*Edited March 13, 2015
Summary: Nicole and her younger brother, Michael, appear in the wilds of Grass Country, slowly dying. While their struggles are indeed fierce, both are ignorant of the perverse truth... that the 'fictional world' of Naruto is the 'real world' and the foreign siblings are figments of a deranged man's imagination. With nothing but their will to survive this new and perverse way of life, the siblings must discover their true origins while staying alive during a time of chaos and make a living in what they believe to be a dysfunctional society. However, there's more than a few problems that come their way. SI/OC. Attempted realism.
Note: I assure you that my characters aren't going to be "celestial" beings. Yuudai is honestly just bat-shit insane.
Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership to Naruto...
Spirits of Fabrication
-a deranged conception-
Shriveled aged hands scrawled life onto the crinkled paper with black ink. An old man, with a balding scalp and unkempt, short white beard was hunched over a desk – his beady black eyes alight with a sort of dreadful excitement. His desk was cluttered with parchments of detailed sketches, carefully practiced calligraphy and unrecognizable patterns or illustrations. The light that managed to filter through the open window was muted by dust mites floating in the air, casting pinpricks of shadows to appear in the elderly man's work-space. At one point he sneezed, cursing lightly as he rubbed his itchy nose.
His sharply chiseled square jaw was the most prominent natural feature of his face, and always had been in his youth. Although, some might say it was either his sunken eyes or scrawny nose.
"Done," The old man whispered while a strained grin performed for only himself. His teeth were stained yellow and he missing a tooth or two while both his nose an lips carried with them an ugly scar from decades ago. Whatever he did in his previous line of work was less than kind before he took up his more preferred job as a dedicated author. Then again, without his past experience he would not have the knowledge or possible abilities that made him as great as he was.
He guffawed under his breath, but it was alike to his notably strained smile, "I can't believe I'm done. After all these years…after all that research into chakra, legends, jutus and Ying-Yang jargon, I have all the answers. But with these answers I also see the truth…
"It isn't possible for me to do," the elder chuckled darkly, adding, "I haven't enough chakra, lest I use my entire entity. And even then it might not be enough."
Moments after his words were uttered, malicious anger glinted dangerously off his narrow, coal-black eyes.
Quickly, without warning, his firm hands smacked the side of the furnished oak desk, sending it flying against the wall with ample force. There was a resounding thump as the furniture collided with the flimsy wall, easily creating a large crater at the point of impact. The man leered at the imprudent mess he caused in the fit of his rage and growled through his clenched teeth. The chair he sat in was abruptly left as he stormed through the few doorways of his secluded abode and scrambled gracelessly out into his parch that stood facing the green forest surround him.
With a razing, almost drunken, fury the man screamed and cured at the world around him. "Damn it! I wanted more than this! I want control, I want to be known – I want to have a role in this damned world! I I won't die without people revering my name with awe! I won't die without people passing down my name through generations!" the man shouted and spewed. "Oshiro! Oshiro Yuudai! Firstborn son of the mighty Oshiro Arata, the head of the Oshiro Clan before its decline! Oshiro Yuudai, a man who's discovered the secrets of the past, a man who has brought forth creation – just like the legendary Sage. Just like a god."
The old man, known as Oshiro Yuudai, was by now glaring and gesturing irrationally towards the violet and orange streaked sky. His spiteful, brash voice boomed and echoed through the seemingly deserted forest. His scraggly beard and the few hairs on his head quivered when a gust of wind hit the fuming man. This might have driven his anger even further, but instead Oshiro Yuudai stilled instantly without hint of reason. For whatever reason, Oshiro's naturally slender eyes gradually opened so wide that he could defy his ancient lineage. A face creased and blemished with decades of harsh life became alight with a distant expression of comprehension. Instead of the tense smile from before, a new one manifested. This smile was gleeful, fervent, yearning – and horribly deranged.
Yuudai slumped forward where he stood, the unstable grin still plastered onto his face. "I'm an ol' man now. No village or family. No one will really care when I leave this world," he said, slowly resetting his posture. "So maybe all I need to do…maybe all I need to really do is leave behind a legacy worth more than my own life. My legacy. After all, an artist's work in only valuable after death."
There was a pregnant pause as the man contemplated his delusions.
"Yes…yes, my creations will bring about glorious power. They will make this continent tremble under their hailed, celestial reign! And they will know my name, of the man who made them. The man who knew the secrets of creating life from nothing."
The autumn breeze wafted carefully around his stout elderly body, the first hints of another bitter Grass Country winter prominent in the air. Oshiro's smile never fully left, but it did fade to something more subtle. Memories swept through his mind like a tide as he watched the darkening depths of the shadowy woodland surrounding him and his traditional-styled home.
Sometimes, during pleasant and unclouded days such as this day, he could still imagine her soft ebony hair blow with the wind while her willowy body leaned against the bulky tree that marked the beginning of the worn and weathered dirt path leading to their house. His imagination was so vivid that at times he could reach out with a hand and caress her smooth skin – able to able to imagine the way it felt against his large calloused hand. Her soft brown eyes would then look up, exasperated, because he was disrupting her from reading. Yuudai would then grin mischievously and pluck the book from her hand, keeping it away from her grasp."
"Do you really like stories so much?"
"So if I wrote stories you'd love me even more?"
She paused and tilted her head deliberately, mulling over his question. She replied, "Perhaps. But I don't read poorly written books."
"Well then," he laughed, "I guess you're lucky. I have skill."
"…Yuudai. Give me back my book, now."
"You'll have to wait, Ayano," the newlywed husband told her. His impish smirk made the wife raise a thin eyebrow. He continued, "You really think I'll let you read this rubbish? I bet that some bigot wrote this thing – so allow me the honors to write a compelling and beautifully woven story, just for you."
Ayano rolled her smiling eyes, before shrugging nonchalantly, and said, "Then I want you to write a story about an encounter with a spirit or something. After all, that's where I left off in that book you're holding."
"Hm. I guess I can try." Yuudai leaned down and planted a light kiss on his wife's alluring lips. She giggled at the contact and raised a hand to brush his shaggy black hair from his eyes.
"As much as I hate your obnoxious behavior, I can't help but love you." Ayano murmured tenderly.
"And I love you, Ayano." Yuudai said to the playful wind that helped breathe life to the recollections and dreams of his late spouse. She was now long gone; twenty-four years too early. Leaving him alone, with nothing to do but write and write, hoping her spirit would be able to read the stories. At some point in time though, he began writing differently, because he needed something more tangible, more obtainable. Ayano and her whole-hearted love would never come back, he knew, and he soon became obsessed with his work. When he published his first few books, Yuudai was astonished that they were soon spread throughout the continent, even in places where conflicts and war were constant and raging. His fantasies were fresh, inspiring, distracting, and gave that incorrigible hope to those in the worst situations. Soon his name was spread through many a land. He was thrilled with his success, but it was never enough.
That incurable pit in his heart – left by years without loved ones – slowly eroded his core. It became a constant ache that thirsted for anything he could obtain. That thirst became desperate as time passed. Oshiro, frustrated and craving, needed more and more attention. How else was he to live in such a desolate, abysmal world? The only answer he came up with…was to become great! He would accomplish achievements far beyond an average shinobi, author or civilian, beyond any known god! That was his plan. Nothing was left besides is implausible dream.
There was no backing away from his destiny.
Oshiro Yuudai rubbed the bridge of his nose for the last time before turning around and entering his home. Upon finding his way back to his workplace, a myriad of paper greeted him with their dastardly taunts as they lay still on the tatami. However, Yuudai ignored this and hastily strode over to his toppled desk. He grabbed it and moved it effortlessly it its original position. Next he bent over to pick up the more important parchments on the floor, smoothing them once in his grasp.
A total of ten minutes passed. Oshiro dutifully finished gathering the sheets he needed before exiting the room. The old man adjusted his plain jade kimono when he at last entered a large empty bedroom – designed for the children he never had. Fate was cruel to him in so many ways.
Oh, how it laughed at his misfortune!
– but no more.
He would finally overcome the grand antagonist that was Fate.
He would become great.
Chuckling, Yuudai looked down at the informative papers he held in his hands. However, it was the masterful drawing peeking out from underneath the disorderly stack. Yuudai pulled it out from the middle of the mound of papers and brought it to the top. His deranged vision stared dreamily at the picture his wife had painted while helping him with his very first book to her.
Two siblings stood hand in hand, smiling at him, looking as beautiful as he had first imagined them. They may not have looked like home or Ayano, but they were just as special. After all, they had created them. He gazed down at the picture with fondness and nostalgia; his eyes grew watery with heartache. He could do it. He finally had the key to bring his children to life…they would tell of his legacy…but…suddenly he doubted his intentions. He wanted to be great, yes, but perhaps he wanted something worthwhile to love for the last time of his life.
No, no, that wasn't right.
He only sought greatness now.
However, despite his slight inner confusion, Oshiro set to work. Hours and hours passed in a haze, and all the while he grew more anxious and impatient every passing second. He was no seal master, but the room around him was filled with the beautiful ink that promised to help both his chakra and bloodline to work its fullest potential. Anything could go wrong, but Oshiro Yuudai was stubborn and impatient. Before he knew it, a full day had elapsed since he began his grueling and elaborate project. Though instead of feeling fatigued, Yuudai was trembling with anticipation.
He was done with the preparations.
The old man didn't even consider resting before entering the center of his masterpiece. His nerves were frenzied and his aching palms were slick with perspiration. His stomach was a cyclone that struggled against the confines of his body. Finally the author took a seat in a meditative position, eyes flickering back and forth between all the black inking surrounding him. Doubts began to flood his mind, but again Yuudai refused to let them clout his determination.
He took a deep and calming breath in and exhaled slowly.
Seconds ticked by so slowly.
"You both will exist in more than my heart now," Yuudai murmured fondly. He closed his eyes, reaching for the familiar warmth of chakra of both his soul and body and called upon it for one final time. Almost immediately there was a blinding white light that consumed the entire house. Oshiro Yuudai remained unmoving as he let the power course out of his aged body. The blinding whiteness soon split in color. Red and Blue. His Spiritual and Physical energies.
Yuudai clenched his teeth as he felt excruciating pain attack him.
Just a little longer, he thought desperately before he let his hands fly threw of terribly long pattern of hand signs that didn't seem to end. The old man held on desperately, shaking horribly due to exertion.
He was in limbo between ultimate success and failure, and his struggle was a valiant effort.
When the sudden surrounding energy around him spiked, his eyes flew open in panic. Whether or not he was successful was uncertain, but what he wished from the very depths of his delusional heart was that they could live without him.
Within moments there was a powerful blast of volatile energy.
The man knew no more.
This story messes with both the "Character comes to the Real world" and "Character from the Real world goes to the Fictional world" genres. This chapter also tries to establish a solid reasoning for the occurrence, too. It may or may not be horribly accurate , but it is something very minor in the scheme of things. What happened exactly? A mix between Yuudai's bloodline, seals and jutsu has created 'life'...but is it really 'life' he's created?