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Obito looks up from the screen as he deactivates the window covering, the stars are shining and the cold, reddish tint of the moon illuminates the cockpit in a sinister manner.
He takes off the long glove that covers his right hand and then proceeds to readjust some of the cables in the prosthetic arm. He has to change some of them altogether, burnt as they are. Obito is angrier. Anger has become the permanent form of expression and feeling but having to fend all this attacks is making his blood boil. He tries to reign his emotions knowing what can happen if his power gets out of control, but he can’t, he just can’t.
The control panel shrivels up as the metal starts to contract. By the time Obito manages to calm down it is completely useless. The mask is asphyxiating, he takes it off, refusing still to look at his own face, his hair is plastered to it. He starts picking at his uniform, stripping slowly and further tending to his damaged prosthesis. Obito can’t do much, he’ll have to either go visit an expert or change most of the parts by himself. Furious, he punches the now wrecked panel and tries to stop the tears from falling, those are tears of anger he tells himself.
Looking out of the window again he can see the stars drowning under that wicked red light that reaches further and further away into the planet’s surface. Bewitched and disgusted by it at the same time, Obito feels too, like he’s drowning. He looks over his clothes and a much known shine catches his eye. Is the weapon he hates, the one he never uses, the one he always carries. It is an old weapon, almost childish in its design, for it was built by a child, but not even the long years that had gone by since then nor the lack of maintenance have been able to put some rust into it. It is the same it ever was except for one tiny detail.
Obito watches the scratch on the handle of the lightsaber and remembers that day, he has forgotten many things since, he can and will always remember the day the light turned its back on him. He hasn’t rejected the light, he hasn’t fallen, it was the light who didn’t pick him up. He recalls that day, the day, he became himself.
There is a scratch on the handle of his sabre and when he looks at it he remembers that fight, the one fight that took everything away from him. Almost everything. He was never stripped of the pain, the pain follows him, the pain conquers him, the pain breaks him every day and builds him again by night into something less than a man but more than he ever was.
He remembers, no matter how much he wants to forget that day, remembering it comes easier to him. There is something broken in his eyes when he looks at his own reflection. There is something tired, beaten inside of him, his bones perhaps, to cover them, there’s his scarred, torn skin, not really protecting anything. And in between the weak flesh bent on nostalgia.
He won’t open the sabre, he knows it’ll glow blue, like the blue that shone in Kakashi’s eyes on that day. Kakashi… how beautiful he looked as he broke him, as he tore him apart.
One day… One day, he’s going to give him that scratch back.