Iruka's six and a half. His voice is high, and he childishly slurs his words. His eyes are big like his mother's, brown like his father's, and he laughs like the child he is. Today is the day of his test.
His parents send him to school, smiling behind masks and lies and pain, and when he's out of view, his mother falls to her knees to pray and his father punches a hole through the wall. He won't come home the same happy boy as when he left, and it feels like he's already dead.
When Iruka reaches the classroom, the other children are strangely quiet. They're staring at the teacher, at each other, at the wall, looking anywhere and everywhere with confused eyes, and when the teacher leads them to the training field, they follow silently. Feet pad on the grass, chubby hands holding the hands of friends, and the teacher feels sick. He lines them up and counts them off in 'ones' and 'twos,' sending the 'ones' to one side of the field, the 'twos' to another. Iruka's upset because he's a 'two,' and Hayate is a 'one.' The teacher hands out weapons, handfuls of kunai and shuriken, to each student, and as Iruka straps the holster around his leg, jounin and ANBU come. They circle around the children, like vultures, and Iruka's unsure of himself, clumsy.
"We're having a test," the teacher says, barking loud enough to catch all the children's attention. They look up at him, young eyes looking out of faces round with baby-fat, and he looks over their heads. "You're going to fight your classmates. If you win the fight, you'll graduate from the academy."
The students are exited. They don't understand, they're too busy babbling to each other in happy voices, with laughter and smiles, and when the teacher raises his hands, they are slow to quiet.
"You'll fight to kill," he says strangely, and the children still smile, but now they're unsure. "If you don't kill your classmate, they will kill you. Kaito, Toshi." Two boys step up, one from each side of the field, and the jounin and ANBU shift, straightening to watch.
Iruka's lost, drifting in a current too strong and too fast, and before he realizes it, Kaito's lying on the ground, blood pouring from his stomach, and Toshi's curling on in the grass, throwing up and crying. A jounin grabs Kaito, disappears with him, and an ANBU pulls Toshi from the bloody grass. The teacher calls out more names, and more children step up, and Iruka's terrified.
Time flies. Children bleed, and cry, and before he knows it, Iruka's name is called. He shakes his head, steps back, and his teacher pushes him forward. He stumbles, nearly falls, and the other boy is on him before he knows it. Shimon's eyes are scared, just like Iruka's, but he doesn't hesitate like Iruka. He tackles Iruka, pushes him into the ground, and Iruka flails, kicking and scratching until he knocks Shimon away. He crawls, pushes himself to his feet, but Shimon grabs his ankles, pulls and twists, and with a snap, Iruka falls. Shimon scrambles on top of him, pinning Iruka’s left arm with a knee, and slams his other knee into Iruka’s stomach.
There are spots swimming in Iruka’s eyes and he stares up at Shimon, frozen. Shimon’s eyes are still terrified, and Iruka wonders if he looks as afraid. He reaches up with his right arm, scratches Shimon’s face, tries to scratch Shimon’s eyes, and Shimon grabs a kunai, slashing at Iruka, at his neck. Iruka ducks his head, pressing his chin against his collarbone, and the kunai catches on his cheek, pulls across his nose, slides across his other cheek.
The pain is sharp, bright, sending red-hot sparks in Iruka’s eyes, and he can barely feel his nails catch on Shimon’s face. His hand spasms at the pain, and Shimon whimpers, letting go of the kunai. Iruka pushes and, with blood covering his face, sliding into his eyes and slipping into his mouth, rolls over, clawing his way from under the other boy. He feels hands, big calloused hands, grab his shoulders. Panicking, he screams, hanging limp from the large hands, screaming and screaming and screaming as the jounin runs them to the hospital.
Iruka’s parents arrive at the hospital only moments after him.
“Hush, Iruka,” his mother murmurs, holding his bloody hair back from his face. His father holds his hand, tight, as the nurse stitches up the boy’s face. With each stitch, Iruka clutches at his father’s hand, and his father squeezes back. They take him home, carrying him because he can’t stand without stumbling, and he doesn’t leave his bed for three days. He screams himself awake at night, and his mother washes the blood from his hair. He finally leaves his room, padding through the house, searching for his mother, and when he reaches the front door, he sees her.
She’s standing in the yard, surrounded by women, and they’re all whispering at her, speaking in low voices about Konoha’s dirty little secret.
“Be grateful,” they say.
“Be grateful he’s alive.”
“Be grateful he’s not wanted.”
“Be grateful he only has a scar.”
“Be grateful-”
Iruka doesn’t go to school anymore.