She was thoroughly exhausted but with the last shred of her energy, she dragged herself through the front door, minding to be as silent as possible since she didn't want to disturb the sleeping occupants. She glanced at the stairs longingly, wanting to just collapse on her futon and snore away but her hygienic needs comes first.
Instead of making her way up to her shared room with Sakura to sleep, she headed to the shower. Makoto didn't need to take any clothes from her pack seeing as she'd put it near the bathroom. All she needed to do was pull out her plain shirt and shorts and she was done—once she showered of course.
Makoto dried her hair with her towel—and the damp strands were already drying quickly, due to their shortness and lack of numbers; it was one of the advantages of having short hair. Also, a reminder of revenge in a strange sort of way; her hair had been long back when she was a child and her family loved to play with it. Looking at her long hair in the reflection, felt it flow down her back, was a heavy burden when, after the Massacre, she woke up and seeing her tangled strands, would remember no one would brush it and braid it for her again.
Makoto could still recall the ANBU caretakers' look of shock when they saw her new hairstyle. Since then, she'd been her own hairdresser, cutting it off messily with a kunai without so much as feeling remorse.
Makoto ran a hand through her messy cowlick hair, her footsteps making no sound despite the wooden floor's poor quality. The Uchiha compound's floorboards were smooth, and comfortable to walk on—Tazuna's house was creaky, and there were splinters here and there. She couldn't wait to get back home, comfy surrounding filled with bittersweet memories.
She stopped; home ? Where was home without a family?
Her lips curled downwards into a scowl as memories flashed past her, and what the Senju said earlier, his comment to her wish to revive the Clan, about her being a mother.
If she wanted a stronger future generation, a stronger clan, she'd need a powerful suitor, someone she could tolerate and would respect her. So far, no boy or men reached her standards and was already starting to doubt the existence of one—Kakashi might fit, but he held no respect for her and she sincerely doubted his ability to copulate despite his perverted tendencies, plus, she could barely tolerate him.
The male population in Konohagakure was pathetic, except…
Pools of blue, spikes in mockery of the sun, scent of wood, of home—she closed her eyes.
She opened them again, pulled out of her reverie, by the sounds of crying. Makoto traced the source of the noise easily, locating it at the parlor, seeing a young boy's small, shaking form easily.
Inari; and he was crying, "D-dad…" he sniffled miserably. "I miss you… ugh—"
Memories, faces of her own father came into mind; she respected her father, despite his strictness and how he always brushed her off as insignificant; but in the end she supposed what mattered most was that he was family and she cared. Her last memories of her sire wasn't pleasant and she didn't want to relieve it—in this aspect, she supposed she could empathize with what Inari was feeling.
Makoto wondered what she should do; leave or talk to him? The latter was something the Senju would've done. And she was curious about his source of strength; he, that despicable man she'd loved dearly to kill, had told her that bonds only weaken her yet Senju had lots of bonds and he was strong. She loathe to admit she wanted to know what made him so strong, what gave him the urge to protect others.
Hero-complex, maybe?
Whatever, she wouldn't know by just guessing. On impulse, Makoto made herself known, stepping especially hard on the floorboard to create a sound. As expected, Inari's head jerked up in surprise. When he saw her, he scowled moodily, "What do you want?" he demanded, crossing his little arms once he'd rubbed his face free of tears—which didn't do much to hide the fact he'd been crying.
True, what did she hope to accomplish by doing so? "Do you hate him?" she asked instead and when little Inari furrowed his brows in confusion, she elaborated with a roll of her eyes, "Gatou, do you hate the man for what he'd done?"
Hate simply burned in Inari's eyes as he nodded vigorously but then the fire dimmed. "Yeah but, there's nothing we can do about him, I wish he'd just die already." He looked up abruptly. "But I know you'll fail—everyone who tried did!"
"So you're hoping for someone else to come and kill him for you?" Makoto demanded, irritated. She felt unnerved around the boy because he reminded her so much of herself when she was younger, traumatized after the Massacre. Their hate, their anger, passion and failure—she knew Inari also felt what she felt when family died, she also had been helpless when her parents died and Inari certainly couldn't do anything when his father was executed. She wanted past-her to disappear because the young girl before was a princess and weak and was helpless to do anything—she didn't want that.
She scowled, turning away. "Instead of whining and complaining, why don't you take a stand and fight back, you coward?" she said coldly, ignoring the way Inari flinched away as if he'd been slapped. "My father died before my eyes either, and I was helpless back then too, but now, I'm fighting back to get my vengeance. But, can the same be said for you, you who could make a change but didn't?
"Liberation doesn't come when you just sit and wait for it to. And even when you're free in the future, it wouldn't be your work. And later, you'd think that you don't deserve freedom you've never fought for."
She left, leaving Inari to gape at her back