Uzumaki and Uchiha: Journey of Love

Part 2

Narration:

"Talking."

'Thinking.'

Jutsu/Technique or Foreign Term (Translation)

"Kurama Talking."

'Kurama Thinking.'

Seven years after the Kyuubi attack...

Early morning...

It had been another peaceful night in Konoha and another beautiful sunrise; a predetermined event that told everyone across the country that all was right with the universe. The rays of light from the shining golden ball that flew across the sky filtered down onto the landscape, illuminating every corner and filling in every shadow. Peaking over the rolling hillsides and forests the sun's magnificent gaze soon reached Konohagakure (The Hidden Leaf Village), which greeted its warmth with a welcoming breeze and the glow of sweet dew built up from the night before.

The picturesque blend of nature with human settlement, along with the marvel known as the Hokage Monument sitting comfortably in the background made the glimmering scene of faultlessness a sight to behold. It as if an artist painted the entire village based on their own thoughts of what the most tranquil place in the world was like every waking hour. If it were not flying the flag of a shinobi village or was plagued with such a questionable history, it would have been paradise.

To the people living inside of its walls though, it was just home. This was precisely what ran through a particular shopkeeper's mind as he prepared to open the doors of his business to the populace. Immediately upon pushing up the roller door of his general items store he stretched his back and greeted the sun with a sleepy yawn. He stepped out onto the street with a delightful smile on his face.

That was until he turned around and looked up at the front of his shop that had been passed down to him from his father and from his father's father before him. A shriek escaped his lips and he jumped further out into the middle of the road.

"Wh-What?! What in the name of Kami?!"

It was horrifying. His shop was covered in paintings of various symbols, words that should never be uttered in public and images(graphic upside-down T's) that were either too abstract to make out or too shocking to even talk about. Not only that, but the poor salesman's building was not the only one that was hit by the maelstrom of paint works.

From left to right up and down the neighborhood, every single roof, wall, door, window, and fence in sight was covered in atrocious street art. It wasn't even the good, tasteful kind of street art either; it was terrible graffiti, single-colored, time-wasting bull one could find in any seedy alleyway. Almost everyone who was awake at this time and outside was looking up, horrified at their once glamorous suburb.

"What is this?"

"How terrible."

"Disgraceful!"

"It's everywhere, honey! Look! Even the clothes on the line got painted!"

"I would hire him to draw the panels for my comic."

"Who did this?"

As questions and exclamations began filtering out from every villager and shopkeeper present, boisterous laughter suddenly filled the air and forced everyone in the vicinity to crane their heads towards a nearby overpass. There, standing on top of cluster of drainpipes straddling the gap, the culprit responsible for the crime stood over the crowd far below with his arms proudly folded, a bucket at his feet and a wide grin on his face.