Warning: The rating is for reals, y'all. I'm not even sure I should be posting this here. It's already on AO3, and I might make it an exclusive depending on how this is received here. Still, you've been forewarned.
Outside the house, time moved on. Insects chirped in the cool of night and the air was filled with bird calls. Wind rustled the leaves of centuries old trees, sending red and gold cast offs tumbling down to the forest floor. The snapping of twigs and occasional snuffle or squeal told the story of larger beasts living their lives out there in the darkness, completely unperturbed by the goings on of Man.
Inside the house, no one moved.
No one, that is, except for the baby. He wailed, his shrill voice reverberating in the small, one room building, bouncing off wooden walls and an earthen floor. Held easily in one of his father's large hands, he wriggled, face scrunched in obvious discomfort, naked skin still red from birth but quickly growing pale from the cold. His father's black, black eyes gazed down at him, no warmth or joy to be had in the presence of the newborn. He had a harsh face made cruel by a scowl and a scar from the tip of one ear to the corner of a downturned mouth, pale skin weathered by age and the elements. A permanently furrowed brow pulled down further as he took in the child. His child.
"What is this?"
His voice wasn't particularly deep, but it carried, and bore with it the weight of decades spent on the battlefield.
The baby cried louder.
The question was directed at the woman in the home's only bed. Her long, black hair was tangled and matted with sweat. Her face was wan and sickly with dark circles framing darker eyes. Her gaze was empty and she did not respond.
Her husband sneered and turned back to the infant in his hand. A boy, with his father's nose and frown and only one hand, tiny fingers grasping at nothing. His other arm ended just past the elbow, three tiny, jointless fingers crowning the unfinished limb.
Useless.
With a snarl, he raised the boy up before slamming him onto the ground with a satisfying crunch, finally silencing the piercing cries and returning silence to the small home.
Useless. Nine months, wasted. The midwife's words returned to him, then, and his scowl deepened at the memory that this would be his wife's last pregnancy, lest she lose her life.
Well, she hadn't exactly been successful, had she? Perhaps a replacement was in order.
Killing Intent settled on him, sour and steady despite its weakness. He turned angry eyes on his wife, but she stared ahead, expression unchanged. It wasn't her. No, it was the other infant; a girl, perfectly formed but just as useless as her failure brother. Blood red eyes stared back at him, the child eerily quiet as she made her rage known through other means.
"Hah," he laughed incredulously, running a hand down his face. Truly, the Gods were testing him. He had no use for a daughter, and yet! A sharingan looked up at him from a newborn face, anger, frail but tangible, filling the space between them. With shaking hands, he reached down and lifted the naked child from the bed, cradling her gently. She scowled at him, his own face in miniature, and he laughed.
Impossible. A whispered "Kai" assured him no genjutsu clouded his vision. How? How was it possible?
His gaze fell on the broken body of his son, lying still and bleeding on the floor.
Of course. How many of his clansmen had activated their sharingan by witnessing the death of a family member?
All of them. Himself included.
How had no one thought to do this? To activate the sharingan in one child at the expense of another?
Twins were rare among the Uchiha, true, but to pass up such an opportunity…
His daughter met his gaze head on, a single tomoe spinning in the red of her iris as he ran a hand over a full head of dark hair. She growled at him, Killing Intent still radiating from her tiny body.
Perhaps, a daughter could have her uses.
Yes, yes, he could see it now. A plan was forming in his mind and he grinned down at the infant in his arms.
"Yes, you will do nicely, Kyou."