mothers do.
She doesn't know what this will mean for her son.
But she will make sure he knows that he is loved.
This is how it starts.
Yep, I picked Itachi. When I questioned this, my brain just went 'you gotta' so here we are. Hello, identity crisis and angst! Someone is NOT going to be happy when she figures out what happened.
This is my first SI/OC fic, so if you have some feedback for me, I would greatly appreciate it!
Until next time,
~Elri