Chapter Text
The world had been getting better. On the surface, at least.
His student, Minato, had ended the war—Jiraiya had heard all about it, how some spoke in him of awe, and some in fear. It depended on who you asked, if you got around enough… and Jiraiya was precisely the person who got around.
He was decently sure that he had found the child of the prophecy. Minato was a star student, practically flawless. Apparently, he was in discussion for becoming the next Hokage, too. Good man, really.
All in all, it meant Jiraiya could relax and focus on his novels as a main hobby and not as something he felt obligated to because some old frog told him he would be a writer years ago. Because being honest, writing was pretty damn fun. Especially getting inspiration for it.
The pond in front of him didn‘t offer much inspiration, though.
His fishing rod rolled loosely in his hand. He had been swinging it over the water, dunking it in only for a few minutes at a time, until something stole his bait, and he was forced to try again. The can of worms by his side was slowly reaching its end. Eh. Not everyone‘s meant to be a fisher.
At least, the scenery was beautiful. The sun shone down warmly on his back, creating a dappled pattern through the leaves on the forest floor and sparkling in the reflection of the lake. It truly felt like peace was finally on its way.
Except Jiraiya couldn‘t shake the nervous suspicion that he was being watched. At first, he told himself it was just old paranoia, but the unease had followed him from the foot of this mountain up until here, and it kept increasing. It was starting to be annoying.
He sighed and retrieved the rod, then dropped it next to the rest of his stuff. In one smooth motion, he reached inside his satchel and grabbed a kunai, which buried itself in a particularly gnarly oak trunk.
The foliage froze.
Jiraiya‘s lips curled ever so slightly. Gotcha.
His sandals clacked against the shingly bank as he stepped off the rock he had been perched on, stretching his arms out languidly. “So, little stalker,” he knocked on his chest to clear his throat. “Either you show yourself right now, or I’m dragging you out by your ear and sending you down with these little fishies.”
Silence. The bushes rustled as if someone was ducking inside them, either to retreat or to get ready for an attack. Jiraiya wasn’t sure which one he hoped for more. “Your choice,” he called out again. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though—“
The air behind his left shoulder stretched, a split second before a weight slammed into him, sending both him and his attacker tumbling to the ground. Jiraiya grunted. “That’s how you want to play it, huh?”
A fist swung at his face, narrowly missing his cheek. The guy on top of him was a mess of dark hair, whipping wildly as a pale arm pulled back for another punch. He twisted just in time to feel the wind of it brush past.
The moment the stranger leaned back, he hooked his leg around theirs, using their imbalance before twisting his hips to send their weight over and slamming them onto the pebbles. A few of the tiny stones jumped into the water, skipping once before going under.
Sooner than they could regather their breath, he positioned his knee on their chest.
“Hah!” Jiraiya crossed his arms triumphantly. “And that, dear amateur, are the amazing fighting skills of the Great Toad Sage.”
He didn’t get a response. What a pity. No appreciation for his performance. His pride dropped to a frown. “Hello? Anyone home?”
The guy was panting heavily. Their arms were spread out, face turned to the side, still covered by that enormous mess of hair. It was tangled as hell, too. Not something Jiraiya would ever let happen to his own.
They looked pretty neglected in general, if he looked closer. Toned arms, but no fat on them for cushioning. Grime on a tattered cloak. Small frame, like they hadn’t eaten in ages, or were a—
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not again.
—a child.
Come on now. The other three just died.
A loud, disappointed sigh escaped him. So much for peace. Guess fate wasn’t done with him yet.
“Get… off me,” the kid rasped, sounding like their last meal had been sandpaper and hate. At last, not mute.
Jiraiya stroked his chin, as if thinking about it. “Hmm… You’ll very likely try to break my jaw again, so no. Let me just—“ He leaned backwards, reaching for his bag without taking his knee off. His opponent sharply sucked in air when he accidentally shifted onto a rib. “Sorry, sorry, almost got it. There we go!” With a strong tug, a frayed rope came free. Fibers glowed faintly, pulsing in a moderate rhythm.
Swiftly gathering both arms in one hand, Jiraiya used the other to loop it around their wrists, then tied a simple knot and pulled it tight. “It’s infused with seals, so don’t even think about pulling that teleportation stunt you did earlier. I tested it on a student of mine, who happens to be the master of space-time jutsus.”
The kid’s head turned, straining to hear his words, then thudded back on the stone. Damn. Hopefully he hadn’t hit him too hard.
Not letting go of the bond, he lifted his leg off. No shooting up or lunging at him. Okay. That was good.
“So, let’s begin.” Jiraiya twirled the string around his pointer finger. “Who are you, why are you here, and who sent you. Actually, no, scratch that last one, if you had an employer he would have fed you.”
A groan came from the figure, along with some unintelligible sounds.
Ignoring the protests in his joints, Jiraiya crouched down, leaning in. “Come again?”
“Scum.”
“No, not scum. I’m a San-nin. I get that they both start with ‘s’, which might be confusing. There’s a difference though.”
“Scum,” the kid echoed, metaphorically spitting venom. On a more literal level, it was spit.
Jiraiya wrinkled his nose and wiped it off with his sleeve. “Call me crazy, but I kind of feel like you’re doing this on purpose.”
More crickets. Very loud, persistent crickets in this case.
If they weren’t going to cooperate, he’d have to do this the hard way.
He wound the rope around his palm a few more times and yanked, pulling their upper body into a sitting position. Their form sputtered, attempting to phase, getting held by the restraint’s seals. Without thinking, he reached out and swept the matted mane out of the way. “Hold still, and I won’t poke out your…”
Red. Deep, seething red, glaring at him out of a socket surrounded by skin that could only be described as structurally inconsistent.
Jiraiya blinked, once, twice, and a third time to ensure he wasn’t hallucinating. “…eye.” A sharingan. A sharingan, on a mountain way too far from Konoha for this to be a regular lost Uchiha. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it had a pattern; jagged branches sprouting from the pupil, resembling scythes.
Now, what the fuck is that.
He sat back, loosening his grip, letting the string run through and burn on his palm.
A rogue Uchiha boy, in the wild, clearly abandoned, with a weird sharingan variation. Not older than 15 and looks like they got eaten by a rockfall.
A problem, in other words. His problem as of now.
“Okay, kid.” He braced his hands on his thighs. “I don’t know what your deal is. What I do know is that leaving you alone would be extremely irresponsible. Of course, I could tie you to a tree and leave you to the foxes.” A pause. “But neither of us are fans of that option.”
The kid’s teeth ground against each other audibly, his jaw clenched tight enough to make it spasm. “You think you’re so noble. People like you—they pretend they're good, and then they walk away.”
That one did it. Visibly. A bitter, uneven smile spread across his face at the sight of Jiraiya’s shoulders slumping a fraction. It was like fuel. “Hit a nerve? You’re all the same. Tools acting like they matter, like they can fix—“
The seal stuck to his forehead with a dry slap.
“What…” His brows furrowed, hands twitching at his sides, itching to pull it off. He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Eyelids fluttering, he tipped backwards until he slumped with the grace of a drunken raccoon.
Jiraiya caught his head before it hit the gravel and lowered it down carefully. “Haven’t used that once since I had to help out in the academy as part of a D-rank mission. Congrats. You’re special.”
His hand came away with dried blood flakes on it. Old, probably several days, and not taken care of at all. This was going to be a piece of work.
“I’m waking you back up when I’ve gotten food and you’ve learned manners.”