Chapter 2: Adapting
A/N: Just a short chapter here like 1k words to show him adapting and whatnot to the orphanage life. Pretty much just sol. Can skip if u want
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The sun had just begun to rise, casting a warm glow over the modest buildings of Konoha. It was an unusually quiet morning in the Hidden Leaf Village, an unsettling calm that could easily fool anyone into forgetting that this was a ninja village constantly in the eye of countless storms.
Outside a small, nondescript building that housed the village's orphans, a baby's cry shattered the morning tranquility. Tetsuya, or rather Alex in a past life, realized that his motor skills had reverted to that of an infant. Every thought was an incomprehensible jumble of emotions and sensations, his newfound consciousness struggling to adapt to its constrained vessel.
The orphanage matron, a kind-hearted woman named Mrs. Hana, heard the cries and rushed outside. There, she found a baby wrapped in a bundle of blankets, his eyes wide and filled with an emotion she couldn't quite place—wisdom? Regret? Anticipation? A simple note was pinned to the blankets, reading just one word: "Tetsuya."
"Tetsuya," she whispered, "Welcome to your new beginning, little one."
In the days that followed, Tetsuya found himself confined to a small crib in a room bustling with other children. Mrs. Hana placed colorful toys around him, plastic rings and soft blocks that other babies would've found intriguing. But Tetsuya just stared at them, his adult consciousness finding little amusement in these childlike distractions.
At first, he screamed in frustration. But as his cries mingled with the normal cacophony of other babies crying for food or attention, he realized the futility of it all. His old self, the one that went by Alex, could dissect a contract, negotiate business deals, even fix a car. But here, he couldn't even hold his head up without wobbling. The irony was cruel and inescapable.
Mrs. Hana noticed. She would often peer into his crib, her eyes narrowing as if trying to solve a puzzle. "Why so glum, Tetsuya? You're too young for existential crises," she'd say, trying to tickle him or make funny faces. He wanted to tell her that existential crises were precisely the issue, but all that came out were gurgles and half-formed syllables.
Mealtime became the one event to break the monotonous cycle. Mrs. Hana would carry him to a high chair, tying a small bib around his neck before spooning mashed carrots or peas into his reluctant mouth. For a moment, the complexity of flavors became an event—something to look forward to. Yet even that grew tiresome. How many times could one marvel at the taste of pureed vegetables?
By the fourth day, he felt time stretch interminably. Minutes felt like hours, hours like days. But then something shifted. As he lay in his crib, the sunlight filtering through the room's single window caught a prism hanging from the ceiling, scattering rainbows across the walls. Tetsuya watched as other babies giggled and reached out for the intangible colors. In that simple, beautiful phenomenon, he glimpsed their wonder and innocence.
For the first time, he didn't feel like screaming or brooding over his strange predicament. A smile broke through, as fleeting as those rainbows but just as real. It was a small victory over despair, a spark that reminded him life—even confined to the limitations of infancy—held pockets of wonder.
Mrs. Hana, passing by his crib just at that moment, caught his smile. She paused and smiled back. "There you are, Tetsuya. Welcome to the world."
He couldn't respond, but as their eyes met, Tetsuya felt a wordless understanding bridge the gap between them. He may have been stuck in this infant form, grappling with a reality that defied all logic, but he wasn't alone. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.
*Two Years Later*
Tetsuya crawled across the worn-out rug of the playroom, dodging building blocks and stray toys. He had navigated the clutter to reach his favorite spot next to Minato. "Tet-tet," as Minato called him, grinned at his blond friend. Minato beamed back and handed him a block.
"I make tower," Minato said, stacking another block atop his shaky construction. "Look!"
Tetsuya held the block in his small hands. The urge to correct Minato's engineering mishaps was overwhelming, but he resisted. Instead, he placed his block carefully atop the stack. "Good job, Minato," he replied, trying to convey enthusiasm with his toddler vocabulary.
Minato clapped, his face lighting up like the sun. "Yay, Tet-tet! We did it!"
But even as they celebrated their minor triumph, Tetsuya's mind was elsewhere. He wanted—needed—to train. Each day in this small body was a day lost, a step behind where he used to be in his previous life. However, his need for secrecy bound him. How does a two-year-old convincingly show an interest in shinobi techniques? He glanced at Hisako, who was talking to one of the older kids. Maybe he could start with basic exercises that wouldn't draw too much attention. Sit-ups? Push-ups?
"Tet-tet? Why you look all frowny?" Minato's question interrupted his internal planning.
Tetsuya looked at his friend and forced a smile. "No frowny. Just thinking."
"'Bout what?" Minato tilted his head, curious.
"About... being strong," Tetsuya chose his words carefully.
Minato's eyes widened. "Me too! I wanna be strong and make everyone happy!"
Tetsuya felt a genuine smile cross his face. "Me too, Minato, me too."
Days turned into weeks. Tetsuya had managed to include some stealthy exercises into his daily routine, taking advantage of the times Hisako was busy with chores or when the older kids took their storytelling sessions outdoors. Two push-ups here, a few sit-ups there. It was rudimentary but a start.
During those stolen moments of training, Tetsuya often found himself glancing at Minato, who was usually engrossed in some form of play. "If only he knew the future that awaited him" Tetsuya thought before shaking his head. It was no use contemplating what couldn't be changed. For now, he had to focus on the path ahead.
And so, each day, nestled among simple toys and childish games, Tetsuya laid the foundation of plans more suitable for war rooms than orphanages. Yet, despite the weight of his hidden ambitions, life in the orphanage offered something Tetsuya hadn't realized he'd been missing—a sense of community, of family even. And for a toddler burdened with the memories of an entire past life, that simple sense of belonging meant more than he could have ever imagined.
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