Chapter Text
Kakashi doesn’t remember his death. What he does remember is shaky and splintered—Sakura’s soft voice, Naruto’s choked laugh, Sasuke’s whisper. White sheets and beeping machines and the sunset’s dimming glow.
It’s the end.
Rather, it should have been.
Hospital lights. Blinding and bright. His tongue is clumsy in his mouth, and his vision is blurred.
Warm eyes and a bottle at his lips. He struggles to stay conscious, to remember… what does he want to remember?
Laughter. Pans clattering. Someone spoon-feeding something soft into his mouth.
Trees. Fresh air, a child’s laugh. Fruit.
Wheels on a toy truck spinning. Round and round and round like a Sharingan’s—
I want to be a hero, Mom!
Plastic chair. Murmur of voices. Just needs to activate his quirk—
Paper in front of him. Pencil. Schooldesk. Academy. History of Japan. Japan? Quirks. Pay attention, now.
Breeze through a window. Head in hands.
Papers scattered before him. Pencil scratching on paper.
Quirkless? But he can’t be.
Cigarette smoke. Just try it once.
The spin of a wheel. Clack-clack-clack. Brightly glittering lights. Wink of red. Groans. He’s won! He’s won, he’s won. Beginner’s luck. Spread of cards in front of him like a fan. Yes! Won.
You don’t need a quirk to be lucky, eh?
New clothes. New shoes. Money. Money-money.
Wheel turns. Lost. Lost. Again. Won! Lost.
—borrow just a bit of money, he hears himself say. His mouth moves without permission. Please?
Just this one time.
Alcohol burning his throat. Hazy streetlights.
Gravel crunching underneath his feet. Roar of a crowd. Hazy lights. Blood. Bleeding.
Casino. Glittering lights. Hands under his arms, hauling him away-away-away from the table. I can pay.
Fine.
Tipsy. Shot glasses on a creaking table. Floorboards creaking.
Clack-clack-clack. The wheel spins. The cards are dealt. Hands trembling. Tapping against the chair. Nervous, nervous.
Lost.
I DIDN’T RAISE YOU LIKE THIS!
Lost.
Cigarette smoke. Raise. Raise. Raise. Deal the cards.
Lost.
NO SON OF MINE—
Lost. LOST.
Clack-clack-clack.
Wheel spins. Spins and spins and the red is so alluring, red on black on red on red roulette. Spins.
Lost.
That heady feeling. Crests inside him. Crumbles.
Kid, you're shit outta luck.
Ragged breathing. Fingers twitch. No. No. I'm going clean.
And the money you owe?
Feet heavy. Water splashing on his face.
You trade in favors, right? Please I need money please please. His throat is choked with smoke and lingering hope.
Fire under his skin. Hands slick with blood. Fuck. Shit. He just—
GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY!
Please—
Cold metal against his temple. SHUT UP! GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY, NOW!
No, I—
Bang.
He awakens with blood drying on his temple and a headache thrumming in his skull. The dumpsters near him stink of something rotten, and he covers his mouth and nose with the collar of his shirt, coughing wetly. The air is thick, oppressive, smelling of gas and stale booze. He swallows dryly. The inside of his mouth tastes like cigarettes. Slowly, he staggers to his feet. One hand shoots out to brace himself against the wall. This is the most epic hangover ever, he thinks, head dipping with his struggle to stay conscious.
A thought surfaces. Injuries. Is he injured? He must be, with the blood congealing in his hair and stuck on the side of his head, but when he reaches up to feel it doesn’t tender in the slightest.
He stumbles his way out of the back alley onto an empty sidewalk. No wonder, with how late at night it is. Streetlights spotlight his trembling path back to his apartment, his hand over his mouth and nose, vision unspooling by his feet.
Somehow he manages up a flight of stairs and shoves his key into the lock, tumbling onto the floor. He’s the sense of mind to nudge the door closed before closing his eyes tightly and curling up against the cool tile, as if that will soothe the pounding behind his eyes.
Eventually it stops. Dulls. He dredges up the willpower to peel himself off the floor and drag himself to the bathroom.
A nearly empty bottle of ibuprofen sits on the counter, cap halfway untwisted. He puts a few into his mouth and sticks his head under the faucet, drinking straight from the tap. Water trickles over his chin and cheeks. He stands there for an indeterminable amount of time, hands braced against the basin.
When he remembers where he is, he looks up.
And something is wrong.
Reflected in the cracked mirror is his face. It’s both jarringly like a stanger’s and mundanely familiar. His hair is light brown, a bit wavy, long enough to tie up. Eyes are plain to match and no scar bisects his eye. Although… he’s never had a scar on his face, ever.
Something is wrong, he thinks, but gets no further with that train of thought. Pain slices through his skull and his knees buckle. Mind hazy, he staggers to the couch in his living room, floor rocking underneath him. He lays on the couch, chest heaving as he tries to fit himself together again.
Absently, when the pain has once more faded, he pats the rickety coffee table beside him and presses buttons on his remote blindly until the TV fizzles to life. His hand falls to the side and he stares up at his water-stained ceiling, letting the newscaster’s voice wash over him.
“Endeavor fought bravely today against a villain with a mist quirk. The finer details are still uncertain, but he managed to save seven civilians and defeat the villain with minimal property damage. Ashido-san?”
“Thank you,” says a new voice. Male, maybe. “The missing child has still not been found. Authorities say that following his mother and sister's death in that devastating car crash from a few weeks ago, his father has committed suicide.”
“That’s horrible, Ashido-san.”
“It really is.”
“Saddening as it is to leave off on that note, we’ll be back after a short commercial break. This is channel 6, Quirk News.”
“Need a new washing machine? Wash is here! With the coupon washforfree, get 15% off your next purchase!”
“Wash!”
“Look at the hero go!”
“Our new bank in Hosu can fulfill all your banking needs. If you create a student account, you automatically get ten dollars transferred in.”
Gradually, the television fades into murky background noise.
Morning light paints his skin in slats of gold, filtering through broken blinds. He wakes slowly, sleep in the corners of his eyes and limbs heavy. “Ah,” he says. Slowly, he blinks. “Another universe, was it?”
His lips curve into the barest of smiles. “Maa, how troublesome,” Hatake Kakashi says.
Kakashi takes it slow. He’s in no rush. First, he attempts to find something to eat, but the cupboards are bare except for an already-opened can of beans, which he leaves alone. The fridge is in a similar state, so he prepares to go outside with a sigh. He finds a pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer and a relatively clean black shirt from a dresser. The walking around is good; it allows him to adjust to his slightly higher center of gravity.
Settling down on the couch, he attempts to cut himself a mask. But the scissors aren’t sharp enough for a clean cut, making for torn and ragged edges. He holds up the final product fifteen minutes later and stares at it appraisingly; it’s far too small to fit on his face and ugly to boot. He abandons it on the floor, searching for something else to cover up his mouth and nose.
A few minutes later he manages to fish out a brightly-patterned scarf from the back of a wardrobe. He’d gotten it from one of his friends as a gag gift, back when he had friends.
Kakashi stills, grip on the scarf tightening. What an odd sensation, recalling a memory that he's never experienced.
He stays there for a moment longer, then shrugs his shoulders and wraps the scarf around his mouth and nose. Should he care? Probably, but right now he needs some good food.
Stifling a yawn, he slips on a pair of shoes and heads outside, barely remembering to lock the door behind him. He descends a concrete staircase and exits just as a disgruntled-looking man tries to push past him into the complex.
Kakashi trips, bracing himself on the man’s shoulder to steady himself. “Sorry,” he says, using the motion to disguise his hand reaching into the man’s pockets.
The man simply shakes him off and stalks away, shaking his head. Kakashi stares after him, taking note of the limping gait and wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell of weed. Well. Not like anything smells pleasant, here; his senses are perhaps dulled but not gone, and the stench of garbage and smoke and gasoline hangs heavy in the air.
Kakashi begins a slow walk out of the red light district, which he seems to live on the edge of, with the man’s wallet secure in his pocket. He’d nearly dropped it; his fingers were nimble and dexterous, probably from handling cards, but it’d nearly caught on the pocket as he was drawing it out. Not ideal.
His feet take him closer to the nicer shops, away from the grim and grime of where he lives. Nearly without realizing, he’s made his way into a quaint little café and settled into the line. It’s sparsely decorated, abstract art splattered over the walls. The tables look a bit rickety and the chairs are worn down, but soft music plays over the speakers.
“Hello! What can I get for you?”” The barista beams at the homeless man in front of Kakashi. Maybe a war veteran, because the way he stands and shifts his weight says attack me if you dare.
“Two large Americanos. A shot of espresso in one of them, thanks.” The man shuffles around for a moment, patting his pockets, and pulls out a few bills from a pocket in his ugly black jumpsuit, paying without a word.
“Just over there,” the barista says, motioning the man to the side with a hand. She steps away from the counter for a moment to scribble something on the cup. Soon enough, though, she’s back at the register with a smile.
“Maa,” Kakashi says, scratching his head, “I’m not sure what to get.”
The barista’s ears go pink. “Um,” she says, ducking her head and staring at the cash register. The movement makes her red hair bob in its ponytail and hides the shine of her pupiless gold eyes. “My favorite drinks here are the teas.”
“What’s the best one?”
“Earl grey is always a classic.”
Kakashi crinkles his eyes into a smile. “I’ll take one of those, then.”
She punches something into the register, hands shaking, swears under her breath, tries again. Kakashi waits, eyes half-lidding as he surveys her consideringly.
“What size?”
“The biggest you’ve got.”
The homeless man, off to the side, snorts derisively. Kakashi ignores him and rocks back on his heels, winking at the barista. “That’ll be all.” Kakashi pulls out the wallet he’d pilfered, opens it up, and finds just enough money for the tea. Not a good idea to steal from someone who’d probably just spent all their cash on getting high, he supposes. He drops the money into the barista’s hands, who slides his change back and refuses to look him in the eye.
“Just wait over there, thank you,” she says, attention sliding to the customer behind Kakashi. Still, he can feel her gaze flitting over ever-so-often.
The homeless war veteran steps up to grab two coffees. Still standing right there, he chugs one in its entirety. He exhales heavily, tosses the empty cup into a can, and trudges out of the café with one last scathing glance at Kakashi.
Kakashi grabs his tea—piping hot—and explores the area. He pockets a sandwich from a convenience store, then bobs in and out of shops for the better part of an hour until he’s acquired a few sets of clothes that are loosely fit and breathable, a box of medical masks, a few masks that are attached to an undershirt, a phone, and a stalker.
He glances behind him using the reflection of a shop window and pulls his shopping bags closer to his chest. It’s the homeless man from the café; he’s been following Kakashi for a while now. And he’s good at it. If it were anyone but Kakashi, the man would have continued undetected.
Slowly, Kakashi makes a curving turn back to the red light district. He passes by his apartment and doesn’t give it a second glance, leading his stalker where there’s less people. The streets begin to narrow as the buildings bunch closer together. Soon it’s more a maze than not, and his stalker has taken to the rooftops.
Kakashi pulls his disappearing act as soon as the streets are empty enough and he rounds a corner out of the man’s sight, turning sharply and sprinting around to the back of a building, clambering up a fire escape and skidding to the edge of the roof. Below him, on a lower rooftop, the homeless man has stopped.
Before Kakashi can do anything, the homeless man spins on his heel, tosses out his scarf, latches onto another building, and throws himself across with it.
The scarf holds the man's weight without a problem. It’s a beautiful weapon.
Kakashi watches the man hop buildings into the distance and goes back down to the ground level. Why would he follow Kakashi? He makes his way back to his apartment, swinging his arms as he thinks, and then… stumbles across a bookstore.
Akane slots the last book into place, stepping back to see if she missed anything. The bookstore is quiet at this time of day, but she didn’t apply here expecting a lot of excitement. “Good enough,” she says to the bookshelf, and steps forwards to adjust a creased dust cover anyway.
She’s making her way back to the registers when she hears something. A sort of low laugh. No. A giggle. Someone’s giggling in the store. She sighs, turning in the direction of the sound.
“Hello,” she says, turning a corner, “can I help—”
A fully grown man hunched over a stack of books turns to her. His eyes are wide, and a blush creeps up the parts of his face not hidden by a brightly patterned scarf. “These have pictures,” he says.
Akane slides on a strained smile. “Yes, although you’re not supposed to remove the plastic packaging.”
The man blinks. “Pictures,” he repeats. It’s as if Akane hasn’t spoken.
Fucking pervert, Akane thinks. “You’ll have to pay for those.”
“Fine by me.” He’s almost giddy as he scoops up the hentai books. Akane frowns at the mess on the floor, decides she doesn’t want to deal with it, and turns around.
“I’ll ring you up.” She doesn’t get paid enough for this shit.
Kakashi piles his new clothes on the bathroom floor. He stands in front of the mirror for a moment, uncertainty pooling around his feet. In the mirror, his face is… odd. Of course it is. But it’s not odd like a stranger’s. It’s the face of someone he’s seen before in passing or in a dream. Familiar but not quite.
He shakes his head, shucking off his clothes. Tossing them carefully away from his newly bought ones, he examines himself with a critical eye. His skin is pale from lack of sunlight and his body is toned; not as muscular as he was before but there’s some definition lining his arms and stomach.
Absently, he traces his fingers over scars-that-are-not and will-never-be. Kunai slashing his arm. Fire jutsu searing across his leg. And none of them left behind.
The most prominent scars he has on this body are two curving ones under his pecs and a knotted swath of scar tissue on his left side. He glances at his shoulder, nearly expecting his ANBU tattoo to be there.
Instead there are two circles. Three, he should say, but one is faded to the point he can barely see it, like an old scar. Each one is a stylized snake eating its own tail, forming a perfect 'O' with their bodies. They stack on his bicep like a triangle.
“Can I—”
“Huh?”
“Bit of money—”
“—please”
“—harm.”
“Trade you—”
“—collect, soon.”
“Oh.”
Kakashi wakes up with a bruise on his temple and the cold of the bathroom tile seeping into his bones. He stands, pokes at his newly discovered tattoo, takes a quick shower, and puts on clean clothes. The tattoo is strange, but he’s not going to learn more about it if he just stands there and stares at it.
The half-blurred memory fades from his mind like it was never there.
He goes grocery shopping, buys a set of cookware for no other reason than it’s on sale, a few first aid kits, and a package of limited edition All Might band-aids.
A week flashes by, wherein Kakashi builds himself an unsteady semblance of a life. He tests his new limits and finds his body sorely lacking, so he sets a training regime for himself. Without the assistance of chakra, he’s not quite weak—this body isn’t completely untrained—but it’s a far cry from his peak. He picks up crocheting to improve the dexterity of his fingers and steals from assholes on the street.
Strange as it is to be able to live unhindered, unbothered, Kakashi thinks he might be taking a liking to it. Of course he misses his students and his friends. But they’re more a memory than anything. Ghosts of a life already lived.
He hums to himself as he cracks an egg into the pan, tossing it into the compost bin beside his sink with expert precision. He does another, and watches as the translucent part turns opaque.
“Hello?”
Kakashi sighs.
“Hello?” the voice calls again. A knock at his door. They sound young, with an edge of nervousness to their voice. Fear, maybe.
Kakashi points his spatula at the eggs. “Stay,” he says, as if they’ll jump out of the pan when he’s not looking, and ambles over to the door. “Coming.” Hand over the handle, he slips on a medical mask and opens the door to a… little girl.
“Hi,” she greets, straightening up. She’s wearing a school uniform, and her hands grip the straps of her bag tightly. “Are you Jirou Mitoku?”
Kakashi offers his patent eye-smile. “Maa, I think so.” Mitoku. The name sets deep into his bones and curls tight around the hollow of his throat. It is his in every sense of the word. But… not anymore.
“You… think so?”
“I am. Why?”
The girl visibly draws herself up. “I’m your sister. Please train me!” she half-shouts, and bows deeply.