Fandom Redemption [Closed] [Graverobber141/arbus]

[Graverobber141]

His name.

There was some irony in that request, causing Satoru's lips to twist into a sharp, vile smile, one that did not seem at home on the handsome, pale face, and the shadows, born from flames, flickering across his cheeks only made the expression seem more sinister; it was his own kind of grimace, one that could certainly hold its own when faced against a particular Uchiha's, and if it offered any comfort, it would be its blatant proof that its owner was disregarding any more games, throwing away the mask he perpetually wore more out of habit than conscious effort.

He was more willing to throw away his name than his mask.

"My name?" His tone way lazy, edged with the sardonic, bitter humor embedding itself in his bones as a last defense against his circumstances, though the words were precise, honed. "I offer you certainty, and at first you ask for a name?"

The stone made a constant thrum against the aged metal it struck against; a sword of legend, yet nameless. 'A weapon is just a weapon, no matter how unique.' -- words of his sensei, which carried the spirit of the Minamoto as he understood it, and Satoru often wondered if Takeshi was referring to himself more than the blade he carried. Just a nameless weapon, and yet it had existed countless years before them both, and no doubt would live for years after, even if just lost in some mass grave on a battlefield.

"Mm," the noise hummed from Satoru's throat, and placing the whetstone on the flooring, whose planks creaked with the minimal shifting of weight, he slowly, with exaggerated movements as not to frighten his companion, held the chokuto up, point reaching toward the thatched roof, and ran a single finger carefully down the sharp, thin edge. "This sword I carry is unique, a relic from even before the Warring States period, depending on how much faith you place in myths. Made of unique metal that attunes to the user's chakra, absorbs it, recognizes it; a blade that is hard to pry from its wielder's hands, none the less keep from him, is quite useful to a swordsman, as I'm sure you can imagine."

He paused, watching the drop of blood that bubbled on his fingertip, proceeding to drip down his digit. "Yet it doesn't have a name. There are some stories where it's given one, a title to make the epic all the more thrilling, but everyone who has wielded it, those that I known of, at least, never referred to, nor treated it, any differently than just another sword, albeit a particularly useful one."

He sucked on his finger, tasting the familiar tinge of iron, and after wiping his hand clean on his pants leg, deftly snapped the chokuto into a reverse grip, holding the blade horizontally and leveled with his storm-colored irises for closer inspection. Or perhaps he simply wanted something to distract himself from whatever gaze his companion was looking at him with, to have an excuse not to meet it.

Kokoro, his father's name, his sister's name, the one he was born with, the one his mother had taken, abandoning Miyamoto, which had been handed down to her by her father. And then there was Minamoto, the surname of his sensei, who seemed more intertwined with him than he once realized, more so than the man he was supposed to call father. What was one over the other? What was he supposed to define himself by, when he wanted so desperately to free himself of those chains, to overcome fate and forge for himself something new and wholly, solely his.

And yet here he sat, in the wreckage of legacy, holding onto one that was hardly even inherited, because holding this nameless sword without the blood of a Minamoto was like possessing the sharingan without baring the name Uchiha. For the briefest of moments, his grey eyes flickered up to examine his companion's masked face, flickering over to find his gaze, before retreating once more to the metal, which gleamed from the fire's light.

"Names are irrelevant in the grand scheme of things," the swordsman mused, once more flipping the blade around in his grasp, this time into a proper hold. With his other carefully placed on its flat, the weapon was lowered into his lap with care, and then he reached for other materials spread out on a cloth next to the whetstone, one meant for cleaning. "But I was born Satoru, if you must know."

 

[arbus]

Kakashi knew he was emotionally ill-equipped to handle this situation. In fact, he was most likely the worst companion one could wish for in such a moment of mental vulnerability; aside from Itachi, perhaps, who seemed regularly unfazed, or strangely untouched, by even the most profound mental breakdowns. In any case, Kakashi's knee-jerk reaction to seeing people emote was a very clear, unquestioned flight response -- check for exits, scale nearest window-sill, slink away wordlessly until the air was clear; then pretend nothing ever happened.

Unfortunately, though, there was no Tenzo that could make up an excuse for him, no Genma to take that poor man for a drink or ten to the Rusty Shuriken, no Gai to clap his back heartily and then become unexpectedly quiet and insightful while sharing a companiable silence.

Kakashi was the only one here, and aside from his responsibility to the village to get a grasp on this situation, he felt one for this black-haired, skilled swordsman. He felt the unmistakable pull of a newly-formed bond tucking at him, demanding his presence and some sort of genuine stability Kakashi had never learned but how to fake.

Satoru.

Kakashi let the name take room in his head, roll it off his lips silently as he observed the other man he had known as Ryusuke. His eyes were mismatched, both open and watchful. He was recording this interview, as he had recorded so many interviews with rogue shinobi before, because everything the man before him said was important. Kakashi, ANBU taicho of team Ro, the most successful intelligence and killing squad of the organization, listened to his companion's words, took note of the humorless, ugly grimace of pain and confusion on his face, and thought that every Yamanaka would lick their fingers to wrap their chakra around this tender, traumatized brain.

He wished Tenzo was here, and wondered what the wood-style user would say, or do, with a slump-shouldered individual like that. Kakashi tried to remember the way Tenzo sometimes talked to him, handled him he supposed, in those dark hours when he became so withdrawn from the world he did not utter a single world. He would have liked to emulate that behavior; a stern look, concealing genuine, deep-seated worry and the need for everything and everyone to be, not happy, but alright.

He heaved a sigh. "I had taken a liking to Ryu-kun", he said. Clear, though unspoken, was the fact that he did not refer to a mere name but to a persona. A mask. I wonder if I will like Satoru, too.

Satoru's thinly veiled desperation showed a darker, more hostile side of him, though much of that hostility seemed directed inward. Kakashi sat unflinching while the other man handled his weapon, and gave the sword a careful once-over. It matched with the one he had seen on the Swordsman of the Sand. "Made of unique metal that attunes to the user's chakra, absorbs it, recognizes it; a blade that is hard to pry from its wielder's hands, none the less keep from him, is quite useful to a swordsman, as I'm sure you can imagine." Another riddle that needed explanation. The conundrum was to find the right questions to ask, in the short amount of time they had left.

By now, Pakkun must have reached the outskirts of the forest from which they had entered that cemetery, and soon he would cross the border to the Land of Hot Springs once more. Kakashi was sure that Takeshi, or perhaps his host (longingly, he thought of the Bingo book in Shisui's carrier scroll), were keeping taps on them -- he did not know if by seals or chakra detection, did not know if one of the villagers was a sensor, but he did know that the Swordsman would not be stupid enough to let them out of their sight.

Hot Springs was just far enough, he had figured, for Pakkun to get in contact with the other ninken -- and await Kakashi's decision.

The smell of blood hung like an afterthought in the air. Kakashi reached out, his own movements slow and deliberate to telepath his intentions -- two wild animals, he thought, circling each other, but one was severely wounded -- and took the other's hand in his own, turned the palm upside down to inspect the scar. It was hard to sort through the layers of sheer absurdity that a concept like time travel provided, and Kakashi understood how much harder it must be to actually be the one traveling in time.

"I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like, seeing yourself as a snot-nosed kid. Or your family."

His thumb caressed the pale, bulging scar inflicted by the razor-sharp edge of a katana so very long ago and yet, today.

Names might seem irrelevant to Satoru, but to Kakashi, they were just one part of a larger picture, and it was his responsibility to gather all the right pieces.

"What's your companion's name?" The Uchiha that not even Shisui knew. "I presume the two of you are traveling together." Not from where, Kakashi thought, but from when.

 

[Graverobber141]

Satoru watched Kakashi's movements with the vigilance of a animal standing its territory; the weight of the sword on his lap offered comfort, because it was a guarantee. They were close, which would make for awkward use of the weapon, but its edge was freshly sharpened, and another feature of the blade, which he had failed to mention, was how the application of wind chakra to it for countless years had honed that edge to a razor. One jerk of his hand, a grasp of the hilt, and a slash forward: the only guarantee he ever put faith in.

He did not want to harm Kakashi -- on the contrary, he would bend over backwards and work himself in circles to avoid it, because of a debt he could not put into words -- but it wasn't about conscious thought and want. With his scarred palm taken by the ANBU, one of the last remnants of the dead woman he wanted desperately to understand, the caress that was an odd, sentimental extending of comfort from the emotionally barren man in front of him, Satoru was forced to feel naked and vulnerable from such a simple gesture, such simple sentences.

(Family rung hollow in his ears; an alien word, its meaning slipping from his fingers like water.)

It was his natural reaction to any vulnerability, because he wanted to forcibly erase any memories of that snot-nosed kid and his weaknesses, who was too stupid to remember his mother, too head-strong to stay put in his home, too prideful to forgive and try, too weak to save his sensei or avenge him, and now too lost to figure out what was right.

His eyes closed, brows harshly scrunched together to push down what was welling beneath his lids, because Kakashi or no, he'd be damned if he allowed anyone to see him in such a state. His mouth twitched, and the only sound that acknowledged Kakashi's efforts was a harsh, hostile scoff.

Two dead father figures, and a sister he hadn't seen since...

"Apparitions," the swordsman commented, his voice poisoned with that cynicism he guarded so closely. "Ghosts can only do harm if you look at them."

Carefully pulling his palm away from Kakashi's touch, daring to open his eyes and drop his gaze, he picked up the oil for the blade, a cloth, and began to methodically clean the metal on his lap, once more finding the care for the weapon grounding.

The Uchiha.

He felt a bitter laugh rise in his throat, one he choked down, and only let escape as a huffed chuckle. "I'm not sure I should tell you anything concerning him; I still don't know the rules, you see." He spared a hand to wave around the room, as if trying to point out this when in its entirety.

In fact, there was a bitter part of him, a scabbed over scar embedded in his being, that wanted his companion to fall into misfortune. Wouldn't this be the perfect opportunity to be rid of him, while his rinnegan was inactive, and he had the self-awareness of a bleeding, limping animal? Did this not provide the perfect excuse, if he stumbled back to the time he belonged in, claiming that they had been separated, and the damned Uchiha ended up as lunch for a prehistoric dinosaur? But his ever annoying, growing, howling conscience, which flailed above the dark waters of his mind he tried to drown it in, kept rising to the surface, and responsibility commanded him to do otherwise.

A split road. A decision. An opportunity at his feet he didn't even know he wanted -- to speak with dead men and learn answers -- and he couldn't completely strangle out the compulsion he felt to find and help the murderer of one of those very men. He told himself it was for selfish reasons: he probably needed that snowflake rinnegan to get out of this mess and back home, but that was as flimsy as his want to avoid what he had left behind so many years ago.

"He's an ass, really," Satoru began, lips twisting into a nasty smirk. "And we're hardly companions at all: more like two prisoners who were handcuffed together, and keep getting in each other's way as we try to escape our captors."

He scoffed, raised his eyes to examine Kakashi's, and immediately dropped then once more, even if his fingers never stopped in their motion of rubbing the oil-slick cloth across metal. "And, while I could fuck up -- far beyond the extent of anything else I've ruined in my life -- the world as I know it by telling you anything about my special, special tag-along, I find myself, at this moment, not caring. Lucky you. Perhaps unlucky you."

There again was that twisted, vile smile of his, one that he himself did not like.

"Uchiha Sasuke. Probably means nothing to you now, but there will come a day when you wish you had asked the right questions, the ones you hadn't known to ask."

 

[arbus]

As the marred, long-fingered hand slipped out of his light grip, Kakashi found himself surprised but relieved. He could not fault a man for wanting to be left alone in his pain. He welcomed it, even, because it was easier that way. Perhaps his lack of social skills had accelerated the withdrawal, which was both physical and emotional, and that part of him that felt bonds regretted his inadequacy. Regardless. One must play to one‘s strengths. As he came to his wit‘s end in regard of any social necessities, this facade of faux cameradeship -- as enjoyable as it had been -- needed to come to an end, too.

It was time to deploy different tactics, he knew, and the air thickened subtly as his chakra flared -- a teasing, hair-raising electrical current. Somewhere across the country, in the midst of a muddy, treeless field, Pakkun's head perked. He grumbled, huffed like he was being put-out, before he dissipated in a puff of smoke.

Kakashi settled again, drawing his legs in to place his arms over his knees and cross his fingers, unfazed by the aftermath of his own awkwardness. A new space had opened up between him and Satoru (a distance he was not opposed to foster), filled by the rich scent of polish on fibre that itched in Kakashi‘s nose and lay there heavy and uncomfortable.

Satoru.

A shame that he had not been able to bring forth that name from the other’s inviting lips between the heat of two naked bodies and the whispers of sheets like he promised, but Kakashi supposed he could not always win.

Regretable, also, Satoru‘s wisely avoiding gaze; but seeing as he traveled with an Uchiha, he would be hyper aware of the dangers of the sharingan. Kakashi could only hope that those rare moments the other man did look up, grazing the red-black pinwheel of Obito‘s eye, would suffice: That a combination of shock and the turn turn turn of the tomoe would induce the sluggish, half-hypnotized state that made it harder for his opponents to think, let alone move.

„Uchiha Sasuke.“

That made Kakashi halt, stall the inevitable a few moments longer. „Sasuke?“, he repeated, felt a frown of confusion sneak unbidden onto his masked face. That pale, shaking mess of a man, tall and dark, was Uchiha Itachi‘s little brother? Kakashi did not know the kid, but knew of him. He was the same age as Minato’s son, and although Itachi rarely talked about him, Shisui sometimes did -- generally in the form of some amused comment or other.

"Who send you?", he said, not completely able to cover the pressing tone in his voice, because the endless possibilities of that revelation opened up an mind-whirling abyss. Nobody was traveling in time just for the heck of it. Sasuke was now -- what, five, six years old? His future iteration -- if Satoru was telling the truth, and at this point, Kakashi had no reason to believe otherwise -- looked about the same age as Kakashi himself. That was about seventeen years, a significant amount of time. Much could happen in seventeen years, and if Konoha had send one of their own ...

A soft, almost inaudible creak was all it took. The sound came from the window, was hardly distinguishable from the dull noises wafting into the room from the market place, but Kakashi was on his feet and at the window in the blink of an eye. As he moved, the air flitted as if somehow distorted; but it might have been nothing more than an optical illusion produced by the fire. One peek out of the window was enough to relax his frame, though, and his hand that had jerked for the kunai in his pouch lifted for the window's handle instead. He bent over, out of the window to fish for the intruder. An indignant squeak, and he lifted the girl up into the room like a pup by the scruff of her neck. She was struggling, kicking her legs, bending and flexing for a chance to bite his wrist. Kakashi sighed.

"Maa, looks like that belongs to you, Ryu-kun", he said, cheerfully ignoring the wriggly, kimono-clad girl that dangled on his outstretched arm like a particularly spiteful fish.

"Let me go!", the girl squeaked, but her muscles were weak and her movements uncoordinated -- nothing like the young, if uncouth version of Satoru. Kakashi showed no sign of granting her that wish -- after all, if Satoru really told the truth, than that girl was immediate kin. Sister, probably.

 

[Graverobber141]

***​

Rain Country, Circa Twenty Years Ago.

They did not trust him.

Even with the headband that declared himself a shinobi of the Sand hidden away, the villagers regarded him with cold suspicion. He was a stranger with a chokuto on his hip, after all, walking into their market in the middle of a war. Many averted their gazes, acting like he didn't even exist, but a pack of children watched him from the porch of a stone, aged building, taking cover from the rain, and another handful of brave souls kept vigilant eyes on him, fingers itching toward makeshift weapons. They were judging, he knew, their chances; his walk was stiff, hiding a limp, and his left arm hidden within his sleeve, the limb cauterized in several places and roughly bandaged with a herbal remedy to stave off infection -- a useless attempt, because he felt the fever rising on his cheeks, the sickness within his arm. It would be hard to form signs, they assumed, therefore hard to wield jutsu against them. They were calculating, waiting, and watching.

It had been unwise to stop in the village, but a necessity. One did not battle for three days and three nights non-stop, not even a Minamoto, without it severely affecting their body, and worse, he was dying. Without a healer, the disease eating away at his limb would spread and consume him. Though such a rest he often welcomed, Minamoto were taught to survive until they were asked to die. And before anything else, he was Minamoto Takeshi: the last of his kind. Or so it should have been, but life was hardly ever that simple.

'You are a revenant, walking the earth unaware you are already dead, sentenced to it from the day you were born and given a weapon, spoon-fed your beliefs, and you unquestioningly accept them out of honor and loyalty. I wonder what kill you first: that stubbornness or your misplaced loyalty, but it will not be my blade.'

The familiar voice, already belonging to a ghost, rung hollow in his ears, and for a moment, he could feel the wind at his back, a sharpness that preceded the strike from a blade, and then warmth, like spreading blood seeping into the front of his shirt; he felt his torso to find nothing, and decided the infection was already affecting his mind.

His hand jutted out to catch himself on a wall, and he noticed a curious pair of grey eyes peering at him from within an alleyway. The tiny frame moved quickly, with the sped of a street rat, and made an attempt at the purse nestled within his belt. The boy's wrist was grabbed roughly by a calloused hand, and the child surprisingly did not yelp as the Swordsman jerked him forward; no, the wide-eyed brat reached for a knife hidden within his shirt, though the rough voice made him pause.

"Do not draw a weapon on me, boy, unless if you're prepared to kill me."

The child hesitated, tiny hand gripping the handle, other wrist held in a dulling grip.

"You haven't done it before, that's clear; else you would have attacked from my back. It's easier to rob a corpse. Clever to target a sick man, but not clever enough." Takeshi let go of the small wrist, not out of charity, but because his strength was waning. "Steel your heart, or prepare your grave, boy."

"You're bleeding," came the a soft voice he had not been expecting. He had been wrong.

A girl.

He chuckled bitterly, the sticky crimson seeping through his left sleeve. "Then the job's already half done for you, girl."

'Walk with the wind, brother.'

He collapsed against the wall, his vision fading.

***​

Current (Alternative) Timeline.

'Who sent you?'

It was not the laugh of the jovial, masked Satoru that fell from his lips, but a bitter one that still rang like bells harshly from his throat. He was prepared to gladly correct Kakashi, to remind him how unimportant they were in the grand scheme of things, just like names and swords and other tools, because there was no sense to any of it: life was a chaotic turn of events, and feeble attempts to impose order on it were useless; but they were interrupted by a visitor.

Takeshi would be displeased, knowing how easily his student had been taken off guard.

The swordsman watched as Kakashi moved with the expertise of a trained soldier, and he couldn't help the desperate appreciation of the way his muscles contracted, the gracefulness of a cat, though he smelled like dog. He watched as the girl was hauled in and as she struggled against that hold, feeling another wave of bitterness, hopelessness, regret, and possibility rise up in his stomach. He was glad he was still seated, flames licking at his back, for he felt light-headed, a sudden wave of dizziness and exhaustion overcoming him.

Oh, look at you.

For a moment, he simply looked at her, storm-colored irises faded and tired, mouth drawn in a thin line, brows relaxed tiredly over them; he looked at her, and wondered where he went wrong along the way. Was it him (for leaving), or Takeshi (for dragging him away), or Sasuke (for killing Takeshi), or had it been his mother (for dying), his father (for failing to protect her), or his new wife (for being a replacement)?

The blade shnked as it was slid back into its sheath, tucked away behind Satoru. His expression shifted, becoming a blank slate, though his eyes shined with disbelief, or perhaps refusal to belief. "Well, well, it seems as if stupidity runs in the family."

He did not move, did not stand, merely stared at the form of his sister with that blank, empty look. Even as he tried to force a flippant smirk. A few heartbeats passed, and he gathered enough strength to don whatever semblance of a mental barrier he could, running a few fingers through his long, dark hair.

"Go ahead and set her down; it's improper to hold a lady in such a manner, even if this pup can hardly be called one." His voice was sharp like a readied blade. "What is it you want, girl? You're a bit too young to be stealing glances through a window at my companion, though I hardly condone the attempt. He is quite handsome."

***​

"They say history repeats itself."

Takeshi let out a harsh exhalation of air from his nostrils, turning his gaze onto the white tiger, whose fur gleamed underneath the moonlight, at his side. "Some also say time is a concept, but I live in reality, the present."

"It always seemed to me you were a man who preferred the past."

"Spare me your fortune-teller wisdom for once, old friend."

"He looks like her."

Takeshi paused, resting the cloth he was using to clean the katana on his lap free of blood on his pants leg. He eyed his animal companion for a long moment, huffed, and look down at the blade. "They both do."

The feline tilted his head questioningly, tail flickering.

"Patrol the perimeter, Toru. This, whatever it is, needs to be contained -- you know what would happen if anyone else got a whiff of a --" He couldn't even finish the sentence.

"Even from your squad?"

"Especially from them," Takeshi grunted, gazing at the metal in his lap, and pressed a few fingers into his forehead.

 

[arbus]

Konoha Woods, Guard Tower B

When a pinkish plume of smoke exploded in the middle of the room, it brought with it the distinct whiff of mud and wet dog hair. Accordingly, it came as no surprise to see Pakkun emerge when the smoke lifted, his small form heaving and tongue lolling as he was panting.

„Greetings“, he said. His lazy gaze travelled around the undecorated room with its round, bare walls.

Shiranui Genma lazed on a chair positioned at one of the long, narrow and glassless windows. If he was caught by surprise at the sudden intrusion, it showed only in the subtle change in his gaze. He was teetering on one of two chairs in the otherwise unfurnished room, feet propped up onto the window sill. He shifted the senbon in his mouth before he spoke.

"This isn‘t by any chance just about an invitation to go drinking?“, he inquired.

Pakkun huffed. "I‘m not a carrier pigeon.“ Genma raised both his hands in a never said that-gesture. The chair dipped precariously, but he regained his balance smoothly. "I wasn't implying that at all. So, what's up? Kakashi alright?"

It was always peculiar to see the small pug heave an all too humanly sigh, though he did do it quite often.

*​

When Pakkun finished speaking, the silence grew so long he started to grow fidgety; time was of the essence, after all, and with every passing minute the chance for the boss’s plan to succeed dwindled.

"To summarize“, Genma finally said, taking the senbon out of his mouth. He spun it between his thumb and forefinger. "After that encounter with the Sand nin, which has the whole village in a frenzy“, in fact, it was the reason he was on guard duty alone, because most shinobi on the active roster were deployed to track down the Sand nin, "Team Ro was separated and Kakashi ran off with one of the guys that claims to be a Konoha undercover agent." So far, so good, because that matched Kakashi's report -- Genma had been listened in on that briefing in his capacity as one of the Hokage's guards. "But now you‘re telling me that dude that calls himself Ryusuke is in truth a time traveller from twenty years into the future and not a Konoha nin at all.“

"Yes.“

"And that Kakashi accompanied him into Dorobo, the civilian settlement full of thieves and rogue nins that is led by the missing-nin Kokoro Gin? The one we are supposed to stay the hell away from according to our treaty with Yugakure?"

"Yes.“

"And all that while he recovers from a severe bout of chakra depletion following a life-and-death match with the legendary Swordsman of the Sand, Minamoto Takeshi?“

"Uh-huh.“

To Pakkun's surprise, Genma smirked. "Let me guess, that Ryusuke fellow is darkly handsome, isn't he? Kakashi always falls for the dangerous ones.“

Pakkun threw him a withering glance Genma had not thought him capable of with that sleazy-ass attitude. „I don’t see what that has to do with anything, but Kakashi would never abandon his team to chase a mate.“

"Ah“, Genma uttered, sighing, "no, he wouldn’t. I suppose this is to stay away from the hairy ears of our esteemed Hokage, eh?“

Pakkun huffed. "Kakashi knows he has your discretion.“

Genma‘s expression grew serious. "He does." In a swift movement, he steadied the chair, planted both feet firmly onto the ground and leaned forward. "What can I do?“

"The boss needs a team“, Pakkun replied, "to detain the time traveller and bring him to Konoha. He wants to keep it under wraps until he knows more.“

There were many issues with that. Just at the top of his head, Genma could name at least five, first and foremost their duty to protect Konoha from any potential threat, and their obligation to report said potential threat to the Hokage. But Pakkun knew what he was asking, and so was Kakashi, who might sometimes be reckless, but never with the lives of the people he was tasked to protect.

"An infiltration", Genma concluded. The gears in his head were already turning. He was thinking Raido, Anko, perhaps Iwashi.

"What about Tenzo? Any word of him yet?", he inquired, but the pug shook his head, expression grave. "The boss wants to go look for him, but he cannot leave the time traveller unsupervised. It's to risky that he'll slip through the cracks."

"Okay, shit." For a moment, Genma looked torn, but then he sighed, resigning himself to his destiny, which apperently was to drag his friends' asses out of trouble time and again. "I'm off duty in ten. Give me half an hour to assemble the team, then meet us at training ground 11."

"Will do", Pakkun said, and with that, disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

*​

Dorobo, Village of Thiefs

By the looks of it, the subtle genjutsu had taken hold in Saturo's psyche, rendering his mind and body sluggish. Kakashi assumed the mental exhaustion -- and the alcohol -- helped. He held it together quite impressively, but still, his reaction time was delayed. He seemed not to have registered their feisty little intruder until Kakashi had plucked her from the windowsill. If it indeed were the effects of the sharingan's prowess that kept Satoru sedated, Kakashi had a limited timeframe to work with. Hopefully, Pakkun would find Genma in time and tell him to hurry up.

"Ugh!" The girl produced a fairly convincing retching sound. She had given up her struggle for that moment of utter incredulity, and her face screwed up in disgust. "He is ugly and you are too!", she announcend, pointing her finger at Satoru. Very un-ladylike, Kakashi found. "And I am not a lady!"

"Maa", Kakashi complained, "my feelings."

He gave Satoru a long look. His words had an edge of sharpness that could speak of protectiveness or something else, Kakashi was not yet sure. He pondered the various outcomes of the potential actions he could take, but eventually, he resigned himself to the truth: He would not use the feisty pup as a pawn against Satoru. He did not have it in himself, even if Satoru potentially posed a threat to the village. He sighed and put the little girl down. "Always the galant knight", he drawled, as if he had not just contemplated to take Satoru's little sister hostage.

As soon as the girl's feet touched the ground, she puffed up.

"My name is Kokoro Shiho, I am five years old and I demand to know why you -- why you --"

For a moment she stuttered in her resolve, and her eyes grew big and round with the fear that it had been a bad idea, and that these people were bad people, like her father always warned her about. But then she thought of her big brother‘s smug face, and his katana she was never allowed to touch, and she gathered her indignation about that like shield around herself.
"If you're teaching my brother, I want to be taught too!"

Kakashi blinked.

"Eh, I think you got something wrong there.“

*​

The shoji doors creaked softly as they were being pushed open and Gin entered, carrying a bottle of sake and two mugs on a tray.

"I could‘ve sworn to have heard voices“, he said as he settled his broad frame next to the man on the engawa. The back of the house was build against the mountain, so it perpetually lay underneath its shadow, but the side terrasse overlooked a stoop hill and part of the little village. „Talking to yourself, Takeshi? That’s a sign of old age, you know.“

Kokoro Gin was the kind of charming that allowed for easy smiles and smooth talking, and even if his grey eyes had grown wary over the years they searched for other‘s faces in any room. Establishing eye contact and connection had always come easy to Gin, whose grin was broad and white-teethed beneath a perpetual salt-and-pepper stubble . Fifty-odd years had left their traces on his face, but the wrinkles were most profound around the eyes and the creases of his mouth, telling of a man that laughed his way even through hardships.

After he poured the drinks and handed one out to Takeshi, he gazed at his guest for a few long moments. They had not seen each other in many years, at least five but probably more, and life appeared not to have been too kind on his old companion. He still exuded the same strength he was used from him, the same stoic aura, too. They were very different, and always had been.

"Thanks for straightening my son's head", he began after a moment. "He's prone to run off. He doesn't like the way we do things here."

He took a sip, then changed the subject.

"The two youngsters you brought to my doorstep“, he said, looking out onto his village, "are you going to tell me who they are? Akira tells me they rented a room at they inn." Gin might be a welcoming host, but he was not stupid. He had send his most capable man to trail them. From the moment the little entourage had entered Dorobo, they had been under surveillance. "They both seemed kinda familiar to me, but I gotta tell you, for a moment I thought Hatake Sakumo has risen from the dead to finally bust me like he‘s promised so many years ago. I wouldn‘t put it past that damn hellhound anyway.“ He grunted in fond amusement. "A relative, I presume?“

 

[Graverobber141]

"Clearly," came Satoru's lazy, short of being snide, remark as Shiho came to the end of her tirade; certainly being held like a pup by the scruff, floundering with huffiness and indignation, made her look like anything but a lady. An animal, perhaps, foaming uselessly from the mouth.

Even with the splintering headache the obnoxious child was causing to thrum beneath his forehead -- or was that something else; the sensation was so familiar, but mental fatigue meant his sharp mind was much duller -- Satoru found his shoulders relaxing as his sister was placed onto the floorboards with relative ease. And though heavily burdened, something did click within his medulla, and his narrowed eyes darted over the girl to Kakashi, regarding the ANBU agent with delayed suspicion.

It was an animalistic instinct, a shadow at the back of his consciousness, and foreboding sense dripping down his spine; maybe it was the alcohol, the general sense of paranoia he felt in this world that was so wrong, or a too-late survival reaction. Perhaps treating the make-believe reality like a stomping kid destroying toy-houses hadn't been his brightest idea, but the denial and rejection of the entangled universe was the only way he had been able to function. Could still even function.

"Gallant knights belong with unicorns," he replied, as if reading history from a scroll, "in the sense that they don't exist. Remember that, non-Lady; it'll save you headaches later on in life." He paused, tilted his chin, and with a wave of his hand, added, "Perhaps you should just consider going the other way completely."

He had intended to be finished talking with that, to lie down and subject himself to fate, but those last words, demand, that came out of his sister's mouth made his storm-colored eyes snap back toward her, and for a moment, he could only look at her with confusion. Then his brows furrowed.

Right. This had been the night a young Satoru had played shogi with a intimidating shinobi of the Sand, who had asked if he had wanted to learn the way of the sword; not only technique and battle, but the life that came with it, the philosophy and meaning. Or that was supposed to have happened.

"I'm not teaching anyone anything, kid, other than perhaps instilling some manners in you." Pushing his hair against his scalp, gaze drifting up to the ceiling, he sighed heavily, before letting out a humorless laugh. "Besides, you don't want to be a swordsman. There's one fact the sensei refrain from telling you: live by the blade, and you'll die by the blade. We don't get happy endings."

He recognized it fully when he reached for the sake bottle, and instead of deftly grasping ahold of it, clumsily rammed his forearm into its side and sent it rolling across the floors, staining the wood. Looking toward the mess with a belated sense of betrayal, he flashed his companion with a sharp grin. "Right, Kakashi?"

*​

Takeshi heard the doors slide open, and the footsteps that followed, yet he did not move. Gin might as well have been a ghost with all the attention the Swordsman paid him; the offered drink was left untouched by his side. He listened to the sound of the pattering rain instead, the wind rustling through tree leaves and grass, and focused on methodically wiping down the katana laid across his lap, applying a thin coat of oil to guard against rust and the elements. The sword was in surprisingly good condition, considering the years it hadn't been in use, which meant someone had already been maintaining it.

It wasn't until he was satisfied with his work, raising the metal to reflect the moonlight, examining the notare hamon line that ran along the curve, that he acknowledged the renegade's presence. Head tilted in his direction, he returned the katana to its saya, hand still resting on the ito-wrapped handle.

"His son, if I'm not mistaken," he answered, voice gruff as usual. Gently placing the weapon by his feet, Takeshi rose, and leaned against a post of the engawa, gazing down at the village. A life for a life. "They are eerily similar, yet he is still a pup." A pup bred for war, but would soon become a hound scarred and weathered in it; would soon be like Takeshi, when the only thing known to him was the blade and its practices.

If Gin saw the resemblance between the Hatake, he wondered if he had noticed the striking similarities the other bared to the boy who now slept inside the home whose porch they stood upon. He was too perceptive not to, but the thought was almost too strange to entertain; had it not been for the blade the dark-haired man carried -- his blade -- he would have dismissed the idea himself.

A war, deserters, rebels, and now time travel. He almost missed the simplicity of battle: facing one's opponent head-on, where nothing but prowess determined the winner. A warrior should not be a politician, and now, he held within his grasp ground-shaking phenomena that could send the world into violence.

"You should stay out of it," he grumbled, with an edge of authority won on the battlefield, allowing room for no disobedience; though he was sure Gin, if he wanted to, could find whatever space he needed to intervene and dissent. "You step in, and you make your village a target. I'll handle your visitors, and make sure they leave in peace."

Loyalty was the defining trait of the Minamoto, even those who tried to break away; loyalty to the clan, their home, an idea, or a person. A paradox: here he was, jeopardizing a lifetime of service in favor of protecting the offspring of a dead woman.

He had failed once; he couldn't protect her. Not when the flames rose, the smell of blood and smoke tainted the air, and with the damnable ideas and notions that had been put in her head, she had taken a stance, an act of suicide: mistaking courage for stupidity. He didn't care about the people saved, because he lost the most important one.

All he could do now was protect her legacy.

 

[arbus]

Kakashi watched Satoru as the little sake bottle hit the ground with a dull clonk. His movements were the uncoordinated attempts of a drunk man trying to appear sober, and he recognized the other's slowly dawning awareness that he was loosing his grip on reality. The sharingan-induced fog was strong, especially on those whose minds were already in turmoil. Kakashi knew that the sharingan's prowess was hitting Satoru at his most susceptible. For a moment, he caught a glance of the other's eyes and felt a pang of discomfort. The pointed tone made him wince, but he stretched his lips into a smile that pulled at the fabric of his mask. His eyes crinkled into a semblance of an apology as he raised both shoulders as if to say: Who's to know. Or perhaps: It's nothing personal.

Shiho was saying: "I don't believe in unicorns and everyone who does is a stupid idiot. And who said that I wanted to be a swordsman? I want to be a shinobi like my daddy!" Her grey eyes -- if Kakashi looked closely, he saw the resemblance between the feisty little girl and her time traveling version of a brother -- shone with what looked suspiciously like tears. Her little hands were in fists by her side. She looked very much like someone who has just about realized that they are in over their head, but if she was angry or afraid was hard to say. She looked too small to wear a kimono, the floral pattern ill-fitted for her tanned skin and her tomboyish mannerisms.

It was a bizarre situation, watching brother and sister opposing each other, and he wondered if she sensed some kind of familiarity with Satoru. She certainly reacted to him in a way that seemed indicative of some sort of history, regardless if she was aware of it or not.

But Kakashi had other things on his mind, reaching far beyond the mundanities of the little inconvenience of the girl's unexpected visit. It at least complicated his attempts to bring the situation under some sort of control, but the real conundrum was his time traveling, off-his-rocker companion, who looked too pale and unsteady on his feet for Kakashi's liking. He left her standing by the window in a swift movement that seemed to startle her, but it brought him right to Satoru's side.

"You look awfully pale, Ryu-kun", Kakashi said, his hand hovering in the small of Satoru's back without quite touching, "Time for a little nap, don't you think?"

The smell of sake was so strong that Kakashi could taste it, dry and cool on the back of his tongue. He regarded Satoru with his sharingan spinning. It was draining, and risky, to use the sharingan this much so shortly after recovering from that severe bout of chakra exhaustion, and he felt a slight headache building, pulling at his temples.

*
​

Gin's eyes -- a darker shade of grey than his children's -- followed Takeshi as he rose, bringing space and, perhaps unconsciously but most likely not, the advantage of height between them. Gin was, on all accounts, a sentimental fucker, and he felt a familiar pang of sorrow at the sight of his friend. Former friend probably came closer to the truth, and even though it hung between them, all the past's mistakes and regrets, it went unacknowledged like it always did. Takeshi, after all, was a man of honor, and a stubborn mule and resentful idiot on top of that. As impossible as it was for Gin to keep the emotions from his face, be it the blazing grin or the scornful scowl, Takeshi seemed like a statue -- easy to forget the man beneath, but Gin knew, because he had been there, in all those little moments that proofed Takeshi to be a man of flesh and blood rather than stone.

He also knew that old dogs did not learn new tricks, that neither he nor his old friend were bound to change their ways, so he just turned his head away, eyes running over the sheathed, cared-for blade on the ground before them.

"Samurai and their toys", he grunted, half amiably but also half disgruntled, because his own son seemed much more interested in learning the ways of the blade than the ways of his father; wanted to learn of katana and stances instead of stealth and the underhanded wits of a shinobi's life. Gin might be a missing-nin, but he was a ninja nonetheless, a fact he bore with a ragged, shabby kind of pride. It more than irked Gin, yes, that his only son was so prone to a life that seemed so stiff, so foreign to him. Perhaps he associated too much of his old friend with it to ever feel truly comfortable with seeing his son handling his mother's blade like it was second nature to him. Perhaps Takeshi was not the only resentful idiot on this engawa.

"And the black-haired one?", he asked in lieu of changing the subject. The long-haired boy that had clung to the Hatake's son had reminded him of something, someone, but he had not seen his face, and the thought was hard to grasp, there and gone. Though this much he knew: He did not like to have two strangers in his town. Hatake Sakumo had been a Konoha-nin. His son was likely Konoha-affiliated as well, and while Gin was not opposed to welcome the Hatake's offspring into their ranks (oh, sweet irony -- the thought of Sakumo turning in his grave filled Gin with delicious, childlike glee), he very much doubted that the boy would be interested in joining their merry band of misfits. There was, after all, no room for Kage and imposed order in a village like this, and hadn't Sakumo always -- much like Takeshi -- insisted on his strange, stringed code of honor?

Takeshi's next words were just short of a command, and that was only if Gin squinted really hard to overlook its true nature. He turned his head to face his friend. He contemplated him in silence for a moment, and with the silence came the memories, of comradeship, of battles, of drunken nights and of the woman that had always been like the necessary glue that held them together, who dissipated their arguments with a smile and a nudge, who smoothed over their discrepancies by calling them both out on it.

His woman.

Yes, Gin thought a little guiltily, perhaps he was no less resentful of all that happened than Takeshi himself. Stubborn, old mules.

The silence stretched. Takeshi was not one to choose his words lightly, and regardless of the poison that had all but dissolved their friendship over the long years, Gin had never ceased to respect the man's word.

"Fine then."

And as if the moment of tension never existed, he grinned. "Just make sure you don't start a ruckus. If the missus gets wind of the intruders, she'll throw a fit." It was a shame that his second wife could get so strung up. She was a good mother to his kids, disciplined, earnest and sincere, but she lacked the kind of nurturing instinct he had always so admired in Satoka . One of the things he missed most since her death was all the laughter in the house, loud and genuine as she chased a naked toddler through the corridors, and regardless of how shabby and run-down it all had been, they had never gone hungry, neither for food nor affection. It had been lighter days, back then.

Gin grunted again.

"Listen, Takeshi --"

But before he could say more -- and what he wanted to say, he did not quite know -- the deliberate rustling of grass announced an approaching guard. It was a common way to make one's presence known between shinobi, as it was considered rude to sneak up to someone else.

The man approaching them was slim, almost scrawny. The left side of his face was heavily scarred by fire, and he wore his blonde hair long to cover up as much of it as he could. He was a twitchy fellow, a missing-nin Gin had picked up from the side of the road like a stray cat many, many years ago, and probably one of the reasons honorable men like Takeshi scrunched their noses at the band of misfits, thieves and murderers that was Dorobo village.

"B-boss", Akira began, scratching the back of his flee-invested head. He was not afraid of Gin; rather, he was prone to stutter; twitchy and slightly paranoid since the day his former team members tried to cut off his chunk with a kunai because he stole most of their belongings and tried to steal their wives on top. "Your eh, your d-daughter is, erm she's ... eh ..."

Gin's head perked up at that. "Yes?", he coaxed.

"Well, she erm ... Tana-chan saw her, erm, sneak into the, erm, you know, the inn."

"The inn? What the heck is Shiho doing at the inn? Isn't she supposed to be in bed or something? It must be past midnight at this point."

"Yes, erm, I think she tried to risk a peek at the newcomers."

"Well, where is she?", Gin asked, feeling his patience dwindling. "She knows she is not allowed to leave the house after sunset. You know how her mother gets."

"Well, erm, Tana-chan says she saw the white-haired one, erm, you know, erm, pluck her by the scruff and abduct her into the room and such. Her words not mine, erm."

"What?!", Gin barked, suddenly on his feet. "You miserable punch of slackers had one job!"

"Erm, technically, boss, you told us to, erm, uh, to just watch them. Uh. Yeah."

"Fuck you", Gin spat, but it lacked bite as he was already striding down the mellow hill that lead into the centre of the village. "You brought those guys into my town, Takeshi, and by kami, if they even so much as lay a finger on my baby girl ..." He trailed off, leaving the half-hearted threat to dissipate into thin air.