Some things a father gives his child at birth; other things, he gives his child with time.
Had Sarada never known her father, she’d still have his face, his raven-wing hair, his sharp nose, his eyes, both the coal black pair and the blood red ones that reflect her heart, as much of an inheritance to her as their clan’s name.
But Sarada wouldn’t be who she had become without her father and all she received from him over the years: faith in herself and her abilities, knowledge that no matter what happened in life, there’d always be one person who believed in her, a type of love so quiet yet so strong.
He existed in how she saw herself, in the ways she wanted to change the world, and in the very fabric of her shinobi way, the desire to save a friend as someone else once saved her father.
He’d lent her his strength, and it had become her own. His jutsu were her jutsu, from the way she held a shuriken to the highly concentrated bolts of chakra lightning formed around her hand, still chirping after she’d delivered a strike to her monstrous opponent.
The creature who’d spoken her name sags onto the ground, hand holding the smoking hole she’d left in his bare side. Sarada stands over him, the blinding light in her hand fading fast. She knows this is her chance to get some information out of the abomination before her.
But even amid the haze of battle, she’s still stuck thinking about her father. She knows she can’t afford the distraction, and yet…
Not a day had gone by over the past three years that she hadn’t thought of Sasuke and the curse she’d placed upon his shoulders when she’d asked him to save Boruto, what she’d done to her mother, what she’d done to herself.
He’d been gone from their lives so often. To protect the world. To protect his village. To protect his family. But this exile was Sarada’s fault alone. Even if she knew it was what needed to be done to save Boruto, she often wondered if the loss of her father was the only answer.
Up until that day, his loss had been a hazy thing. He was out there, somewhere. Protecting Boruto. A shadowy shinobi with a purpose. But mere minutes ago, she’d learned from Boruto that his loss was so much more real than she’d ever imagined.
Her father, devoured by one of Code’s monsters. She’d gone numb in the moment, unable to truly comprehend what Boruto meant when he said he’d save Sasuke, a man who she’d only ever known to protect others.
So unbelievable, in fact, that when she heard her father’s name spoken as one of the two intruders barging into the village, her heart flared with pride. Of course, these monsters couldn’t take her father down. He’d escaped. He’d come home. Just like Boruto.
So who was she standing over now, this misshapen monster, a mutated human form? Where had it come from and where was her father who was supposed to be in its place?
The worst part is the answer feels like a tickle at the edge of her awareness, a mosquito buzz of a thought she’s trying to swat away before it bites her.
She offers him mercy in exchange for information, a question rather than the answer that’s slowly closing in on her. “Who are you and why can you use the Chidori?”
It’s like looking in a funhouse mirror when he stares at her, something so familiar in her face seeming so twisted. Like the answer is right there in front of her, too terrible to comprehend.
And in that moment, she might have put all the pieces of the horrible puzzle together if he didn’t escape through a claw mark, emerging on the other side, the fatal blow she dealt him entirely healed.
He stares at her with his ringed rinnegan eyes, returning her question with one of his own: “Those eyes of yours… They’re sharingan, aren’t they?”
It’s like they’re both asking the same question with all the wrong words.
Why do you have my father’s jutsu?
Why do you have the eyes to make my jutsu work?
“He never answered your questions.” Her former master’s voice breaks the trance Sarada had been in, the pragmatic jonin pulling her back into reality. “Who are you? Or rather, what is your connection with Uchiha Sasuke?”
A bead of sweat rolls off Sarada’s brow as she waits for the answer. Those were the words she wanted to ask, the words right on the tip of her tongue, the words she couldn’t bring herself to say.
“Who am I?” the creature asks, a creature who has her own sharp nose, her own thin lips, her own high cheekbones. “I’m trying to figure that out. That’s why I came to Konoha.”
Her stomach twists, her head spins. Because the answer of his identity is right there on his face. On her face. She hardly hears Sumire’s warning that the monster is targeting her before a jolt of scorching pain jolts through her.
A shock courses through her body, up her leg, though her heart and chest, back to the ground through the soles of her boots. It feels like zinging, electric death.
Unable to react, Sarada falls to her knees, barely staying up. It’s Sumire who grabs her shoulders, keeping her from toppling over. Through the blackness threatening the edges of her vision, she sees one jounin go up in a blast of flames.
It’s Konohamaru’s turn next, a missed rasengan, then another variation of the same jutsu to save his life when the creature once again aims for his heart with a chidori strike.
Sumire is next, suffering the same fate as Sarada.
Her body betrays her when she tries to move, her nerve endings scrambled from the lightning assault. She thinks about moving her arm and a muscle twitches in her thigh. There’s no escape as the creature steps forward.
“I have no idea who I am.” He stares at her, voice is hollow like a rotten log. “But somehow, the one thing I did know from the get-go is you, Uchiha Sarada. So I ask you, who are YOU?”
She’d spent a lifetime smaller than her father, and even though he rarely looked down upon her when speaking, she knows the face of the person standing over her now. And if she could speak, she would tell him, “I am Sasuke’s daughter.”
A hand reaches out toward her, so much like the big calloused hand she used to hold as a little girl. She knows the shape of his long fingers. The strength in his palm. For a second, it almost feels like he’s going to help her up before the extended hand twists and changes.
Branches spout from fingers, twigs from branches, and it all races towards her, wrapping her up in a woody embrace.
“They’ve already started evolving into Divine Trees.” Boruto’s words echo in her ears. But it’s too late, far too late, for the realization of what her father had become to help anyone.
Bark crawls up her neck, over her mouth, into her nose.
“What will I get if I devour you?”
Even if she had an answer to the monster her father had become to keep his promise to her, Sarada wouldn’t have been able to respond.