Jesses and Other Means of Control [REWRITE; HIATUS]

Tobirama clicked onto the last slide. “Second round of datasets due on Monday,” he said. “Copy the professor on your email but send them to me if you want them to actually get graded.” He flipped through the notebook on his desk. “That’s it. Leave.”

The class ended in a grumble of activity. Tobirama eyed the empty seat near the projector and frowned. Then, despite himself, he pulled out his phone and began to type.

- 10:29

Not like you to miss class with no warning.

The reply was immediate.

- U. I. 10:29

sorry forgot class was today

u on campus?

Tobirama frowned and leaned against the desk.

- 10:30

Obviously. Class just ended.

- U. I. 10:30

come 2 the library cafe

Tobirama’s frown deepened. He gathered the papers from the desk and filed them into the bag with his laptop; shouldering it, he started to mount the marble stairs out of the lecture hall.

Izuna was sitting on the concrete half-wall extending from the far corner of the library, white coffee cup dangling from one hand, cigarette held between his lips with the other. His bag was slumped on the ground next to him. There was a far-away look in his eyes.

“It’s a non-smoking campus,” Tobirama said, leaning against the wall.

“Yeah,” Izuna said blankly, eyes still focused on the middle distance. He offered the cigarette to Tobirama.

Tobirama considered it for a half second, then plucked it out of his fingers and took a single drag.

“Do you ever,” Izuna started. He sniffed, then looked down at the coffee cup as if just noticing it for the first time. “Do you have a good relationship with your dad?”

Tobirama looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Did you forget our entire conversation during your party on Monday, or…?”

Izuna sighed and held his hand back out for the cigarette. “No,” he said, returning it to its place between his lips. “But I was wondering if you’d lie about it.”

“There’s nothing to lie about,” Tobirama said simply.

Izuna snorted. “Ain’t that the truth?” The tip of the cigarette glowed. “My dad sucked,” he said abruptly.

Tobirama stifled the immediate, uncharitable, He was an Uchiha, of course he did that immediately rose in his head.

Izuna’s eyes shifted over to him briefly as if he could tell what he was thinking. A sardonic grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve seen the statistics, too.” He took one last pull off the cigarette and extinguished it on the concrete barrier. “My dad was – among other things – a homophobic piece of shit. Pretty ironic, considering neither of his sons were straight.”

Tobirama filed that piece of information away in the same way he filed soil acidity trends for the samples in his basement. “Your father was Uchiha Tajima.”

“Yeah,” Izuna said, already shaking another cigarette out of the box. “Beloved community figure. Head of the police force.” He held the cigarette between his teeth and flicked the lighter. “Tragic heart attack.”

Tobirama said nothing. Izuna held his eye for a long moment, then exhaled a cloud of smoke and held the cigarette out once more.

“Your dad,” Izuna said as their fingers touched, “is Senju Butsuma.”

Tobirama took a long drag and closed his eyes. “So he is,” he said through the acrid smoke.

Izuna clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Alright.” He slid down from the barrier and picked his backpack up off the ground. “See you, Tobirama.”

Tobirama watched him until he rounded the far bend; then he extinguished the cigarette on the rough concrete and let the butt fall to the ground on the far side of the barrier. There were six others littering the packed earth in the same spot.

Senju Enterprises Incorporated was housed in the biggest, newest skyscraper in the city. It was the seventh tallest building in the world. It housed the corporate headquarters of twenty Fortune 500 companies; it had 111 floors; the architect who’d designed it had won the Pritzker Architecture Prize for that year.

Tobirama sat in the lobby of the 52^nd floor, staring at the potted rubber tree plant on the far side of the waiting area. Hashirama hated that rubber tree with a passion – he said it hated him, too, and Tobirama believed him. Hashirama wasn’t with him now.

The leather chair squeaked loudly at his slightest movement, so Tobirama tried to keep completely still. There was a large digital clock embedded into the bottom corner of the wide LED TV that hung behind the reception desk. Tobirama didn’t need to look at it to know he’d been kept waiting for more than half an hour. Butsuma was a busy man.

Exactly 40 minutes after their appointed meeting time, the secretary raised her head from her computer screen and said, “Mr. Senju is ready for you now. Through the left door, please.”

Tobirama stood, straightening out the creases in his jacket; readjusted the files inside the folder – copies of the reports he’d sent to the R&D office at 10:00 sharp this morning – and crossed the gleaming marble floor towards the opaque glass door on the far side of the room. It opened automatically with a rush of cold air. Tobirama followed the warmly lit, sparsely furnished corridor past meeting rooms, offices, copy rooms, archives – until it ended at a solid oak door. He pressed the small round button by the handle.

Butsuma’s voice crackled out through the speaker over his head. “Hurry up and get in here. I’ve got a client in twenty minutes.”

Tobirama opened the door.

Senju Butsuma did not look like a businessman. He had a deeply lined face; shoulders that recalled the stance of a boxer squaring up for a match; hands that shook just firmly enough to discomfort. He wore suits like samurai wore armor and he had a voice that cracked harder and faster than a jockey’s whip.

He was sitting behind his desk. His computer was turned off; his desk phone was unplugged, the cord spooled neatly on the keypad. In front of him sat a copy of the exact same folder Tobirama was carrying.

“Phone,” Butsuma said, pointing at a tray on the far side of his desk.

Tobirama turned off his smartphone and rested it on the glossy black plastic. 

“Report.”

“21% increase in germination speed,” Tobirama said without opening the folder. “30% increase in genotype accuracy. 5% decrease in specimen retention. 26% –”

“Tobirama,” Butsuma interrupted, leaning back in his chair. He tapped the file in front of him. “I have the numbers. I have never asked you for numbers. Give me your report. Are we getting closer or not? Can he do it or not?”

Tobirama fumbled. The statistics seemed fairly self-evident to him, he just said they had a 5% decrease in specimen retention – “He’s getting faster,” Tobirama said, hands tightening on the folder. “But the specimens are dying faster, too.”

“Any get to the flowering stage?”

“Three since our last report. Of those three, only two emitted any kind of measurable gaseous vapor, and neither of them had the chemical makeup we’re looking for.”

Butsuma chewed this over, fingers tapping on the folder before him. Each tap ricocheted like a bass drum in Tobirama’s skull.

“One step forward, two steps back,” Butsuma mused. He turned a gray eye back on Tobirama. “Is he actively forestalling our progress, or is he just that incompetent?”

Tobirama couldn’t meet his eyes or will himself to respond.

“You’re doing the best you can,” Butsuma said. It sounded like an insult. He stood, looming over the desk. “I heard some interesting news earlier this week.” He started to circle the edge, fingers trailing over the polished wooden surface. “Seems my youngest was seen at a party.”

Tobirama froze. His heart was thrumming in his ears.

“An Uchiha party, nonetheless.”

He had to say something – to justify himself – “I did not knowingly break any rules,” Tobirama said. “I didn’t know he was an Uchiha.”

Butsuma came to a stop behind him and rested heavy hands on his shoulder. Tobirama fought down every instinct he had to shy away. Butsuma bent down, close to his ear, and said: “The giant fan painted on the gate didn’t tip you off?” Butsuma stood straight, clapping one hand on Tobirama’s shoulder with a chuckle. “It’s fine, kiddo. It’s fine. I don’t mind.” He released his shoulders and continued on his circuit around the far edge of the desk. “After all, you’re not the one who’s had issues with that family. I can trust you to make good decisions around that clan, can’t I, Tobirama?”

Tobirama’s mouth moved as if to speak, but his throat was sealed shut.

“Tell me,” Butsuma leaned against the desk and folded his arms. “Where was Hashirama? While you were out slumming?”

“Home, if I had to guess,” Tobirama said.

“He wasn’t there with you?”

Tobirama mustered every scrap of candor he had as he said: “Not to my knowledge. I spent the night talking to a friend of mine. If he was there I didn’t see him. But I have no reason to believe he’d be there. It was a party full of college students, none of whom knew him.”

Butsuma nodded, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Alright,” he said, pushing off the desk. “That’s a little disappointing.”

Tobirama tore his gaze away from the empty office chair to stare up at him in surprise. “Sir?”

“Disappointing,” Butsuma said, “that you’d lie to my face like that, Tobirama.” He walked back around to the other side of the desk and opened a drawer; from it, he drew a sheet of paper. This, he let fall carelessly on the desk in front of Tobirama.

He felt his face go white.

“So,” Butsuma said, settling back in his chair. “Given that I know Hashirama knew, and that you were the one who told him, and that he was the one to come pick you up – I’ll ask you again: was or was he not at this party in the Uchiha Compound?”

Tobirama stared at the pages of printed texts and felt his breathing turn shallow in his throat. “How long,” he began hoarsely, and cleared his throat. “How long have you been monitoring our messages?”

“How long have you been my son?” Butsuma asked flatly. “How long ago did you get your first cell phone? Don’t be an idiot, Tobirama.” He snorted. “Trust me, I’m not doing it for my own enjoyment.”

“Why are you monitoring our phones?” Tobirama asked. He was creasing the folder in his hands, but he couldn’t bring himself to relax.

Butsuma looked irritated at this question. He looked at his watch. “Your brother’s a bioweapon, Tobirama. Hell, you know as well as anyone the amount of paperwork it would be if one of you let slip his condition. Not the least of which all the added secrecy of this mess with Uchiha Tajima.” He scoffed. “Pain in the ass. Do your old man a favor and stop fraternizing with Tajima’s runt, will you? Uchiha Izuna. You’re not in the red yet, but I’d rather nip this in the bud, as it were.” He smiled at this, as if he’d made a joke.

Tobirama chewed on his tongue. “Sir,” he said haltingly. “I have a question.”

Butsuma looked at his watch again. “You have thirty seconds.”

“Does Uchiha Izuna know how his father died?”

Butsuma raised his eyebrows, a disbelieving half-smile twisting his lips. “Tobirama. Didn’t you get the memo? Tajima died of a heart attack.” He stood. “Time’s up, kiddo. I’m not happy with the numbers in that folder. Get Hashirama to produce something useful by the end of the month or I’ll have to start looking into more efficient ways of solving this problem.”

Tobirama stood, as well, gripping the unopened folder in a cold, sweaty palm. He picked up his smartphone – his bugged smartphone – off the tray and slid it into his back pocket. Then he turned and left.

Hashirama was painting a terracotta pot, spare brush held between his teeth, when the door to his shop burst open.

“Anija,” Tobirama said, coming to a stop in front of the counter. He looked oddly disheveled – he was still wearing the suit jacket from his meeting with their father. “Get your car keys. We need to talk.”

Hashirama set the paintbrush and pot down, rising to his feet. “Tobirama, are you alri –”

“Not here,” Tobirama hissed. “Keys. Car. Now.” He paused, then fished his phone out from his pants pocket and threw it on the countertop. “Leave your phone here.”

Hashirama suppressed his concern and went to grab his things. He put both of their phones in the cash drawer, pulled on a sweater, and locked the front door behind them. Tobirama was hunched in on himself, eyes darting from one side of the street to the other as he climbed into Hashirama’s car.

“Where to?” Hashirama asked.

“Anywhere. The park.”

“Alright.” Hashirama shifted into gear and began to drive. “The meeting didn’t go well, I’m guessing?”

Tobirama’s lips pressed into a thin line. He stayed silent until they reached the parking lot for the city park. The gravel road to the Wild Bird Conservatory twisted through the grass on the left, into the distance. Far overhead, a black speck against the overcast gray sky, a hawk let out a piercing call.

“Come on,” Tobirama said, and began to stomp through the tall grass.

Hashirama followed, bemused.

Tobirama came to a stop about fifty meters away from the car, folding his arms against the slight chill, and, in a rush, said, “Our father is monitoring our phones. He knows I have been in contact with Uchiha Izuna, which means he knows you’ve been in contact with Uchiha Izuna. He knows we were at that party on Monday. He’s probably bugged our houses. I wouldn’t be surprised if he –” Tobirama shook his head sharply. “He’s definitely monitoring our debit cards.” He paused. “Uchiha Izuna doesn’t know how his father died.”

Hashirama stared at him silently for a long moment. Then, in a gusty sigh, he said: “Yeah?”

Tobirama gaped at him. “’Yeah?’”

“Well… yeah.” Hashirama shrugged awkwardly. “I thought you knew all that already, Tobirama.” He paused. “Well, I mean, I didn’t know that about Izuna. I guess… was he just fed the same story as everybody else?”

“Seems like.” Tobirama shook his head. “Why didn’t anyone tell me we were being monitored?”

“They probably did,” Hashirama said, cocking his head. “Those disclosures they made us read? And the new ones, after the incident? You just don’t lead a very exciting life, Tobirama. It really just kind of… hasn’t come up.”

“Well, it’s ‘up,’ now,” Tobirama said grimly. “Use cash from now on. Don’t bother texting my current number – I’m getting a new phone.”

“He’s going to find it.”

“Then I’ll get another phone once he finds that one.”

“Tobirama –” Hashirama sighed again and rubbed the back of his head. “You know it’s not going to work. And when he does find out, it’s just going to get you in trouble.”

“He told me we have a month,” Tobirama said abruptly. “A month to get results.”

Hashirama looked away. “It’s not going to happen.”

“I know.” Tobirama rubbed his arms. He changed tracks. “Anija, I can’t help but –” He broke off, chewing on his tongue.

“Izuna,” Hashirama said, understanding the shift in the conversation. “You think we should tell Izuna what actually happened.”

Tobirama let out a sharp exhale. He wished he had a cigarette.

“It’s not Madara’s fault,” Hashirama said sharply. “But who’s to say if Izuna will understand that? Tobirama, if they still have a good relationship, it’s not our place to –”

“He doesn’t know,” Tobirama hissed. “He needs to know.” A wild look came into his eyes. “God, anija – Madara – you know what? Fuck Butsuma –”

Hashirama stared at him, wide eyed and bewildered. “I mean, yeah, agreed, but –”

“If he’s monitoring his own sons to make sure we don’t tell people about the mokuton, what do you think he’s doing to Uchiha Madara?”

Hashirama’s jaw tightened. “Madara left,” he said, eyes fixed on the far tree line. “Madara left immediately after the incident and abdicated the seat of clan head.”

“That’s what our father told you,” Tobirama said. “I’m supposed to be the gullible one, anija.”

Hashirama bit back a snarl. The grass around them rippled. “I tried to contact him.”

“Using information Butsuma provided.”

“If Madara wanted to talk to me, Izuna would have said something!” Hashirama exploded, turning back to his brother in an angry whirl. “He recognized me at that café, Tobirama, and he said nothing. If he really is still in touch with his brother, and if his brother really did want to see me, don’t you think that would’ve come up already?”

“Not if he doesn’t know,” Tobirama said. “Don’t you want to see Madara? It used to be all you talked about –”

“Of course!” Hashirama said, and the grass around them flattened in a perfect circle twenty meters across. “Of course I want to see him – you think I don’t spend half my nights worried about what happened to him? You don’t think I consider just leaving to try and go find him on my own? You think I didn’t notice that his brother looks exactly like him? Tobirama? You think?”

Tobirama took a deep breath, folded, then unfolded his arms. “Okay,” he said. “So, the question remains: what will Butsuma do in retaliation, if you do? You were told to stop contacting him. You were told that directly.”

“This is speculation,” Hashirama said, raising his hands. The grass slowly rose back into its original position. “We don’t know that –”

“What are you so scared of?” Tobirama demanded. “Do you know something I don’t? No? Butsuma’s given us one month to try and recreate that poison. He threatened efficiency if we don’t come through – you know as well as I do what that means. You’ve been there before.”

Hashirama did know. Efficiency was a white cell and lab coats; efficiency was 24/7 monitoring and a continual stream of electricity down through his fingertips into never-ending trays of soil. It had only been a week – he had to remind himself that – it had only been a week, when the mokuton had first awoken, and Butsuma had needed to know everything there was to know about it before he could write it off as unmarketable. Hashirama’s mouth was dry.

Hashirama ran his hands through his hair. “You’re speaking as if my meeting Madara will solve our problem with the gas,” he said. “Madara had nothing to do with it, Tobirama. Not really. You know that as well as anyone.”

“It doesn’t matter if he helps or not,” Tobirama said. “We were working without him before, we can continue in the future – I just – I want –” He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and stamped the ground. “Anija, if Butsuma takes you away again, you will not come back. I could see it in his eyes, he’s spent too much money on this not to get anything out of it, and –”

Hashirama stared at him numbly. “You want to clear the air between us to help me… get my affairs in order?”

Tobirama laughed. It sounded borderline hysterical. “You didn’t see his eyes,” he said.

“How can Izuna not know?” Hashirama asked.

“If a doctor tells you he had a heart attack –”

“Didn’t he see the body?”

“Butsuma had him cremated the very next morning,” Tobirama said. “I read the report. And if Madara didn’t mention anything – hell, if he was even there to hear the story they fed Izuna –”

“Fucking mess,” Hashirama said. There was a familiar knot burning the bottom of his stomach. It felt like guilt.

Tobirama shoved his fists back into his pockets. “I’m not suggesting we do anything rash.  We should start with Izuna. Hashirama, you’re the talker – you should start with Izuna. Learn more about him. Where has he been these past few years? What’s his relationship to his brother?”

“Why should I do it?” Hashirama asked. “Tobirama, you’ve talked to him more than I do. You’re his teacher. Just ask him after class.”

Tobirama hunched in on himself. “Butsuma ordered me to cut off contact.”

Hashirama rolled his eyes. “If he’d seriously meant that, he would’ve made you quit your job or change schools.”

“But –”

“If you’re going to nurse this rebellious streak, you’re going to have to do the dirty work,” Hashirama said flatly. “Just – do me a favor and think it through before you start spilling secrets, okay?” He let out a sharp bark of a laugh and clenched his hands in and out of fists. “Amazing that a bugged phone’s gotten you this worked up.”

“Sorry that I didn’t catch on to how cartoonishly evil our father was before now, Hashirama,” Tobirama sniped.

Hashirama let out a mirthless chuckle and ran a hand over his face. “What would I even say to Madara at this point?” he asked quietly. “Assuming Izuna knows where he is. Assuming he wants to see me.”

“I would recommend you compare stories, first,” Tobirama said, tucking his suit jacket closer against the wind chill and turning to stomp back towards the car. “Disinformation is one of Butsuma’s favorite tools. God only knows what story Madara heard.”