Chapter 2: The Uchiha Massacre Epiphany
For Ren, the first two years of his life were a masterclass in weaponized incompetence.
Playing the fool was exhausting. It required a level of dedication that most shinobi reserved for S-rank missions. But to Ren, looking like an absolute idiot was a matter of life and death.
He was now a toddler, officially old enough to walk, babble, and, in Fugaku’s eyes, begin the foundational steps of shinobi training.
Ren sat in the center of the wooden courtyard, wearing a tiny, dark blue tunic bearing the Uchiha crest. The afternoon sun was warm, the breeze was gentle, and his father was currently glaring at him with the intensity of a man trying to melt steel with his mind.
"Catch, Ren," Fugaku commanded gruffly.
The clan head tossed a small, brightly colored rubber ball toward his two-year-old son. It wasn’t thrown hard, but it was tossed with enough speed to test a child’s natural reflexes. An Uchiha prodigy would track it. A genius would catch it.
Ren watched the ball arc through the air. His thirty-year-old adult mind calculated the trajectory instantly. He could easily reach out and snatch it.
Instead, he let his arms hang limply at his sides, opened his mouth into a dopey, vacant smile, and let the rubber ball bounce directly off his forehead.
Boink.
Ren dramatically threw himself backward into the dirt.
"WAAAAAAAH!" he wailed, rubbing his head and rolling around as if he had just been struck by a boulder.
Fugaku dragged a heavy hand down his face, letting out a long, defeated sigh.
Mikoto, who was sitting on the porch with a tray of tea, quickly set it down and rushed over. She scooped Ren up, cooing softly and brushing the dirt from his tunic.
"Fugaku! He’s just a baby," she scolded mildly, bouncing Ren on her hip.
"He is two, Mikoto," Fugaku muttered, crossing his arms. "By this age, my father had me tracking shuriken. Ren didn’t even blink. He actively fakes being clumsy."
Damn right I do, Ren thought smugly, burying his face into the soft, comforting expanse of his mother’s breasts. I’m playing 4D chess, old man. If I catch that ball, tomorrow you throw a wooden kunai. Next week, it’s a real kunai. By age six, you ship me off to get gutted in the Rain Village.
He nuzzled deeper into Mikoto’s chest, hiding a shameless, victorious grin. I will take a rubber ball to the face every single day if it means I get to stay home, drink milk, and avoid the draft.
"He just needs more time," Mikoto reasoned, kissing the top of Ren’s head. "He’s a gentle boy."
Fugaku grunted, turning away. "The shinobi world does not forgive gentle boys. I will try again tomorrow."
As Fugaku walked away, Ren peeked over his mother’s arm.
Try all you want, Dad. You can’t train someone who refuses to learn.
Later that night, the compound was dead silent.
Ren lay on his futon, staring at the ceiling. The heavy wooden doors of his room were cracked open just a sliver, letting in the cool night breeze.
He was feeling pretty good about himself. His survival strategy was working flawlessly. The elders were already whispering about how Fugaku’s firstborn was "slow." The expectations were dropping. He was successfully slipping under the radar.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Ren rolled over, pressing his ear toward the sliding paper door. He could hear the hushed, tense voices of his parents coming from the adjoining room.
He quietly crawled out of his futon and waddled over to the crack in the door, pressing his face against it to eavesdrop.
"...the elders are pressuring me, Mikoto," Fugaku’s voice drifted through the gap, sounding heavier and more exhausted than usual.
"They are always pressuring you," Mikoto replied softly.
"This is different. The war is escalating. The casualty reports from the borders are devastating. The clan needs a strong foundation to maintain our standing in the village." Fugaku paused, letting out a heavy sigh. "And Ren..."
Ren held his breath, listening intently.
"He is acting like a dumb child," Fugaku said, his tone laced with a mix of disappointment and frustration. "He has no drive. No instincts. The clan needs a strong heir."
Ren nodded to himself in the dark. Exactly. Write me off. Let me be just a rich second generation. I’ll open a noodle shop and get rich while you guys play ninja.
"He is our son," Mikoto defended gently. "But... I understand your burden, Fugaku. If the clan demands a stronger future..."
There was a rustle of fabric. Through the narrow crack, Ren could see the silhouette of Fugaku stepping closer to Mikoto, his hands resting on her waist.
"We should try for another child," Fugaku murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing its stern edge and replacing it with something entirely different. "A second heir."
"Fugaku..." Mikoto whispered, leaning into him.
Ren blinked.
His brain processed the conversation.
Fugaku and Mikoto.
Having another child.
A second heir.
Wait a minute...
Ren’s blood ran completely, horrifyingly cold. His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.
If they have a second child... that child is Itachi.
The realization slammed into him with the force of a Chidori.
He had been so focused on avoiding the Third Shinobi War draft that he had completely forgotten about the overarching plot of the universe he was trapped in.
Itachi.
The prodigy. The genius. The boy who would eventually join the ANBU, get manipulated by Danzo, and slaughter every single man, woman, and child in the Uchiha compound to prevent a coup.
Ren did the math in his head.
If they conceive Itachi... he’s born in nine months. Thirteen years after that, he massacres the clan.
Ren’s breathing grew ragged. He looked down at his tiny, pudgy hands.
Thirteen years.
He’s going to exterminate the clan. Which includes his family. Which includes his older brother.
Which includes ME.
Ren clamped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from hyperventilating.
His brilliant, flawless survival strategy had a massive, fatal loophole. Faking incompetence would definitely save him from getting drafted into the Third Shinobi War.
But it guaranteed that he would be asleep in his bed in thirteen years when Itachi showed up with a katana to slit his throat.
Oh my god, Ren thought, pure, unadulterated panic setting in. I’m not safe. I’m literally the first person he’s going to kill! I’m the useless older brother! I’m prime angst-fodder!
Through the narrow crack in the sliding door, Ren watched his dad lean in to kiss his mom’s neck. Her hand reached up, gently untying the sash of her robes. The mood was instantly shifting from a tense political discussion to a heavily romantic, intimate evening.
They were about to make Itachi. Right now.
Ren’s panic instantly evaporated, replaced by a surge of desperate, shameless adrenaline.
Hell no.
He wasn’t going to let some edgy, traumatized teenager murder him in thirteen years. If he wanted to survive, he couldn’t just be lazy. He had to actively alter the timeline. He had to prevent his murderer from ever existing.
He had to stop his parents from having sex.
Ren stared at his parents through the crack in the door, his eyes narrowing with fierce determination.
Mission objective updated: Cockblock.
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