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Batman in Konoha. Chapter 24. Cake and Negotiations
🕑 Added 2025-06-14 13:41:24 +0000 UTCFugaku sat on the living room couch, sorting through the day's fresh mail. His attention was fixed on the bank statements.
"Thank you, Mikoto," he said without looking up, as his wife set a steaming cup of green tea in front of him.
Mikoto nodded, but before she could return to the kitchen, the front door slammed open with a bang. Two boys tumbled into the room—filthy but beaming with joy. Itachi and Sasuke. Their hair was tousled, clothes smeared with brown earth and dried grass, and their cheeks bore streaks of forest dust.
“Dad!” Sasuke shouted, forgetting everything else as he dashed toward his father, leaving behind a trail of heavy, wet specks of mud.
Mikoto turned sharply, hands on her hips, her expression the classic “you're in trouble”. But Sasuke, caught up in his excitement, noticed nothing.
“We caught a real boar! It was huge and growling and coming straight at us, but we went bam! and it fell!”
Fugaku raised an eyebrow and shifted his gaze to Itachi. The older boy stood a step behind his brother, calm and composed, with a faint smile on his lips—as if they had just come back from a stroll through the garden, not a real hunt.
“I promised Sasuke I’d take him hunting for his birthday,” Itachi said evenly. “Figured it wasn’t worth delaying. Promises should be kept.”
Fugaku knew Itachi rarely did anything without reason. If he made a decision, it meant he had weighed it carefully. But he also knew that his son doted on the youngest. Sometimes too much. Indulging him, watching over him, shielding him. And Fugaku never stood in the way of that. Perhaps he simply didn’t want to disrupt the little bit of childhood joy that still remained in their home.
“Come on, Dad!” Sasuke grabbed his hand with his small, still-chubby fingers and pulled him toward the window. “We brought so much meat! You have to see it!”
Fugaku stood, allowing himself to be led, and looked out the window. In the yard, resting on wooden stretchers, lay a wild boar—massive, its bloody hide pierced with arrows. Some of them were clearly from a child: short, barely deep enough to pierce the hide. But others were long, heavy, and struck with deadly precision—straight into the heart and lungs.
Meanwhile, Sasuke stood proudly at the window, waving his bow—far too large for him—and an almost-empty quiver with snapped arrows rattling inside.
“I love shooting with a bow!” he declared cheerfully. “But big brother Shisui says kunai are better on missions. I really hope he gives me a set of real kunai for my birthday!”
“You could drop him a hint,” Itachi said, smiling faintly. “Sometimes it helps to guide people with their gift choices.”
“But he’s on a mission right now,” Sasuke's face fell. “He won’t be back until after my birthday. He’ll already have a gift. It’ll be too late to hint.”
“Then write him a letter,” Itachi suggested. “Shisui is escorting the Hokage to the Land of Wind. The postal hawks can reach them in a day, maybe less.”
“You’re right!” Sasuke cried, nearly jumping in place. “I’ll write him a letter right now!”
But just as he bolted forward, Mikoto’s firm hand seized his wrist.
“Not another step, young man,” she said sternly. “Bath. With soap. And until you scrub every finger clean—no letter.”
Sasuke looked down at his filthy hands, sighed with dramatic misery, and trudged toward the bathroom.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Itachi’s expression changed. The smile vanished. His eyes sharpened, tension flashing across his face—restoring the composed, soldier-like presence his father had grown used to. The killer behind the mask of the elder brother had returned.
Fugaku slowly activated his Sharingan, scanning the boar with a single glance. Three arrows embedded with flawless precision. All Itachi’s work. The rest had only enraged the beast.
“You struck the boar in the vital zones,” Fugaku said curtly. “Sasuke’s arrows didn’t cause any decisive damage.”
“But he’ll remember the hunt as a success,” Itachi replied quietly. “I wanted to give him a memory. Something that will stay with him. Just the two of us in the forest—it meant more to him than you think.”
Fugaku didn’t answer right away. He simply pressed his lips together, glancing at the small muddy footprints Sasuke had left on the carpet. The boy was only three. Almost four. And already—hunting, arrows, death. Too soon.
“Why did you take him now?” Fugaku asked. “His birthday’s still a week away.”
“I leave on a mission tomorrow. My last mandatory one this year. I want to use the remaining time to prepare for the chunin exams. I don’t want distractions.”
“Sensible,” Fugaku said quietly. He knew—Itachi never left anything to chance.
When Itachi left for the bath, Mikoto was already deftly handling the mop. With her Sharingan active, her cleaning resembled a precise combat technique: not a single trace left, not a drop, not a hair. The house was spotless again—just as befit the residence of a clan head.
Fugaku watched her in silence, and an idea began to form in his mind.
“Mikoto, what are our plans for Sasuke’s birthday?”
“I thought we’d take him to the toy store, then the park. In the evening—cake, family dinner,” she replied. “I wanted him to remember the day as joyful.”
“Good. But I think it’s time we go further. Sasuke needs to learn how to build connections. That needs to start now,” Fugaku said firmly. “Send invitations to his peers—the children of the clan heads.”
Mikoto didn’t ask a single question. She didn’t ask for clarification or raise objections. She simply turned and walked toward the writing desk, already composing the guest list in her head.
“And one more thing,” Fugaku added. “Invite Naruto.”
Her expression didn’t change. The same calm grace. But in her eyes, for the briefest moment, a flicker of warmth appeared.
“It will be done,” she said softly.
///
A week passed. The Uchiha compound had transformed into a scene of rare celebration, an unusual break from the usual austerity and discipline, where every word was measured and every step purposeful.
Today was different.
Cheerful music floated through the courtyard and spilled out into the street—light tunes and playful rhythms that invited laughter. Clowns with painted faces ran along the paths, waving balloons and twisting them into animals and swords. Colorful garlands hung from the railings, and in the center of the backyard stood a large table piled with sparkling juice, fruits, sweets, and, of course, a massive birthday cake—decorated with sugar shuriken and the glazed symbols of the Uchiha clan.
Sasuke practically radiated joy. He darted between the other children, his cheeks red and sweaty, eyes wide with excitement as he stared at the mountain of presents stacked neatly on a table under a canopy. His whole face glowed with anticipation—convinced that the boxes held amazing toys, samurai swords, cool ninja gadgets, or real kunai.
But Fugaku knew better. His gaze swept over the gifts with cold, almost mathematical precision. He could already guess their contents: shogi sets, children’s books, useful but boring items carefully selected by cautious parents—everything in neutral wrapping, safe, modest, free of indulgence. Every choice calculated. Every gesture diplomatic.
On the veranda sat the mothers of the guests—women in elegant kimonos and light dresses, sipping tea and exchanging polite smiles. They made small talk, glancing at the children now and then, as etiquette demanded. Mikoto stood out among them—she wore a festive lilac dress with a delicate silver pattern that emphasized her grace. Her smile was courteous, her words warm, but every movement remained within bounds. She preserved the image of the perfect hostess—and the perfect wife of a clan head—knowing the family’s reputation rested on her composure.
Fugaku stood at the entrance of the house, observing the scene. His face, as always, was unreadable, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t smile—but he didn’t distance himself either. He was present, and that was enough.
A tall man approached, wearing a long coat despite the heat and wide dark sunglasses. A faint, almost musical buzzing came from beneath his cloak. Shibi Aburame, head of the Aburame clan.
“I’m surprised by your invitation, Fugaku,” he murmured, his voice threaded with the whisper of wings. He slowly turned his head, watching his son, Shino, quietly playing tag with the other children—detached, but not unwelcome.
“We don’t get invited,” Shibi went on. “They fear us. Fear those who befriend insects.”
Fugaku inclined his head slightly, meeting his gaze. His eyes were hard as stone, without a trace of mockery.
“Do I look like a man who frightens easily?” he said evenly. “I don’t sting. I kill cleanly. They should fear me, not your bugs.”
A moment of silence fell between them. Then Shibi let out a dry, rasping chuckle.
“You’re a harsh man, Fugaku… but bold. I can respect that.”
Suddenly, a high-pitched, girlish scream cut through the air. Fugaku and Shibi turned. Little Ino Yamanaka stood crying, swatting frantically at her hair. One of Shino’s insects had escaped his control and landed right on her head.
Before anyone could react, Sasuke ran over and deftly brushed the insect away. Ino hiccupped, still shaken but calmer. Shino raised his hand to his lips, signaling his companions to return.
“If your son has inherited your courage,” Shibi remarked, eyes still on Fugaku, “then he may become a friend to my son. Or even a partner.”
Soon, the children began to tire. Sweaty and worn out, they finally settled at the long table. Some were pouring lemonade with both hands, others patting the clowns on the back, asking for one more balloon. Amid cheers and applause, Sasuke blew out four candles on the towering cake. Everyone clapped—even Naruto.
Mikoto carefully sliced the cake and handed out the pieces. When Naruto’s turn came, she chose the biggest slice, full of cream and chocolate. The boy beamed with joy and ate greedily, smearing frosting on his nose, cheeks, and hands. He ate like someone afraid it would vanish like a dream. And everyone understood: for him, this was his first cake. His first real party. His first celebration where he wasn’t ignored.
The other parents cast occasional sidelong glances at the jinchūriki. Some tensed slightly, others leaned subtly closer to their children. But no one said a word. Not a single "stay away, demon." No one dared—not in the house of the police captain.
Fugaku set aside his half-eaten slice and rose. Calmly, confidently, without raising his voice. He tapped a spoon against his glass, drawing attention.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “If you would, please join me inside. There’s something I’d like to show you.”
They understood immediately. Under the courteous invitation, something weightier was concealed. One by one, the clan heads and family patriarchs rose from the table—some with suspicion, others with curiosity, all with caution.
They entered a spacious room furnished with leather couches, heavy drapes, and dark wood. The atmosphere was masculine, restrained—not a single childish detail in sight. Birthdays weren’t celebrated here. Deals were made.
Fugaku walked to a cabinet and opened its doors, revealing an array of bottles—whiskeys, sakes, foreign liquors. He studied them with his usual cold precision, the way a soldier might inspect weapons.
“Anyone care for a drink?” he asked evenly. “We have a respectable selection. Something for every taste.”
“You’re drinking at a child’s party?” asked Chōza Akimichi skeptically, rubbing his stomach and raising an eyebrow.
“My son’s birthday is just the pretext to bring you all here,” Fugaku replied, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid and settling into a chair like it was a throne. “You came because you understood that.”
He took a slow sip and looked around at the assembled men. His voice remained calm, but there was steel beneath it. In that moment, every man in the room realized: the party was over. Business had begun.
