Batman in Konoha. Chapter 8 and 9. Something White

4000 words.

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Fugaku stood in the dim light of his study, surrounded by the soft creak of wood, the scent of ink, and the rustle of paper. On the desk before him, a travel backpack was being carefully packed—moderately heavy, moderately bulky, meant for a short but intense journey. The estimated burial site of Obito was two days away, assuming no stops.

He packed methodically: a few protein bars with a neutral taste, tightly sealed water flasks, a compact sleeping bag. But most important of all—tools. Not weapons, not scrolls, but detective tools.

Fugaku weighed a fingerprint brush in his hand before tucking it between some scrolls and a box of fingerprint powder. Tweezers for collecting evidence, sealed vials, a notebook, a few charcoal pencils—old-fashioned, familiar. But there was no laser rangefinder, no X-ray lenses, no portable air analyzer. He had to improvise—as always. The Sharingan, heightened senses, and chakra would have to make up for the lack of tech.

The backpack shut with a dry click. Fugaku swung it over his shoulder and stepped into the hallway—and stopped immediately.

Mikoto stood right in front of him, as if she had been waiting. Her gaze held no severity, only calm curiosity and—beneath a veil of softness—a watchfulness that couldn’t be deceived.

“Dear…” Her eyes briefly swept over him from head to toe. Her gaze lingered on the backpack. “Heading out on a mission?”

“Going fishing.”

She raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. The sun was already up, warming the roof tiles and illuminating the dew on the grass. The best time for fishing had long passed—and they both knew it.

“Good luck with the catch,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Will you be back for lunch?”

“No. And not tomorrow either. I don’t know how long I’ll be away from the village,” he said, stepping aside, intending to walk past her—but hesitated for half a second. “On Monday, my equipment is scheduled for delivery. If I’m not back, pay the courier and take the boxes to my study. Don’t open them—they’re explosive.”

That was a lie. The boxes contained chemical reagents—harmless on their own. But he knew: only a truly severe warning would deter curiosity. In Konoha, as in Gotham, carelessness could be fatal.

“Of course,” she replied almost automatically.

Fugaku gave a dry huff. All of this felt too… cold. He remembered how Martha—his Martha—would’ve erupted if Thomas had dared say something like that to her: I brought a bomb home, darling, keep an eye on it. He’d have been sleeping in the garden an hour later. But here—it was just of course. As if he’d spoken to a housekeeper, not a wife.

He suppressed a sigh and headed down the stairs. The moment he stepped into the entryway, there was a confident knock at the door.

On the threshold stood Shisui, fully geared—carrying a similar backpack, his eyes bright with energy.

“Good morning, Fugaku-sama!” he greeted with youthful enthusiasm.

“As soon as we leave the village, forget the ‘-sama.’ Just call me Fugaku. It’s faster.”

“I’m well acquainted with military efficiency,” Shisui said with a grin. He stepped inside, then suddenly noticed someone behind Fugaku. “Oh—hey, Itachi!”

Fugaku turned.

Itachi stood by the stairs, holding Sasuke close. The little boy squirmed in his arms, trying to grab at the straps of his father’s backpack.

“Hey,” Itachi said, stepping closer. “Where are you going, Father?”

“Fishing,” Fugaku replied with the same stone-faced tone.

“Can I come?” Itachi asked, and Sasuke immediately perked up, nodding eagerly and babbling something.

“No.”

Fugaku and Shisui left the village under the official pretense of “Uchiha clan business.” What truly lay behind those words—only they and the Hokage knew.

///

Two silhouettes moved across the massive treetops like shadows. The branches beneath their feet trembled but didn’t break—their movements were precise, flawless, as was expected of the Uchiha.

Fugaku never once glanced back as he ran, but he could feel it—Shisui was keeping pace. Not a single misstep in three hours of nonstop travel. No complaints, no pauses, not even heavy breathing. Just the soft, steady sound of footsteps behind him and the rhythmic pulse of chakra.

Fugaku registered it with cold approval. Impressive for an adult. For a nine-year-old child—almost absurd. Even in the shinobi world, where miracles were part of daily life, this earned respect.

He had studied Shisui’s file in advance. When you’re assigned a partner—even for a short mission—you need to know who you’re counting on. Who’s at your back when it comes to it.

Shisui Uchiha. Recognized prodigy. Graduated the Academy at six. Three years on the front lines, active combat participation, promoted to chunin, and now—just a step away from jonin rank. The only thing missing was the formal confirmation of his second chakra nature. Fugaku knew it was only a matter of time.

That’s how the great ones began. Hiruzen Sarutobi. Orochimaru. Kakashi Hatake. Meteoric rises that only true geniuses could achieve.

But there was another reason Fugaku had studied the boy so closely.

Genius was a hidden key to the Mangekyō Sharingan.

It wasn’t something spoken of in the clan, not passed down from elders in whispered tradition. You only found out once you’d awakened the cursed sight yourself. More than soul-shattering pain was required. You needed the ability to comprehend it. To let it pass through you, to process it. To turn it into power. Ordinary minds broke. Geniuses transformed.

He raised a hand, and they stopped in unison on the broad limb of an ancient tree. Above them, green leaves danced in the sunlight; the breeze was soft, cool.

“Break. Ten minutes.”

Shisui asked no questions. He simply sat down, opened his pack, and pulled out a protein bar. Fugaku did the same. A few sips of water never hurt.

“I read your file. And your military report,” Fugaku said casually, looking off to the side. “There was one incident. Odd.”

Shisui froze, the bar halted near his mouth.

“During a patrol,” Fugaku continued, “you and a genin from the Yamanaka clan, Sato, were scouting the rear. According to your report, he stepped on a mine and died. Routine case. Nothing unusual. War. Casualties. The investigation was closed that same day.” He glanced at Shisui. “But I decided to dig deeper.”

Shisui slowly lowered the bar. He wasn’t chewing anymore.

“I visited the Yamanaka. Spoke with his mother. She showed me Sato’s letters. You know what he wrote? That you were best friends. That he trusted you like a brother.”

The color drained slightly from Shisui’s nose. His eyelids twitched—barely, for a fraction of a second. But they twitched.

“You, like my squad,” he said hoarsely, “think I killed Sato to awaken the Mangekyō Sharingan…”

“No,” Fugaku cut him off. “The mine was planted by an Iwa shinobi. He was captured. He confessed. It’s all documented. I believe in facts. And the facts say: Sato died at the hands of the enemy.” He leaned in slightly, his gaze sharpening like a blade. “But you saw death take him.”

Shisui didn’t look away.

“If we follow your theory,” he said with a faint smirk, “then to awaken the Mangekyō, you don’t need to kill your friend. You just need to witness their death. Is that it? No offense to your detective work, Fugaku, but if it were that simple, our entire clan would be walking around with Mangekyō. Everyone’s lost someone in this war.”

Smart reply. Steady gaze. No sweaty palms. But he was lying.

Shisui was a perfect liar, with full control over his body. Better than most adults. Better than serial killers in Arkham. But to Batman—not perfect.

He knew thirty-seven micro-contractions of the pupil that revealed specific emotional states. One of them—a suppressed sense of guilt, masked as rationalization. And Shisui had just shown it.

Shisui had awakened the Mangekyō.

"Hokage gave me your file before the mission," Shisui said after taking a few sips of water. "It described one particular incident. You and Inuzuka Shiro. Captured. Interrogation. Inuzuka died in front of you. The reports say you were friends since the Academy."

Fugaku let out a dry huff and raised an eyebrow slightly. So that’s how it was. The pup decided to bite back. Testing him, watching for a reaction. Fugaku liked that.

"If it were really that simple," he replied calmly, almost lazily, "the entire Uchiha clan would’ve been flaunting Mangekyō Sharingan long ago."

Not a single muscle twitched. Not a nerve stirred. Total bodily control. The pupil didn’t even flicker.

"Shisui," Fugaku looked up at him with a gaze that held neither threat nor warmth. "Hypothetically… if you did have the Mangekyō Sharingan—would you report it? To me? Or the Hokage?"

Shisui stretched out his legs and leaned his back against the rough tree trunk, as if they were just talking about the weather.

"Hypothetically?" he repeated with a faint smile. "No. I wouldn’t. After the Nine-Tails incident, everyone looks at the Uchiha with suspicion. If word got out about a Mangekyō, it would lead directly to conflict between the clan and the village."

It was a smart answer. Measured. And disturbingly mature.

Fugaku crossed his arms and paused for a moment. Shisui’s words earned him points. Honesty—or a convincing imitation of it—rang true. And yet, at the same time, it sealed something else: he was now suspect number one.

Could he control the Nine-Tails? Yes.

Did he have a motive to destroy the village? Outwardly—no. But pain manifests differently in everyone. And everyone finds their own way to release it.

Later, as the sun dipped behind the horizon, they found a good spot for camp. Thick trees arched overhead, shielding them from prying eyes. The campfire burned steadily; above it, a tin can of soup bubbled, and the warm scent of meat and stewed vegetables spread through the air.

Fugaku didn’t enjoy indulging the stomach. He preferred discipline to comfort. But his medical instinct—a relic of a former life—told him: a growing child needed hot meals.

"Enjoy your meal," Shisui said politely, bringing a spoonful of soup to his mouth and blowing on it to cool.

"I wanted to ask you something," Fugaku said, stirring his own soup carefully. "You seem to know my son. You and Itachi—are you friends?"

Shisui hesitated for a moment, as if playing through the phrasing in his head.

"I’m not sure I’d call us that," he finally said, looking into the fire. "We met at the Uchiha training grounds. I saw him trying to throw a kunai and… gave him a few tips. Since then, we run into each other sometimes. He’s smart. Picks things up quickly."

"I see," Fugaku nodded. "How would you rate his progress?"

"Oh, your son’s a natural-born shinobi. He’ll probably breeze through the Academy in a year. He lives and breathes the idea of becoming strong. Blink and he’ll be a jonin," Shisui chuckled. "Itachi won’t shame his father."

Mental note: Itachi has potential for the Mangekyō.

"And your own parents?" Fugaku asked suddenly. "How do they feel about your success?"

A shadow passed across the boy’s face. The fire flickered in his eyes—like something old and painful had flared and died there in an instant.

"They won’t be saying anything anymore," Shisui answered, still staring into the flames. His voice had gone quieter. "My mom died on a mission. My dad… was killed by the Nine-Tails. That night."

Fugaku paused mid-chew. Something twinged in his chest. Like a ghost of pain long buried—the kind he laid to rest with Bruce. He wanted to say something—even a word, anything—but clenched his fists and kept silent. Of all the skills he'd gathered over two lives, comforting children had never been one of them.

"It’s not so bad," Shisui said at last, attempting a smile. "At least I remember my parents. A lot of the orphanage kids can’t even say that."

Fugaku gave a short huff, but a flicker of respect crossed his gaze. This boy hadn’t just survived. He hadn’t let the pain consume him. Shisui carried his light—and wasn’t afraid to let the world see it.

///

“We’re here,” Fugaku said, snapping the map shut. Kakashi had handed it to him before the mission, marked with precise coordinates. Fortunately, by then he already had the Sharingan—not only did he memorize the spot, he imprinted it in his mind like a photograph: the slope of the hill, elevation, direction, even the geological structure.

The sun struck his eyes, reflected from a pile of rocks—once the entrance to a cave. Now, just a collapsed mound that looked like a grave.

“We have the body’s coordinates,” Fugaku said, pulling out a black notebook. Inside were equations, trajectory calculations, rock density, blast resistance formulas. “The explosive tags need to be placed exactly according to this schematic. That way we’ll only remove the excess layer without disturbing the rest.”

He took a long ribbon of tags from his pack. Each one was neatly marked, labeled, and numbered.

“Why so complicated?” Shisui raised an eyebrow skeptically. “I’ve nearly mastered Earth Release. A couple of jutsu and this whole pile’s gone over the horizon.”

“Don’t waste your chakra,” Fugaku said curtly. “Experience says we’ll need it before the day’s over.”

Shisui shrugged. Smart enough not to argue.

When the tags detonated and the blast shook the forest, birds shot into the sky and rocks exploded outward. Fugaku and Shisui stayed behind the hill for cover. Once the dust cloud settled, they descended into the crater.

“Looks like your calculations were off,” Shisui said, running a hand along an untouched wall of stone. “Still a thick layer left.”

Fugaku immediately activated his Sharingan. The red tomoe spun in his eyes, measuring depth like a rangefinder: one hundred and thirty-three meters to the target.

That wasn’t right.

He ran a hand over the scorched wall, where the blast had charred the rock dark gray. Smooth to the touch, but with a telltale flaking under his fingers. Then Fugaku’s lips curved in a faint smile.

“This isn’t just rock,” he said. “It’s mica schist.”

“What?”

“Brush up on your geology,” Fugaku huffed. “One of the best materials for construction. Doesn’t bend. Doesn’t crack from temperature shifts. Nearly immune to destruction techniques. No wonder the tags didn’t do much.”

He fell silent for a moment—calculations already spinning in his mind. If modified concrete with schist was possible… if synthesized under lab conditions...

“We’re taking it with us,” he said firmly.

“Why?” Shisui looked genuinely surprised.

“It’ll be the foundation for my lab,” Fugaku explained calmly. “The one in the police headquarters is nothing more than a glorified classroom. That won’t do.”

“Oh… didn’t take you for a science guy,” Shisui grinned. “You should talk to the Hokage’s student—Orochimaru. He’s into that stuff too. In his… unique way.”

“I’ll remember the name.”

In sync, they formed hand seals. The ground beneath them gurgled, became viscous like a flowing river. The schist slowly, almost reluctantly, rose to the surface. Two hundred kilograms of heavy, dense rock emerged from the earth.

And then they saw what Kakashi had warned them about.

Two stones pressed together like jaws. And between them—a crushed body. Only half. The rest had either disintegrated or remained under the debris. Flesh partially decayed, clothes hanging in tatters from bones. White maggots squirmed out of the eye socket, burrowing into the skull.

“We should recover the body,” Shisui whispered. “At least bury it properly.”

“Don’t move,” Fugaku’s voice turned to steel. He grabbed Shisui’s shoulder sharply. His Sharingan flared, tomoe spinning fast. “It’s a fake.”

Shisui activated his own Sharingan and took a closer look. A long stare, sharp and scanning—reading chakra traces and cell structure.

“This is Obito’s body,” Shisui objected. “His chakra’s still in the tissues. Even an old fracture—Obito fell from a tree once, I saw it myself.”

Fugaku’s grip on his shoulder tightened.

“It’s a fake,” he repeated, eyes locked on the corpse. “Whoever made this knew shinobi anatomy. But they didn’t know entomology. Look—at the eye socket. See those maggots?”

Shisui strained his vision, focusing on the worms writhing in the hollow of the skull.

“White, thick... So what?”

“Erebia microfauna,” Fugaku’s voice was distant, almost detached. “Strict detritivores. Their presence here makes sense—they inhabit this forest, we saw them in that dead crow. But they never lay eggs on decomposing flesh.”

The "Obito" corpse twitched with a sharp, almost grotesque snap—skin, bones, clothing—all dissolved. The flesh turned into a viscous white substance, like melted wax, and oozed down the stones, splashing into a pool of organic sludge. Seconds later, something rose from it—a humanoid silhouette, pure white, with a head twisted in a spiral like a seashell.

“Such a perfect trap… ruined!” it rasped in a low, wooden voice. “Just a few more meters and I would've skewered you!”

Sharingans flared at once. Kunai flashed into the Uchiha’s hands like extensions of their own limbs.

“Who are you?” Fugaku asked evenly, not blinking. He stared directly into the center of that spiral head, where an eye might have been.

“What does it matter?” the creature’s voice dripped with mocking glee. “You’re going to die anyway!”

It stepped forward—and the earth exploded with roots.

They shot out from beneath the rocks like spears: thick, bark-covered, saturated with chakra. They lunged at the shinobi as if they had will of their own. Mokuton. The First Hokage’s bloodline.

Fugaku and Shisui wasted no time. Their Sharingan eyes let them predict the roots' paths by fractions of a second—enough to dodge. Weaving between attacks, they launched fireballs, but the flames only licked the bark in vain: it soaked up chakra like a sponge. Even the synchronized strikes of two Uchiha left no mark on the wood.

“Genjutsu?” Shisui guessed, but quickly realized it was pointless. The creature had no eyes. No ears. Not even a face. If it had a brain, it clearly wasn’t where it should’ve been.

Fugaku hurled a kunai in a complex arc, embedding an explosive tag—but the white mass absorbed the blast without reaction.

“Notice it?” Fugaku asked calmly, dodging another root. “Its body is like Hashirama’s trees. Same structure, same traits.”

“And how does that help us?!” Shisui snapped, throwing another pack of explosives to hold it back. “That still doesn’t tell me how to kill it!”

“Stall it. One minute.”

Shisui nodded and spat a bright fireball—not destructive, but blinding.

Fugaku dashed for the exit. He leapt out with a springing motion and slid toward his pack, pulling out a gray, sealed pouch. A second later, he returned to the cave’s edge—and hurled it inside.

The pouch struck the ground with a soft thud and burst, releasing a dense orange cloud that looked like chemical fire.

“What is that?!” Shisui shouted, running after him.

“Herbicide,” Fugaku said shortly, yanking him out by the collar. “New formula. I prepared it in case we ran into Mokuton roots during the dig.”

He didn’t bother to explain that he’d recreated the compound from memory—memories of a different world, where he fought Pamela Isley, Poison Ivy.

The orange cloud hissed inside the cave like venom, seeping into every crack. Its sharp, acidic stench reached even the surface, and both men donned masks.

Fifteen minutes passed. No movement below. Not a sound.

“What if it’s just waiting?” Shisui asked, eyes narrowed, watching the gaping mouth of the cave.

“This herbicide kills any organic matter,” Fugaku said flatly. “Even if it's saturated with chakra. I tested it in the Forest of Death. Hashirama’s century-old trees burned like kindling.”

Still, to be sure, they sent shadow clones ahead.

When they descended, the enemy was gone. Only scorched, blackened roots lay collapsed like dead tentacles, and the white mass had cooled into a lump of congealed fat.

“He’s dead,” Shisui confirmed.

Fugaku said nothing. Wordlessly, he pulled out a container and began collecting the remnants. That substance was too valuable—and too dangerous—to leave behind.

They descended deeper into the cave, but there were no further signs of Obito. No body, no remains, no trace of life. If an underground base had existed, it had been meticulously scrubbed clean—every passage collapsed, every tunnel buried, as if the enemy hadn't just fled, but had tried to erase the very fact of their presence.

The mystery remained unanswered.

But they didn’t leave empty-handed: they took all the mica slate, carefully cut and sealed in scrolls. The stone was far too precious to abandon.

On the way back, when the dust and tension of battle had finally begun to settle, Shisui spoke up.

“Fugaku, how did you know there’d be a trap down there?”

“Get used to playing the game,” Fugaku grunted. “Make a move—expect a counter. Simple as that.”

Shisui nodded. The silence stretched, footsteps crunching over gravel, until he asked again:

“What do we do now?”

Fugaku silently clenched the scroll containing fragments of the white mass. There was a stillness in him—like the calm before a storm. A wood-based genome. A disguise that deceived the Sharingan. A creature capable of mimicking a shinobi’s body… This wasn’t just alarming—it was a challenge.

“We study the enemy,” he finally said. “Find its weakness. Understand who’s behind this—and why.”

“I’m no scientist, but I’m curious now. Honestly, that was the most enlightening mission I’ve ever had,” Shisui admitted. “All my previous commanders were… grounded. There wasn’t much to learn from them.”

He said it sincerely, without resentment. But his voice held a quiet ache—one Fugaku recognized from his own youth. A genius, bored among mediocrity. And nothing is more precious than an adult who doesn’t extinguish that fire—but directs it.

Fugaku stopped.

“Wanna live with me?” he asked, unexpectedly.

“…You serious?”

“Completely. You already know Itachi—he could use a friend. Mikoto could use some help around the house. And I could use an assistant in the lab. I’ll find you a room. What do you say?”

Shisui smiled so broadly the sun itself seemed to shine brighter.

“I’d be honored, Fugaku.”

///

Meanwhile, far on the other side of the world…

Deep underground, under the glow of artificial lamps, the base buzzed with activity. White Zetsu—dozens, hundreds—darted through the massive cavern, carrying crates, equipment, scrolls, and bundles. The new hideout was nearly complete. The walls gleamed from fresh work, the air smelled of soil and bleach.

From one wall, like a mushroom sprouting from earth, emerged a man-plant hybrid—a Zetsu, his face split into black and white halves.

“We lost one of ours,” he grumbled in a low voice.

On a metal bridge, standing in the shadows, was Obito. His orange mask glinted as he turned his head.

“A small price to assess the enemy,” he replied indifferently. “We got the information we needed.”

“Fugaku ruins all our plans,” Zetsu hissed. “How did he even guess that you and the Akatsuki were behind the attack on Konoha?”

“Fugaku doesn’t know,” Obito snapped. “If he did, my name would already be in the bingo book. I spoke with Danzō. The whole of Konoha believes the Akatsuki are to blame. It suits them. They need an external enemy.”

“But Fugaku’s still on the trail. Breathing down our necks.”

Obito was silent for a moment, then replied sharply:

“We’re not going to attack him directly.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s the Uchiha leader. In that clan, only the strongest rules. And after the war, Fugaku changed. He didn’t just become dangerous—he became calculating. Cunning. Intelligent. That kind of leap isn’t from training. It’s… transformation. And I know only one thing that can change a man that much.”

His mask shifted. Behind it, the Mangekyō Sharingan flared—deep as a black hole.

“I’m almost certain Fugaku has a Mangekyō. And possibly an ability we can’t even imagine. Think about it—no hand seals, no prep. One glance—and you’re erased. You willing to risk that?”

Zetsu shook his head.

“Neither am I,” Obito returned to the railing. “The plan stays in motion. But from now on, we move slower. Quieter.”