Fandom Redemption [Closed] [Graverobber141/arbus]

[arbus]

Kakashi had not expected Ryusuke to take the bait, had merely uttered the statement to let it hang in the air, a gentle reminder of a judgement still pending. He was patient enough to wait for his answers. It did not mean he would not get to them, eventually.

"Combines my two favorite things in the world: cleverness and sharp objects."

The swordsman's proclivity for setting traps would surely come in in handy at their current state. Now that the ninken grazed the perimeter, the chance of unexpected visitors had dropped drastically, but better safe than sorry had always been Kakashi's motto. While the water of the hot spring had worked on his body with a speed he would not have dared to dream of, enabling him to move, to walk after scraping so close to completely nullifying his reserves, he knew perfectly well that he would not be able to hold his own in a fight just yet. At least his dependency on Ryusuke's goodwill had ended the moment he had gained enough chakra to use the sharingan, but they still needed each other; their bodies weak from the fight with Takeshi, separated from their comrades.

"And if your mutts come back without a trail?"

Kakashi rose, clasping the blanket as he moved to join the black-haired man, crouching down before him. He lifted his arms with the blanket still placed around his shoulders, his exposed body underneath covered in goosebumps. He swatted away the other's hands as he took over the task of unwrapping the bandages, consciously emulating Tenzo's repeated ministrations of firm tenderness, at all those countless times he had taken it upon himself to care for Kakashi. Basic first aid was part of every shinobi's training, so he removed the wrappings with ease. He kept silent while doing so, silent for a long while, as he worked through the implications entailing that question.

Only when he had placed the bandages neatly folded on his thigh as not to get them dirty on the dewy ground, his eye taking in the nasty, scarred wound in Ryusuke's shoulder -- something that would become a scar in a scar, bulging and ugly -- strangely familiar in its edged shape -- he said: "Maa, isn't that obvious, Ryu-kun?"

Guruko was on his way to Konoha to get backup, but Kakashi could not be sure the request would be granted. ANBU operated under another code than the rest of Konoha's shinobi, and at times, this code meant to be abandoned by their village -- a fate all of them had accepted by donning the clay masks. It was a responsibility they all were willing to shoulder for the sake of their village.

When he looked up into Ryusuke's face, he was smiling. Despite the fact that, if his ninken were unable to trace any of the others, it could only mean one thing.

"If they come back without a trail, we'll just have to search the perimeter for the rest of the team ourselves." He gave a one-shouldered shrug, and for a moment, his smile became a bit lopsided, a trace of bitterness in an otherwise genuine gesture.

"We'll find them", Pakkun said gruffly. "Leave it to us."

Kakashi huffed. "You should take another soak in the onsen while I prepare fresh ointment for your wound. Also, may I suggest you think about washing your fancy uniform? It ... hm. Reeks."

 

[Graverobber141]

The strange tenderness, which was also somehow assertive, in which Kakashi took off the bandages, revealing the nasty wound underneath, a combination of punctured flesh and a clean, thorough cut, was unexpected, or perhaps Satoru just wasn't used to it; his medical-nin used such opportunities to be especially rough, muttering under his breath a lecture about not taking unnecessary risks and brazen stupidity. The change was refreshing and welcome, though he recognized they would be in much better shape with his teammate's expertise and tracking skills, and part of him did miss that boiling passive aggressiveness.

And sensing, following chakra remnants would be more effective than scent. The swordsman studied Kakashi's face for a long moment, taking in that bitter grin that had only been displayed for a moment, and his own expression--darkened eyes and a taunt mouth--was cynically incredulous. He didn't say it, but he knew it was something hanging in the air like a shadow. If the dogs couldn't track their comrades down, they wouldn't have a hope in hell. Normally, he would be able to shrug it off, at least take solace in his teammates' competence, but with how the Uchiha had been teetering on edge--

That rinnegan might be his only way out of here, as well. The selfish thought was oddly comforting, like it gave him an excuse for worrying about that particular Uchiha.

Tilting his head back, he ran both of his hands through his disheveled hair, brushing it back from his face, out of his eyes, and feeling how mattered the dark strands were, had an idle thought that was quickly abandoned: perhaps he should get a haircut. Takeshi had always told him long hair was stupid for a shinobi, particularly a close-distance fighter, to have, and would make a point to grab him by the scalp during their spars, jerk his head back like he was a rag doll, and mutter: 'See, boy?'

He wondered what Takeshi would do in this situation, and on the back of that, had the bitter thought that he could just ask him.

"Think I'm going to follow that advice, Kakashi," Satoru softly declared, looking back at the operative after disentangling his fingers from his hair. "Let me know when we hear anything."

With a small, short-lived grimace, he rose to his feet, tugging off his clothes, which were taken to the edge of the onsen. Since the reek was starting to get to him more than anything, he focused on scrubbing the fabric of his shirt and vest clean first, seemingly enthralled in the task, as if he was trying to erase evidence that the confrontation had happened. Such a thing was impossible, of course, as the wide tear wasn't fixable, but it felt comforting to do something. Once his clothing was as clean as it was going to get, he hung the articles on a branch of a tree to dry, before sliding into the hot water of the spring.

There was a long silence, spent as he soaked within the onsen, back leaned against the heated rock that offered relief to his muscles, during which he debated his own thoughts, trying to decide if he should bring up the point that scratched underneath the surface of his mind so insistently, viciously. With a scalding exhalation of air, he didn't even look for Kakashi as he finally relented, "The bastard I'm traveling with? He's not...well. I'm sure you were able to pick up on that." And what was the point of that statement? He scoffed at himself, flicking at the surface of the water. "Just...if do manage to get word to the rest of your team, we should let them know."

 

[arbus]

Ignoring the incredulity in Ryusuke‘s features — this, a decision that did not even feel like one to Kakashi, that was more of an intrinsic need than anything, more even than rationality and cold calculations, was not up for debate — he shifted his weight onto his heels, leaving the other room to stand. But he did not immediately, instead leaned back, and Kakashi watched as crumbles of dirt or dried blood flaked down from his hair. With unhidden curiosity, he studied the features that, for the first time, were not covered by strands of framing hair, and it made the young, pale face more vulnerable somehow; a different, rawer kind of beauty, and it made sense how Ryusuke seemed to have developed a penchant for lies, for deception. With a face like that, the world must have made it especially easy for him.

„Okay, boss, let me get that straight. You lost the rest of your team. You managed to thoroughly exhaust yourself, even though last time you were at the hospital, the med-nin told you to take it easy. You picked up some stray shinobi who is clearly lying to you, and you shared a bedroll with him. Did I forget something?“

„No, that‘s about it, give or take.“

„And that doesn’t sound weird to you, at all? Not even the tiniest bit, I don‘t know, batshit ludicrously crazy?“

„Hm. No.“

„That is a new level of stupidity, even for you.“

„Maa, Pakkun, don‘t scold me. Think about my frail constitution. I‘m weak.“

„Frail my ass.“

„Also, what about that one weekend in Rain? You know, that time Tenzo and I fought off fifty raging samurai?“

„Oh, I forgot about that.“

As Ryusuke washed his clothes at the onsen, Kakashi stood, still tightly wrapped in that blanket and weirdly resembling an inexpertly stuffed maki, and busied himseld with preparing the paste, mushing herbs and applying it to a fresh bandage for later use.

„The bastard I‘m traveling with? He‘s not ... well.“

He had had not told Ryusuke that he send both Urushi and Shiba with warnings already, and the command to not join them again; as it was so clearly something Ryusuke required, he would have the upper hand as long as the two shinobi were kept apart, leaving Kakashi room to navigate, to make that pending decision. Ryusuke seemed intent on sticking with him, and as gracious as Kakashi was for the other‘s help, he doubted he did it out of the goodness of his heart. Much more likely was that he hoped to find his comrade fast; and the fact that with his wound, to travel inconspicuous amongst Konoha ANBU was his safest route to take.

Kakashi moved to the trees to don his clothes — still somewhat stiff, somewhat smelly, but much more bearable than before — when a large, black craw descented upon that same branch, rustling its feathers before sticking out its claw.

Involuntarily, Kakashi‘s heart sank, a mixture of relief and anxiety making him momentarily weak in the knees. His posture, however, remained relaxed as he retrieved the tiny scroll and read through the ANBU code in Shisui‘s crawling handwriting.

He took a moment; to breathe through the relief, and to stifle his worry — no word from Tenzo, who was able to do the most advanced clones Kakashi had ever seen thanks to his wood style, was bad. It had him on the brink of a dark, gaping abyss, reeking of fear and despair, but he made a point to saunter, hand in his pocket and waving the scroll, the epitome of chill and carelessness.

„Speak of the devil“, he began, and with his mask back up, covering half of his face, there was no way to tell the difference between his honest smile, and the bullshit one he donned now, „Your friend‘s still alive and kickin‘. Mainly Sand shinobi‘s asses, apparently. He is with Shisui, and both of them are already well on their way to Cloud. They are unharmed but had to clear the perimeter, being chased by a particularly stubborn agent. We will join them as soon as possible.“ As soon as there was word from Tenzo, and even then, they would not actually meet. Shisui and his brooding companion had a day and a half‘s headstart, and as per Kakashi’s instructions, the Uchiha would make sure not to wait on them before returning to Konoha, after he concluded his part of the mission.

 

[Graverobber141]

At the sound of fluttering wings, Satoru had glanced over his shoulder, even though he knew if it was one of the Uchiha's hawks, the bird most likely would have delivered the message to him, but there was some minuscule amount of hope that the carrier was just more used to Kakashi's face and chakra signature, for surely there was prevalent communication between the former student and sensei in their when. The flash of black feathers quickly dispelled that false dream, and the swordsman sank further within the onsen, chin touching the surface of the water, examining the morning sky with an expression that was forcibly blank.

Whatever information his companion decided to feed to him was completely left out of his hands, and with a lingering suspicion still hanging in the air like a thick cloud of smoke, he doubted he would be given the full story. Perhaps he wouldn't even be given a true story. He controlled very little and with the operative regaining more of his strength, what little control he did have was beginning to slip through his fingers. Agitation scratched underneath his skin at the realization, and already his head was beginning to throb dully from the consideration of options he didn't have.

'Speak of the devil.'

Satoru lifted his torso only momentarily from the water, examining Kakashi with guarded, grey eyes that flickered over the fabric of his mask, noting how its application was a representation of the shift from last night, when the both of them had been riding a exhilarating high from the encounter that should have ended with their deaths. There was a relaxation of the tension he hadn't noticed riding on his shoulders like a burden upon the news that his unwanted, unfortunate, time-traveling companion was at least alive, even as he sardonically wondered if it actually was a good thing or not, because he knew exactly what the Uchiha was capable of when he went off the deep end. The thought left the bitter taste of ash on his tongue, and biting down another rush of that indiscernible sense of guilt, he let it go, forced his mind to narrow and focus on what was in front of him.

What little he could control.

"Then we should move as soon as possible." The answer came after a long silence of consideration, and gathering himself, the swordsman climbed out of the onsen, kneeling bare on the soft grass by its edge. Closing his eyes, his palms folded together in the sign of the serpent, and he gathered up his chakra, sent it flowing mildly through his network to test the waters of what he would be capable to pull off. The answer left his dissatisfied, made his left brow twitch momentarily. He would need to be careful, or risk damaging the channels he used to flood his system with wind and the muscles themselves.

"And hope our surprisingly good fortune holds," Satoru muttered as his eyes opened, storm-colored orbs trailing over to take in the operative. "At least you're less of a damsel today--well, less in distress today." He rose gracefully to his feet, seemingly unaffected by his own lack of clothing or the audience, and traveled lazily over to sit down before the operative, next to the prepared herbal paste and bandages. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Waiting patiently like he was in a doctor's office, he found it was surprisingly difficult to view this image of the Hokage as an enemy or even a threat, though he would undeniably become one if he sensed Satoru's facade was hiding something more dangerous than it actually was: two idiots who had somehow, accidentally ripped the reality of space-time and stumbled into a when they weren't supposed to be in. No, in the shadow of war, which ate away at any semblance of humanity, it was hard to see anything but the effects of it.

Perhaps it was why he felt compelled to ask softly, "No word from Yamato yet?" And why it took a full, few moments to realize his slip. The glint of sardonic humor within his irises at his own stupidity was short-lived, and he quickly locked down his expression, choosing not to point out the blunder; maybe he could just play it off as poor memory if he didn't call attention to it, even if he knew Kakashi was too clever for that.

 

[arbus]

Kakashi watched as Ryusuke formed the sign of the serpent; watched with both eyes, sharingan spinning lazily, recording the jutsu for later use, for later analysis. The way he tested his chakra pathways suggested the man had an exorbitantly strong affiliation to his main chakra nature; there were Uchiha who did not possess such control over their katon as Ryusuke showcased now. Wind chakra was, of course, one of those affiliations mainly found in Sand; an interesting thought, but deceptive, as it was also just as easily possible that his affiliation was a mere coincidence. The idea that Ryusuke was acting as a double agent had crossed Kakashi's mind even back in that cave, after they had fled the bloody battlefield, but it did not explain his readiness to put his own life on the line to save Kakashi's.

Unless this was an elaborate ruse; an attempt to not only gain his trust as a taicho of an infamous ANBU team, but the Hokage's trust as well.

"At least you're less of a damsel today--well, less in distress today."

"Maa, Ryu-kun, are you saying you miss having me splayed out naked and at your mercy?", Kakashi replied easily, picking up the paste to apply it with his fingers, in soft strokes over the ragged, tender skin that was scar and wound. He had only his normal eye open now, and it rested under thick white lashes on Ryusuke's strong upper body, on his own ministrations, "You just have to say the word, you know."

He retrieved his fingers, wiping them on a spare cloth before he sat up straight to attach the bandages, wrapping them around Ryusuke's body, tugging at his arm so he could move them around his back. His breath through the mask was against Ryusuke's throat as he leaned in, and at his next words it hitched, only for a moment. His eye landed on the other's face, and the surprised question, though not uttered, was so very clear on his face: Who?

As the confusion passed, his eyebrows drew together in a frown.

"Are you talking about Tenzo, Ryu-kun?", he asked after a beat, his voice a deceptive drawl.

 

[Graverobber141]

Careless, Satoru chided himself relentlessly, taking extra care to make sure his facial features remained still like the undisturbed surface of a lake, even as the pulse in his neck became distinctly defined and rapid at the feeling of Kakashi's warm breath grazing his skin, from a combination of unease and excitement. It was extraordinary difficult to keep the smirk that naturally wanted to tug at his lips at bay, because even with the direness of this situation, he couldn't help but admire the sense of danger, hunter, that radiated from the man, and it spoke to some primal urge in him that wanted to rush out and meet it.

Many had called him a great actor, the claim spoken with bitterness a lot more than it was given as a compliment, and with practice, he lifted his left brow questionably, let out a soft, curious hum, as if he didn't quite catch on to his mistake right then, and after a brief pause, lifted both of his brows in revelation, lighting his face up with understanding. "Ah, the brunette, yes. Tenzo, is it? Mm, I was always better with faces than names."

A short silence followed, during which the guarded look in his eyes weakened, because that was one thing he couldn't fake, so he simply resorted to locking it down, and his gaze filled with sympathetic tenderness. Regarding Kakashi still with a bit of caution, he offered the man what little reassurance he could: "I'm sure he's fine." And wouldn't he be, since Yamato was alive and well in the future? Satoru knew he shouldn't let such sentimentality overtake him in these tense circumstances, but it was extremely difficult to view Kakashi as the threat he potentially was, not when the man had indulged his need to learn about his sensei two nights before, and not with how he felt oddly indebted to him, some connection beginning to form between the puzzle pieces of gathered information for him to realize just how involved in his saving the former ANBU operative had been.

One of his hands reaching up to gently brush along the applied bandages--the herbal paste underneath offered relief to the dull pain, made it a bit easier to move this wounded arm--the swordsman offered his companion a small smile, one he tried to make disarming, before changing the subject. "I trust your mutts will have scouted out the best path to take?"

 

[arbus]

Kakashi studied the other's face for a long moment, his brows twitching in that frown before his face lit up.

"Ah, I know the feeling. Names are such elusive concepts, aren't they?", he offered, smiling. His eye averted as Ryusuke's gaze grew softer, and instead of answering what was an obvious attempt at reassurance, he busied himself with repacking the left-over bandages before getting to stand. "Pakkun will lead the way."

"Alright, boss", the pug barked, trotting over towards them. He sniffed the air. "Good thing you took that bath; both of you have been reeking extraordinarily bad."

"Says the one that enjoys rolling himself in manure", Kakashi replied cheerfully. Turning his back to Ryusuke and Pakkun both, he started packing their few belongings. It was high time to decamp -- even though he would have preferred to stay and wait for a word of Akino or Uhei, their dallying not only cost them valuable time, but only slimmed any chances Tenzo might have, if the Sand nin left him wounded. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he stood for a moment, motionless. He was fooling himself. If Tenzo wound up bleeding, both his ninken would have traced him without difficulty. The same was true if he just had to run, or hide, unable to send a clone as not to blow his cover.

Even a dead body --

Kakashi closed his eye, took a breath, and stuffed the feeling that threatened to rise within him down with a firm shove.

Either dead or alive, the most likeliest explanation of that complete disappearance was that Sand had taken him.

Not an unreasonable move; certainly an advantage in any underhanded negotiations Kakashi was sure Konoha was conducting with Sand, even during this politically wonky move.

The fact that neither Akino nor Uhei had made it back by now could only mean they had taken up pursuit.

"Are your clothes dry enough yet to wear?", he inquired.

 

[Graverobber141]

Judging by how quickly Kakashi's facial features changed, Satoru wasn't the only good actor: a fact he already knew by his previous interactions with the older version of this man before him. It was a relief, however, to know that he wasn't a target of outright aggression, at least yet, even though he sensed the suspicion held against him had only strengthened. With a sarcastic bitterness, he considered how awful he must have been in his past life to not only been sent back in a time that felt like psychological torture, but to have been saddled with someone bordering on a psychological break riding on his conscience, and to now be under scrutiny of a particularly intelligent ninja he was reluctant to harm.

And yet Kakashi's skirt of giving credence to his attempt at reassurance was so familiar; facades--a fake smile, laugh, or a stone set face--were so much easier than anything real, and in fact, when everything was going wrong to the point of drowning with one's head barely kept above water for the occasional, torturing gasp of air, they were about the only way to stay sane. So instead of trying to break the mask, he offered a devilish smirk of his own, replied with: "I can hardly ever remember my own name, to be honest."

Ignoring the talking pug's comment from a combination of it being exceptionally true and not wanting to validate such a thing from a mutt, the swordsman hummed softly as he traveled over to his clothing, feeling the fabric to figure out the answer to Kakashi's question himself. It was still mildly wet, but being slightly uncomfortable was a small price to pay for their safety; their best chance of survival was to stay on the move, and as long as he was moving forward, he at least felt like he had an illusion of control.

"Seems so, though I'm sure you're disappointed," Satoru drawled, dressing before tying his sword around his waist, the weapon a comfortable weight against his side. "Let me disarm my traps, and I'll be ready to move." The action took considerable time than it had to set-up the night before, and after organizing his materials back into his weapons belt, he made his way back to Kakashi. "Ready to move, even if I'd much rather watch your back than the mutt's."

 

[arbus]

„I can hardly ever remember my own name, to be honest.“

One thing had to be said about the black-haired swordsman: He certainly was not afraid to skid along the fine lines of irony and impertinence, a feat Kakashi knew to appreciate, although he wondered how it would bear with less similiarly inclined shinobi (such as the Sandaime, and that particular meeting Kakashi was already looking forward to). He had the vague feeling this particular mixture of lackluster attitude and careless charm offensives would drive the old men up the wall, and with a bit of prompting on Kakashi‘s part, he might destroy yet another one of his pipes by compulsively chewing on it.

„Ready to move, even if I‘d much rather watch your back than the mutt‘s.“

Kakashi chuckled, while Pakkun emitted a gruff Hey.

„For your information, my back is very well received by the female members of my species“, he said, his deep voice somehow congested with the hint of indignation. „They sniff it all the time.“

A beat of silence, and then Kakashi laughed, rough in the way that suggested he was unused to produce the sound. He threw Ryusuke a quick glance out of his charcoal eye, and the gaze was full of spontaneous, delighted mirth.

Half an hour later, that expression of delight had long been replaced by a deep frown. They had moved swiftly through the fields, then taken to the trees, and even though they were moving slower than what they would usually be capable of, their pace was quick enough. Once they had reached the edges of what so clearly was a battlefield — scorched trees, scattered underbrush and broken branches — Pakkun and Kakashi started to scout; but not five minutes had passed when Pakkun found himself on Ryusuke‘s side, and said, in a low tone: „Listen, kiddo. You know as well as I do that we aren‘t gonna find a thing, right?“

 

[Graverobber141]

'...we aren't going to find a thing.'

Noise scrunching from the persistent smell of burnt grass and dead forest, Satoru turned his grey gaze lazily onto Pakkun, standing from the indentations in a tree he'd been examining--wild shuriken marks, no discernible pattern. His answer was evident in the way he didn't immediately give it, instead letting go a hard exhalation of air from his nostrils. "I doubt it, but--"

Surely if there was anything to find, the mutts would have picked up a scent by now. They were wasting time, putting themselves at risk by lingering near battlefields, while they should be moving, distancing themselves from the enemy, and focusing on what they could accomplish within reason. He knew this: cold calculations that ran in the back of his mind, but--

His eyes shifted to catch a glimpse of Kakashi in the distance, watching his movements with a discernible expression behind his irises, his mouth forming a taut, serious line. "He's not going to listen to reason, and trying to argue would be wasting more time that we don't have." Hadn't he heard it a few nights before, the steel will behind the Hokage's refusal to be taken from the battlefield? And, even with his own realistic philosophy, wouldn't he do the same for Kioshi? Shiori? Takeshi?

(No. He had abandoned his sensei, a guilt that still poisoned his conscience like a slow-killing plague.)

The muscle in his jaw flexed, and he let out a small, bitter chuckle seemingly at nothing, before running a few fingers through the dark strands of his hair. "I could knock him out and drag him to Lightning," he sarcastically offered, "but I doubt you'd be too happy with that plan, and I'm honestly tired of lugging his ass around."

 

[arbus]

Pakkun huffed.

"You start to grow on me", he announced, with all the enthusiasm of a comatose sloth. The drooping eyelids did not move as he took the black-haired shinobi in. "Also, tell me about it. I've been lugging his ass around since he's old enough to tie his own laces."

The day, barely started, had grown dark from the clouds overhead. It was winter, but apart from a slight chill in the air, the weather reminded more of the whimsical days in April and May. A few droplets of rain hit the earth, light as mist, only to diffuse again a minute later, replaced by watery rays of sunshine. The scent of ozone hung heavy. The site spoke of a fierce battle; the earth was upturned in places, and a few trees were cut to the ground entirely. But apart from that, there were no trails, nothing even the most sensitive nose could pick up on. It was as if Tenzo had vanished into thin air.

Five minutes later, Kakashi joined the other two, leaping from a branch. "Pakkun."

It had Pakkun shifting on his paws, before he shook himself as if emerging from water. "I know. I smell 'em, too."

Kakashi, reaching up for the tanto strapped to his lower back, shifted his gaze to Ryusuke. "Ninja approaching. We better get out of here."

 

[Graverobber141]

"I have that effect on people," the swordsman commented dryly, watching Kakashi's return.

Glancing between the pug and silver-haired shinobi, Satoru lifted a brow curiously, wandering mildly how sensitive Kakashi's nose was, before immediately focusing on the bit of information that demanded the entirety of his attention. Hand resting on the hilt of his chokuto, he merely offered a nod, before following the two deeper into the forest, moving with fire licking at their heels. The further they went, the more familiar their surroundings became, like a sense of deja vu, and the swordsman struggled to understand why. It wasn't until the trees started to thin away, glimpses of small, stone buildings poking through the leaves in the distance, that it finally clicked, and a foreboding sense that turned into a consuming need to stop overcame him.

Grinding to a halt, Satoru's feet planted firmly on a branch, his grey eyes flashing with a fury of emotions, all complex and indiscernible, before hardening into stone. It was a paradox, this feeling that took ahold of him like a serpent: both a gravitational pull towards the village he knew laid before them, and a strong, overwhelming, compulsive repulsion to run away.

"We should change direction," he declared, voice strained, just shy of being desperate. Yet he still couldn't move. Because, unknowingly, they had stumbled onto the edge of a clearing. It was a small village, barely on the map, which meant this place was also small: outlying on the fringe, nothing but an aged, iron fence and the surrounding brush guarding its existence. Far off, rocky cliffs raised above the sparse buildings nestled down in a valley. It was as if the spirits lingering in this graveyard were meant to watch over the settlement instead.

And then there was the single, unmoving guardian seated in front of a tombstone, familiar chokuto laid across his lap.

Satoru stumbled into surreality, his mind losing focus: a failsafe method to protect himself from these images that were very much so wrong. His hand lifted, a tremor momentarily overtaking his fingers, before the digits brushed against the cut at his neck.

It didn't make sense.

No, he remembered, but he hadn't understood; he had been too young to realize--

Without regard for his companions, the facade and role he was trying to play, he jumped from the branch, feet landing in the soft grass that smelled of a recent rain, and walked forward. Kept walking in the direction of that tombstone that he knew read Kokoro Satoka, kept approaching the back of the brown-haired, amber-eyed man who sat in front of the grave, merely only tilting his head at the sound of crushing leaves behind him. Stopped only when he was close, a few steps in the overbearing shadow of his sensei.

"You knew her." The sharp accusation ripped itself from Satoru's throat, and he stood in the breeze that followed, waiting for answers from a man that couldn't have any idea what he wanted from him.

 

[arbus]

The passage from the Land of Grass into Rain was as eventless as two shinobi and a pug being chased by Sand nin could hope for; the sky only seemed to darken when they reached, and crossed, the border to the Land of Rain. The change in the landscape was subtle; from the mellow hills to a flattened land, the grassy plains slowly petering out into more rocky terrain, as the mountain range of Earth came into view. The detour was unwelcome, but necessary; their persuers knew were they needed to go, Kakashi was sure of that by now: The skilful deployment of their shinobi, cutting off their paths, driving them farther and farther away from their destination told him that, without a doubt. It made contact with Konoha immediately necessary; if Sand had not only figured out their destination, but also the goal of their mission, the Hokage needed to know.

They had managed to shake the nin in their wake by the time they reached a small cemetery guarding the small array of houses in the valley; a civilian village, by the looks of the sparse defenses, small and unassuming. When Ryusuke suddenly stopped, spoke, the silence between them had grown so thick, only interrupted by their panting breaths, that his words were cutting. Kakashi looked at him with a hardly concealed frown at that peculiar tone, but before confusion could turn into worry the other man had taken to the ground.

Kakashi and Pakkun exchanged a glance, Kakashi‘s eyes both open and wide with disbelief, because they smelled the man in front of the grave; there was no doubt about the identity of that gargoyle, sitting unmoving like carved of stone. A breeze stirred Kakashi’s hair, and he ignored the urgent warning in Pakkun‘s voice, „Boss, don’t“, when he dropped to the ground, walking up behind Ryusuke with an arm slung behind his back, his fingers curling around the tanto‘s handle, the air suddenly filled with static, thick from the smell of ozone that was carried away by the wind a moment later.

Did not say a word, just watched, and to an outsider it was impossible to tell whom he was stalking: The gargoyle, infamous shinobi who had spared their life hardly twenty-four hours ago, or his recent companion.

 

[Graverobber141]

Some silences seem to stretch on for eternities, their weight heavy and penetrating, the lack of sound and motion serene, yet ghostly. The Swordsman was nothing more than a statue, did not speak for a long time, even with his back exposed to two enemies he had spared the previous day. It was as if they were nothing more than figures painted against a picture, the only movement coming from the grass rustling in the wind, the drops of rain beginning to fall from the dark clouds above, pebbling against weather-worn stone of memorials.

"Do you have no respect for the dead, boy?" Finally came the gravely, world-weary voice of the warrior seated before them. "Take your hand off your weapon."

With his rationality slipping through his fingers, succumbing to the surreality of it all, Satoru's perception narrowed to a singular focus, and he pursued it relentlessly, hopelessly, without care for the knowledge escaping his consciousness that this was perhaps the stupidest thing he had ever done in his life, because he was throwing all caution and thought to the wind, as if this was really nothing more than a dream.

"You knew her," he repeated, the words escaping like fire from his tongue. "And you never told me."

Another long pause, but this time the gargoyle moved, his head turning slightly to look at the dark-haired swordsman with an even gaze, meeting the steel-colored, familiar, stormy stare.

It was jarring, the speed at which the Swordsman suddenly moved, tossing his sheathed chokuto to the ground and then appearing before Satoru. His hand reached out, roughly taking purchase within the dark strands of hair, and with a sharp tug, he jerked the swordsman's head back, bearing those two grey irises, boring into him defiantly, without fear, the sharp features of his face, pale skin carved from marble for closer inspection.

Her spitting image.

"Who are you, boy?" Another repeated question, another accusation, yet this one was spoken a lot softer, yet somehow just as firm, than the day before.

"Her son," Satoru spat out the answer like it was an entitlement for what he so desperately craved.

Takeshi did not look surprised, even as he grunted. "You're about ten years too old."

"And carrying quite the replica of your sword," the swordsman offered, his natural impertinence slipping into his drawl.

The scarred warrior snorted. "You certainly inherited her insolence, boy."

The conversation was interrupted by a kunai flying from the opposite tree line, aimed for the center of the trio. The trained eye would catch a strip of parchment on the underside of the soaring metal: a well-placed, small paper-bomb.

 

[arbus]

The exchange between Ryusuke and the Swordsman could not have taken more than a few minutes, once that tension-filled, thick silence had been broken. Kakashi, whose muscles remained taught, whose fingers flexed around the grip of his tanto with the force of yet unreleased electricity dancing on the tips of his fingers, had the distinct feeling of having opened a book in the middle, skipping some crucial chapters that would aide his understanding.

„You knew her.“

Uttered like a mantra, and there was no trace of the nonchalant charmer left in his voice, in those features that now were taut and unhealthily pale; even the lips were devoid of color, the same ashen tone of his skin, and Kakashi did not understand much but he knew the telltale signs of shock when he saw them.

How peculiar, because this reaction reminded him of the other men — Satoshi — who had looked as if he had been thrown towards, over, the brink of an abyss, clawing at the brim with his nails breaking and his fingers bloody, hanging by a threat, and Kakashi knew because he knew the feeling, the trance-like state.

„Her son.“ — „You‘re about ten years too old.“

One of these days, Kakashi would get out of bed and have tea and a normal fucking day, like normal people did, just for the heck of it, just to find out what that felt like.

In the delicate balance of invisible threads spun between the Swordsman and his companion, he knew he had to move carefully, subtly, and he was about to shift his stance to remind them of his presence, to break whatever it was that pulsed like a gigantic question mark between them, when an incoming kunai did the work for him.

The tomoe spinning in his left eye took up speed, and he saw the kunai bury into the ground between them, shattering the earth in a vicious explosion, the radius negligible but severly damaging with the close proximity. He moved before he had made the decision, and a moment before the bomb exploded, deafiningly close, his arms wrapped around Ryusuke’s midriff in mid-leap, pushing the men and himself out of harm‘s way.

The momentum of his jump had them tumble, Ryusuke’s on his back as he landed on top of him, heaving, and his eyes were on Ryusuke's face, piercingly sharp, as he said: „You are a piece of work, you know that, don’t you?“

In the trees, Pakkun had taken chase, following the flitting shadow of the attacker, barking once, loudly, giving up his position for the sake of informing Kakashi, and the ANBU‘s head perked up, he rolled, and jumped to his feet, blade at the ready as lighting sparked around his hand.

 

[Graverobber141]

Landing on the ground, his ears ringing from the explosion, Satoru's clouded eyes hazily took Kakashi in, the ANBU's words barely registering, and what he felt was indescribable, like an out-of-body experience. Because he felt the wet grass at his back, the rain dripping from Kakashi's hair onto his forehead, the movement as the operative shifted onto his feet, leaving him uselessly on the muddy earth.

But he also remembered.

Remembered running, heart beating so fast in his chest it felt like it was jumping into the back of his throat, and he could hear his own blood pounding in his ears. He was scared, so terrified, because that was his one card he had to play, and now he was facing down--

Out of the corner of the downed swordsman's vision, he saw Takeshi, ethereal like a spirit, standing once more like a guardian over the tombstone, chokuto in his grip but relaxed, amber eyes following the small figure rushing out into the clearing.

--a man that stood like a god, Sand headband slung like a taunt across his forehead. He thought never again, and the fear left him, leaving a mad, suicidal compulsion in its wake--

The fleeting shadow was about ten years too young and significantly shorter to be the man who called himself Ryusuke, but the resemblance was uncanny: tousled dark hair, sharp features, and grey eyes that gave a narrowed, stormy glare that had enough edge to cut. A dark cloak too big for him was flung across his shoulders to help guard against the rain, and a traveling pack was strapped to his back. Skidding to a halt a comfortable distance away from the trio, the boy lifted a katana up in his grip, the hold untrained, but steady. He did not shake. He stood there, staring certain death in the face, and declared: "I'm not afraid of you."

Satoru laughed from his spot in the mud, a bitter, crazed sound, and he shook with that desperation, muttering a new mantra as he formed the sign of the ram, filled his body with his chakra, and tried to hopelessly wake himself up from this cruel, sick, fucked-up nightmare: "Release. Release. Fucking release!"

"You shinobi think you can go anywhere, take anything you want, do anything you want, because no one stops you," the dark-haired child spat, eyes darting between Kakashi, Takeshi, and the hound that had been on his tail. "Well, I won't let you hurt them. I'm not afraid of you!"

Takeshi slid his chokuto back into its sheath with a drawnout scrape of metal against leather. "Put your weapon away." The firm command was directed toward both the unseasoned youngling and battle-scarred ANBU.

 

[arbus]

Slowly, Kakashi released the grip on his tanto‘s handle, the sparks of raiton-ignited chakra diminishing, vanishing. It cleared the air in an instant, lifted it from the weight of an approaching thunderstorm, and his first glance was to Pakkun, who looked about as dumbfounded as he felt, as the pug skidded to a halt between the ten-year-old boy and the other three. Pakkun had taken chase, but clearly decided not to engage, and now Kakashi understood that bark of warning; a child had thrown that paper bomb, a boy that looked barely older than a pre-genin, and eerily like --

Kakashi's glance traveled from the boy to Ryusuke, and then back, and he raised both eyebrows.

Slouching in his stance, his whole frame relaxing, arms hanging by his side, hands unarmed and visible, and nothing in his posture gave away the thoughts racing through his head in lightning speed.

„You know“, he said softly, and the lilt in his voice was almost cheerful, „I think you might have some explaining to do, Ryu-kun. Because that kid is either your brother, or your cousin, but somehow, I get the feeling neither of those options is true.“

The presence to his left -- the Swordsman of the Sand -- still stood looming, like a bad omen, and it raised the hair on Kakashi's neck not to do anything about the chokuto in the other's grip, at the ready in the blink of an eye, faster even, no matter what his words were.

"Do you know this kid?", he inquired, because it was the only thing he could do; retreat was another option, but Ryusuke lay shaking on the ground and there was responsibility tugging on the back of Kakashi's mind, unwelcome and bothersome but undeniable in its insistence. The question had been directed at both the black-haired man and Takeshi, but his eyes, both the grey one and the crimson orb, rested on the boy who, given ten, twelve years, would grow to look like an exact copy of the wind-style user in front of whom Kakashi's body had shifted -- like an unconscious, but blatant choice, picking a side, shielding the other from ... whatever this would turn out to be.

"Smells like trouble", Pakkun grunted, flat nose sniffing the air around the boy. "Smells familiar."

The rain was light enough, but by now, all of them were drenched; Kakashi's hair stuck to his face, and above them, the sky was a brooding, dark-grey, eery and foreboding.

 

[Graverobber141]

'Do you know this kid?'

Upon realization that the genjutsu release wasn't working, his wasted chakra faltering, Satoru's hands helplessly clutched at the wet ground, fingers grasping around grass and digging into dirt. His answer was given in a second round of rancorous laughter, or would have been, had it not been for the way his throat closed up like someone was choking him, and instead his chest heaved with effort, letting out a few harsh chuckles in between the labored effort of inhalation. Oh, quite well, he wanted to say, but couldn't find the strength to make his mouth move coherently. You could say we're the same person.

Takeshi was silent and stationary, though as the lines in the sand were drawn, his body had shifted subtly. Right foot extended, positioned in such a way he could push off it quickly, rush to meet the silver-haired ANBU in a clash, while his body was angled in the direction of the boy's. Brows drawn together, jaw set like stone, the Swordsman kept his amber eyes focused on the young vagabond in front of them, even as most of his attention was diverted to watching the Hatake out of his peripheral like a hawk.

The boy looked between the four of them, having no idea where to keep his eyes focused. Sweat glistened off his brow, mixed with the rain drenching his hair, and the nervousness beginning to set in was evident in the way he swallowed, as if he just realized he had bitten off way too much than he could chew. Yet he did not run, did not waver; he held tightly onto his katana and kept staring them down. "If you don't leave now, there will be trouble."

Shifting his jaw, the Swordsman let out a soft scoff, and finally, his answer to Kakashi's question came, though it was clear his scolding statement was directed to the child, "He's a valiant protector," His hardened gaze glanced over the backpack, before returning to the boy's familiar face, "who is so willing to throw his life away for a home he's currently abandoning."

The boy bristled at that, gritting his teeth, and now focused the full force of his glower on Takeshi, who was rather unfazed and kept going with a harsh command, "Put the weapon down, boy, before you hurt yourself."

Discarding the warning, the child raised his weapon and charged.

The wind picked up, chakra infused, and with a toss of his wrist, the Swordsman sent his chokuto flying through the air, a blur of metal cutting through the rain. The sound of steel clanging against steel disturbed the air, the blade of the soaring chokuto hitting the boy's katana with enough force to snap the sword out of his grasp, embedding it in the earth before his tripping feet, while the Swordsman's weapon dug into the trunk of a tree behind him.

There was something between a frightened gasp and frustrated growl that ripped itself from the child's throat as he toppled into the grass, the sound devolving into a pained whimper as, in a frantic effort to keep hold of his weapon while being disarmed, he had reached out to try and grab it, the sharpened, passing blade slicing his palm open nastily.

He didn't not cry, even if the pain was so defined, and cradling his bleeding hand to his chest, he rose into his knees, as if in defiance, and though his voice was now considerably more uneven, shaky, he declared vigorously, "I won't let you hurt the village. You'll have to kill me."

With an unimpressed, hard exhalation of air, Takeshi approached the boy, whose courage seemed to diminish in the shadow of the approaching shinobi. The child's head lowered, and he could do nothing more than let out a surprised yelp as his wrist was roughly grasped, his cut forcibly wrapped in his cloak, before the Swordsman uttered a stern order, "Keep it elevated, boy."

Crouched down, Takeshi turned his amber eyes onto the phenomena and his guardian, running his palm along his jaw, before letting out a grunt. "The three of us are going to talk, once the asinine boy is able to speak again. I know a place we can stay in the village, to give you both time to recover. And you," His gaze snapped back onto the child. "are going home."

 

[arbus]

Feisty, Kakashi thought, watching as Takeshi disarmed the black-haired kid. Kakashi himself had barely moved, just shifted his foot to gain a defensive stance in case the Swordsman would use the opportunity for an attack. The expression on the boy‘s face was what caught Kakashi‘s interest; it was prideful, even through pain and clear signs of fear and confusion, and that expression was so very familiar by now that his eyes flitted once more to Ryusuke, who seemed to have all but lost it, dry-heaving humorless, soundless laughter on the ground. Drenched and covered in mud he made for a pitying sight.

„Yo, since when does this guy call the shots?“, Pakkun asked. He had not left his position, and was now nearest to Takeshi and the boy.

„I could go for some hot tea“, Kakashi drawled, like they had not just been confronted with the ten-year-old spitting image of his companion — naively attacking the Swordsman of the Sand and an unidentified ANBU, no less — as he stooped to clutch at Ryusuke‘s arm, pulling him to his feet with a vigorous jolt.

„We‘re not here to do harm to your village, kiddo“, Pakkun said.

„Ah, no. Actually, we just got lost on our way home from the onsen“, Kakashi provided, and as far as he was concerned, that was barely a step away from the truth. While talking, he eyed the stuck chokuto with something akin to contemplative interest, though he doubted he would get to it before the Swordsman was able to perform his wind jutsu.

 

[Graverobber141]

With Kakashi's rather forceful pull, Satoru was made to quickly find his footing, or else risk slipping and making fools out of them both. Standing with his fingers entangled in the fabric of Kakashi's clothing, as if he was grasping onto anything that had the potential to ground him, he stared at the Swordsman and boy with a sense of foreboding dread, the gears of his consciousness slowly clicking in their hindered state to conclude what was happening, what was going to happen. There was that paradoxical feeling again, a contradiction that would have made him immobile if not for his body's desire to get out of the rain: this vigorous, fight-or-flight compulsion to flee fighting this magnetic attraction, curiosity, pulling him closer.

"Bullshit," the grey-eyed kid growled out, eyes darting between Pakkun and Kakashi. "That would make you deserters, and they're--"

"You talk too much, boy," Takeshi scolded. Rising to his feet, one hand firmly wrapped around the collar of the child's cloak, he held out his free hand, summoning up a chakra-infused gust of wind, and the chokuto snapped back within his grasp. He paused before sheathing the weapon, long enough to bluntly give a harsh warning, "Harm anyone in this village and I will kill you." And then, as if he hadn't just made such a threat, he jerked he boy forward, and began the descent into the village.

Situated on the edge of Rain country, the weather was less harsh, the constant downpours less common; the sun in the distance was battling to peak through the dark clouds, to bathe the landscape in its light. A narrow river guarded the entrance to the settlement, its bridge the only way inside from the south, while the north border was guarded by rocky terrain. Satoru remembered all of this, even remembered some of the faces that peered out from behind small vendor stands as they passed. He saw the looks, untrusting, the eyes that watched them like hawks, the hand that grasped ahold of the boy like an affront, and he noticed the tension of muscles, the palms placed of the hilt of weapons. He heard the whispers, too. Hushed, worried, conspiratorial, about the three armed strangers brazenly marching down the streets, dragging the kid in front like a hostage.

The path they took was also familiar, and walking toward the house seated near the back of the sparse buildings, Satoru felt like he was regressing, felt sick, wanted just to wake up already, but all he could do was grasp more tightly onto Kakashi.

Stepping up the few stairs leading onto the home's porch, Takeshi did not release his hold on the vagabond--the dark-haired child had been looking around the whole journey, as if just waiting for an opportunity to bolt--and knocked loudly on the door.

 

[arbus]

"Harm anyone in this village and I will kill you."

"My, my", Kakashi was saying, his hands slipping into his pants' pockets as he followed, a rather clingy Ryusuke in his wake, into the village. He looked around with the deceptive interest of a tourist, taking in the postcard prettiness of the view; taking in the run-down muddy streets, not cobbled, the way paint peeled of walls and roofs made of straw or cheap wood just short from caving in. For all the natural beauty of the country surrounding it, the village was desolate, even if that desolation was hidden behind colorful banners and greenery. The rain and the season did not help to enhance the village's advantages, however, and with the shadow of the mountain range in its north it made for a rather bleak destination. "You say that as if we were the ones slicing that poor boy's hand open. Also", he continued towards the boy, merrily ignoring the tension-stricken atmosphere they were crossing, "for your information, brat, we are hardly deserters. It's called a honeymoon, and if you don't know what that is, maybe that rough guy over there can explain it to you."

If Ryusuke's grip was disconcerting him, he did not show it in the least. A quick gaze in his direction was enough to see that whatever had thrown him so thoroughly off his rocker was still at the forefront of his mind, and he looked pale, shaken, sick to the point Kakashi wondered if he needed to get him under a dry roof and some hot sake into him. His own steps were steady, as he kept feigning nonchalance in a way that shrouded his muscle's readiness to catch his companion should he pass out, which he seemed on the brink of doing. Pakkun was trotting alongside them, looking around with little interest, his tail whacking in that way that told of some inner tension, of I don't like this, boss, I don't like this at all.

Takeshi seemed rather at home in that little civilian settlement, a fact Kakashi decided not to comment on, but took note off nonetheless. There was little Kakashi could do in a situation like this; still weak from the severe chakra exhaustion, a confrontation with the Swordsman was out of the question, and although he technically could make a run for it -- much like the kid seemed so desperately want to do -- he would not be able to drag Ryusuke along in his state and expect to get very far.

Drinking tea with an S-rank enemy of Konoha seemed the better option overall, and Kakashi needed to warm up in any case, goosebumps covering his body from head to toe. The ANBU uniform was not exactly designed for cold, wet weather, and regulating his body temperature with chakra was currently no option either.

So he remained, with Ryusuke at his side and Pakkun by his heel, a few paces behind the Swordsman as the man all but dragged the boy to the door of a house that looked, by all means, like the biggest one Kakashi had seen so far. There were stones leading up to the doorway and a little ivy-covered archway at the entrance of the fenced-in property. It was just beyond the archway where he and Ryusuke stopped, looking on as the door was pulled open with quite some force.

"What!?", the little girl asked, swinging the door open with so much force she swayed. She was black-haired and plump-faced, had big, sharp brown eyes and eyebrows that arched so high they put Konoha's stern librarian to shame, some impressive feat for someone that did not look much older than six or seven. Her eyes were resting on the Ryusuke-look-alike for a moment, and she seemed just about ready to say something (looked more like she was ready to scold, if that dark expression on her face was anything to go by), but then her eyes drifted up, and up, until they landed on the Swordsman's grim face. The eyes grew big, and she grew rigid and very, very still.

After a long, drawn out silence, she called, "Dad!"; in a somewhat comical attempt to hide her sudden nervousness she crossed her arms, and all but stomped her foot.

It did not took longer than a moment for a shadow to fall over her, as a man stepped into the doorway. He was the same height as Takeshi, broad-shouldered and (Kakashi thought without any interest at all) attractive in that rough way of a man that had been extraordinarily good-looking in his prime, but was now somewhat worn in his fifties, the lines in his face hidden underneath a light stubble, the deep-set eyes sparkling with humor, the short hair tousled, the nose and chin so much like Ryusuke's it made Kakashi stare all the harder for it.

"If you are looking for the headhunter's hut, that's two houses down, ask for Reki. I doubt she'll give you good money for that little brat, though", he grumbled in a rough baritone, before, with a barking laugh, he stepped out into the rain and clasped his hand around Takeshi's arm. "So you decided to visit finally, old friend! And collecting my strays as usual."

"Ryusuke", Kakashi said in a low tone, "care to tell me what is going on?"

 

[Graverobber141]

Standing in the light drizzle, his hand still clutching Kakashi's arm as if the grip was the only thing holding him upright, Satoru found reality becoming subjective; a battle of his memories rising to the surface like long-forgotten, buried trinkets against what he was seeing unfolding before him. These events were pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit, mildly distorting the picture in the place his mind tried to force them, and the warped image was taking its toll on his processing, his higher functioning. And having always been a man firmly grounded in reality, this was...like an elaborate prank pulled by an omnipotent force, laughing behind the scenes at this struggle that seemed particularly too coincidental to be a random series of just right events to challenge his sanity.

His grey eyes drifted over his sister--the way she looked matched the last memory he had of her--and the boy version of himself, who huffed, broke eye contact to stare at the ground like he was trying to burn holes into it. And when that large shadow appeared looming over the girl, he felt a sickness claw at his stomach, couldn't look up for a good, solid heartbeat, because it was cruel, torturing, and so vividly painful. He wanted to laugh again. Instead, he merely rested his forehead against Kakashi's shoulder, hiding the sardonic smile that twitched at the edge of his lips, and found his gaze focusing solely on his gloved hand that he held out before him.

He refused to look up: a bitter, child-like rebellion to hold onto what little control he did possess, and a rejection to play whatever sick game this was. But he still felt what was happening, because the echoes of the past where disturbing the waters of the consciousness, like drowning man reaching desperately for the surface.

Satoru thought the first time he had ever met Takeshi was at his mother's gravestone, but that wasn't true, and the way Gin spoke--his voice was unmistakeable and it raked across his mind like claws seeking purchase--with such familiarity suggested the Swordsman was hardly a stranger to the family. And now--

Satoru remembered: a faint, struggling recollection, but alive. He had been barely able to walk yet and held in mother's arms, staring into amber eyes and a face yet to be marred by countless scars. She had tried to get him to call the stern-looking man ojiisan, but he had merely reached out to grab ahold of the beard dusting the stone-like face. And Minamoto Takeshi had smiled.

Satoru, almost timidly, lifted his head just so he could examine the back of the Swordsman, looked over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the man he once called father, and the flood came, dark waters of grief and sorrow swallowing him whole. His cheek was wet, stained with the silent, single evidence of his pain that slipped past his well-guarded walls and facade.

"Your stray mistakes stupidity for courage," came the Swordsman's harsh response. There was a certain, subtle distance in his tone, the way he regarded Gin that Satoru knew all too well: a blame held, nurtured for years, because some kinds of hurt demanded sacrifices. "His hand needs stitches. And if you have the space, my companions and I could use a roof to stay under and recover."

The stray in question shot a glare back at Kakashi, narrowing his eyes viciously as if he still held a grudge for what the operative had muttered on the street. "They were about to fight by mo--" His voice hitched. "--the graveyard. I don't trust them. We shouldn't let them stay."

"Stupidity for courage," Takeshi repeated in a grumble.

Satoru's hand moved on its own, a bit shakily, raising so his teeth could tug up his glove, exposing the faded, clean line of a cut made years ago embedded in his palm. Placing his chin on Kakashi's shoulder, his lips near his ear so only the man could hear the rather unhelpful answer he was about to give, he bared his marred skin for the ANBU's viewing, whispering: "Dead men, Kakashi. Dead men are talking."

 

[arbus]

Amidst the barking laughter of the man that looked like a somewhat distorted, not-quite-right version of Ryusuke -- laughing at the Swordsmen's comment, laughing off the boy's objection -- Kakashi's glance fell onto the marred skin of a jagged scar insufficiently stitched, but healed, a pale bulging line of skin drawn over the palm of his companions hand, and felt his head doing that thing.

It had happened since he was able to form conscious thoughts -- which was decidedly too early in his infancy, which was part of what had once made him such a prodigy -- a sensation like a kaleidoscope spinning, impossible to put into words; observations merging with facts merging with memories merging with intuition, and what came out were conclusions, as unshakable and solid as Hokage Mountain, too fast to keep up but if he made the effort (which he would do, tonight, sleepless and staring at the ceiling, amazed and a bit dazed) he would be able to trace the thought process back to its roots, and find that what felt like knowledge, like the undeniable truth, was, indeed, exactly that.

For a long moment, Kakashi was utterly still. Then he blinked, slowly, lazily, and his head tilted so he could muster Ryusuke's tear-stricken face.

"Maa, Ryu-kun", he said, "so dramatic. You sound just like the hero of my favorite novel series." His tone held mockery like an offering, devoid of meanness but the clear invitation to give himself over to the sheer absurdity Ryusuke must feel, because Kakashi understood. A smile tugged at his lips, crooked but visible by the way his mask moved.

"Come on in, come on in", Gin was saying, opening the door wide without any hesitation whatsoever; he seemed greatly amused by the commotion on his front lawn, and now the little girl was peeking out from behind him, hand clutched into the fabric of his pants as she watched the strange men with a mixture of apprehension and undeniable fascination. One of Gin's big hands landed on the black-haired boy's nape, and he squeezed fondly, ushering him into the house. "Nah son, did you try to catch your katana with your bare hand again, eh? Maybe Minamoto can show you some proper techniques now he's finally decided to show his ugly visage!"

Kakashi regarded the Swordsman and the stranger (again, a strange, far-away familiarity, and it must be because the man looked much like his companion). He did not move, but there was a hand on Ryusuke's lower back now, steadying. "Time travel", he drawled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "That's a new one." Firmly, he ushered Ryusuke forward, until both of them took the steps to the door. Kakashi gave the little girl a flitting glance, before she followed her father and the black-haired boy -- brother, by the looks of it -- into the house. "Very hospitable", he said to the Swordsman, who was still standing at the entrance, "but my friend and I prefer to stay at the local inn, if there is one?"

 

[Graverobber141]

Dramatic.

Satoru's lips twitched upward into a small, faint smirk, a ghost of his usual expression, but at least it wasn't fake. Clouded over eyes drifting over to take in Kakashi, he was entirely grateful for the lifeline, because gripping onto what little control he could--if only it was laughing at the situation in rejection of surrendering himself over to it completely--was the only way he was able to weather the storm. He supposed he was being rather dramatic, but the difference between drama and trauma was the line between fiction and reality.

And whatever facade he was trying to uphold had been utterly shattered beyond all repair and recognition the moment he had stumbled into the graveyard to demand answers from a talking dead man. His companion, it seems, figured it out--not that he was surprised; the main reason he found the man attractive was because of the intelligence that matched his own--and shifting his gaze to take in the Swordsman, he supposed his scarred sensei had to have connect some dots by now, at least possess an unsettling suspicion. Or perhaps that thought was nothing more than a pathetic desire: a child craving attention from the parent who was always too busy for him.

"Mm, would you like to know the future?" Satoru drawled quietly with a hint of his iconic sardonicism. His chin titled in Kakashi's direction, it was more a bitterly humorous confirmation of the operative's conclusion than an actual offer; he doubted anything he could reveal would be relevant or wanted.

Watching the children being ushered in by his father and Takeshi pause at the threshold, shoulders tensing at Kakashi's request, Satoru once again felt that familiar sensation of being something that didn't quite belong, like the faded piece of a puzzle that was chipped at the edge, making it unable to fit within its proper place like it once did, and in the wake of that feeling was another: a paradoxical want to flee and follow at the same time, which left him ultimately immobile, incapable, and incompetent. Because on the other side of that door was (nothing more than madness) something more than what he had now.

"A moment," the Swordsman muttered, letting the door close shut. The porch creaked under his sandals as he turned to face the both of them, amber gaze regarding them warily, eyeing Kakashi in particular with scrutiny. Yet his stare shifted to take in Satoru, the way he was leaning in toward the operative as if for support, and a begrudging huff of air was expelled from his nostrils. "I am not here as a shinobi of the Sand; if you leave, I will not pursue. Perhaps it would be better that way, but there is an inn, and if you stay, we'll talk later." He looked toward the swordsman in the short silence that followed, leveling their eyes as he stated, "You know which path to take, boy." He left them there on the porch without another word, obviously being done talking, and disappeared into the home.

"It was my mother's katana, actually," Satoru muttered into the air, the correction to a statement made by his father slipping from his tongue without his intention for it to do so, but he was collecting facts and falsehoods, hoping to discredit what was unfolding before him in whatever way he could: hoping to make it fiction instead of reality. Looking toward Kakashi, he gently rubbed the operative's back in reassurance that he could walk on his own, and silently began the journey to the inn.

It was a quaint establishment, nestled near the market, and judging by the faded, cracked walls and rather barren interior, it had seen better days, both in terms of patronage and upkeep, but the fire in the hearth was warm, the middle-aged, white-haired owner friendly enough in the way of being overly talkative, the soup eatable, and the sake strong enough to do the job and then some.

Having rented them a room and a hot meal (which was entirely needed), Satoru sat by the fire that heated the small space, his upper body bare, his clothes sprawled out to dry before the flames, and sharpened his chokuto; the methodical attention paid to the weapon's maintenance was soothing, grounding, and having remained relatively, uncharacteristically quiet during the past hour or so, he finally spoke, "I suppose you have questions, and maybe now you'll believe me if I give you answers."

 

[arbus]

Time, as it so often happened on a mission, had become an elusive concept, expanding and contracting on its own devices in a seemingly random manner. Minutes could stretch into hours, and hours contract into mere seconds, when conscious thought races and stumbles to keep up with events. The nagging knowledge of Tenzo's disappearance was like a burning-hot needle pestering his self-imposed, immaculate, yet utterly superficial calm.

"I suppose you have questions ..."

The brooding time traveler, with his strange but not unwelcome aversion to clothes and even stranger personal history, did nothing to alleviate that uncomfortable feeling caused by Kakashi's lack of perspective. Yes, this was what he needed: insight, overview, more information than the bits and pieces he gathered in this last, mind-bogging hours.

Kakashi had used the time in which Ryusuke was busy renting their room for a brief parely with Pakkun, who had taken off from the inn half an hour ago. He had had the distinct impression that his black-haired companion had been glad about the morsel of autonomy this provided him; Kakashi was not sure what it did to a man to be dislocated in time like that, but had an intimate idea what it felt like being caught up in the fangs of misfortune, the terror one felt when all power was taken from oneself. A playball of bad luck, of destiny, the fucking whimsicality of the Sage of Six Paths, or whatever you pleased to call it.

Sake, he knew, side-eyening the small earthen bottles on the side table next to his companion, was a short-lived but effective remedy against the brunt of grief and shock that had overwhelmed and very successfully washed away all remnants of self-composure in the man. Kakashi found this kind of vulnerability hard to look at. It was so raw (so familiar), like a fresh, red, oozing wound; worse than that, because he had seen dozens and dozens of people bleeding, burnt to their bones, dead or dying in Kakashi‘s lifetime (at his hand), but it was the emotinal rawness that got to him. As if it were contagious, as if Ryusuke's emotions were pulling at the seams of his own mask, this theatrical performance of human interactions and whims and idiosyncrasies that made up the person he was performing to be, day by day, to mask that cold, brutal killing intent that had driven him since Minato died, composed of grief and the undeniable, unchangeable reality of loss. Hard to handle it at all without a veneer of gallows humor and fake nonchalance, but that was something he was coming close to perfecting, and when he turned from the window from which he had scouted the market place below, his frame was relaxed, his aura the epitome of honest, if slightly detached, interest.

" ... and maybe now you'll believe me if I give you answers."

He sauntered over to the fire place, the warmth radiating comfortably against his yukata-clad back (a loan from the small, somewhat shabby bath-house of the establissement), studying the slow movements of whetstone against blade. It had a meditative quality. He sat down cross-legged before his companion. There had been a point of keeping on his mask, even though the shirt to which it was attached stank as much as the rest of his clothes, which were being given a hopefully more thorough scrub by the landlady right now than he had been able to do at the onsen.

"Maybe."

He followed the deliberate movements of Ryusuke's hand before he looked up at that pale, sharply angled face. His eyes crinkled, good-humouredly.

"Let's start with your name."