Chapter Text
Wind rushes in his ears and his heart beats jackrabbit-quick and he’s leaning forward with the anticipation of catching his prey. He touches down on a branch briefly and then launches himself to the next in a constant cycle, sprinting through thick green foliage. The smell grows stronger. The hunt goes on.
Hound adjusts his porcelain mask, flicks a kunai into his hand, and drops from the sky with Killing Intent exploding from his body in one massive rush—
—and he crashes jarringly into the ground, shoulder-first and terribly unexpected. He rolls into it and springs up into a ready stance. A forest surrounds him. But not his forest; the trees are far smaller, and it smells of smoke and gas and ash. Something has changed in the quality of lighting and air. He feels off-balance, uncertain.
And his prey has vanished.
Carefully, Hound draws another kunai. He scopes out his surroundings for any hostiles, but there's only birds and the odd squirrel.
Where the fuck is he? He's almost certain it's not Fire Country; beyond that, it's not somewhere he's ever been before.
“Kai,” he murmurs. Sends a jolt of chakra through his veins. “Kai,” he says again, and bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. He blinks open the sharingan and sees the world, red-tinted.
Still, his surroundings remain the same. Quickly he goes through the motions and tries to summon Pakkun. It doesn’t work, which is probably the biggest indicator that something is very, very wrong. Hound closes his sharingan and picks a direction—where the smell of oil and smoke is strongest—and begins moving carefully and tentatively towards it.
Hound emerges into a clearing, early afternoon sun shining gently down on him. In front of him is a… a play-place, he thinks, for children? It would be bigger if it were made for adults, he reasons. It’s an amalgamation of colourful activities crammed into one structure. Things to climb, things to climb… more things to climb.
He slips his ANBU mask off and clips it to his belt. It would be best not to attract attention if this is a civilian area—he needs information, and he needs it now. The kunai he hides up his sleeves, one each; just in case. He adjusts his cloth mask further to ensure it sits comfortably above his nose and below his eyes.
His eyes.
Kakashi hesitates. He doesn’t have his usual hitai-ate on him, since he was on an ANBU mission—better you don’t bring any village affiliations with you—so he’s got nothing to cover his sharingan with. Honestly, at this point it’s mostly the scar that he’s hiding; in a hidden village such scars would be commonplace. In a civilian area he would immediately be gawked and stared at.
In the end Kakashi decides everything he can do—bandaging his head, tearing a strip of cloth from his clothes for a makeshift eyepatch, cast a genjutsu—are all either more attention-grabbing or chakra-inefficient.
As Kakashi starts walking, he passes by tall buildings, short buildings, and mechanical beasts acting as a form of transportation. The first time he sees one he nearly jumps out of his skin—it’s so loud and foul-smelling. Not to mention fast.
People stare at his scar, but that’s to be expected. As he gets further into the heart of smoke-oil-gas the amount of people increase, as well as the amount of mechanical beasts. And the buildings; oh, the buildings. They rise tall into the air, beautiful things of steel and glass and stone. There are ones that twist impressively halfway through and some older red-brick ones with vines crawling up the sides of them. Shops and stores of every kind. The sheer scale of this village astounds him. It goes on and on and on, sprawling and never stopping. How many people could fit in this place? More than he’s ever met in his entire life.
The map solidifies his uneasiness. Kakashi’s no longer in Fire Country. No longer in the Elemental Nations. He’s in somewhere called Yokohama, a… a city, that’s the word used. He’s in a city of steel and oil, with technology that would revolutionize everything back home.
“You gonna buy that?” The man at the stand narrows wrinkled eyes at him and the unfolded map in Kakashi’s hand. “You can’t browse forever.” The stand is like a little house with its windows open—that’s the best way to explain it. It’s got walls, and a roof, and then a sloping area for the customers to browse magazines or candy while he watches you like a hawk from behind the sloping area.
Kakashi forms the handseals one-handed against his leg and throws the genjutsu out like a net. The man’s eyes glaze over and he wobbles where he stands. “That’s a lot of money,” he says dreamily. Kakashi carefully weaves in an extra bit about his appearance; glasses, yes, and tall. Brown hair with streaks of blue. Late twenties. The image slides smoothly into the man’s brain and overwrites anything he thinks he knows about Kakashi.
“Keep the change.” Kakashi drops a few ryo on the counter because he feels bad, but his money is useless here. And the man was kind of a dick, so who cares? Then, tucking the map along with a candy bar in his pocket, he moves on.
The next order of business is finding new clothes. If there are any other shinobi here, Kakashi stands out like a horse among bunnies: glaringly awkward and obvious. So he passes by a few stores, wandering aimlessly until he sees a place that looks perfect.
He slips into the thrift store and goes looking. He finds a cute t-shirt with a dog that reminds him of Pakkun on it. Unfortunately the store has exactly zero pants in his size, so he hems and haws before choosing a material he’s seen a lot of other people wearing, all washed-out blue and tough to the touch. He finds a belt because the pants are a size too big and puts everything on in the changeroom. There’s no way any of this stuff is clean, but that’s the price he’ll pay.
The final touch, from the costume section, is an eyepatch.
Kakashi waits in line patiently. Once he reaches the counter, he pays for his things with a genjutsu, carefully overwriting his appearance to that of a petite woman with thin blonde hair and a crooked nose. He “pays” with a handful of the paper bills that seem to make up the currency.
“Your change,” the worker says, soft and glassy-eyed. She hands him some bills back—real ones.
“Thank you,” he says. “Can I get a bag?”
The bell tinkles as he leaves, stepping out into the afternoon sun with a plastic bag swinging from his hand.
Now for the real part. He starts walking until he finds someone propped against the side of a building, a cup held listlessly in front of her. Blankets and clothes and cardboard press up against the wall behind her. The people walking by pretend not to notice her and the sign that says ANYTHING HELPS.
Kakashi walks a bit further, scoping out his victim, then a few minutes later accidentally stumbles into the wealthiest-looking asshole in the crowd. “Oh my god,” he says, pitching his voice higher and younger. “Sir, I’m really sorry! I’m so sorry.”
The man almost pushes Kakashi off him, then brushes off his clothes with a scowl. He falters at the sight of Kakashi: oversized clothes, messy hair, scar slashing through his eye. “Don’t do that again,” he snaps.
Kakashi keeps apologizing until the man’s washed away by the crowd. Once he’s sure the man isn’t coming back, he wanders back to the homeless lady on the side of the walkway, the only one who’d seen him snag the wallet out of the man’s back pocket. She stares up at him, wide-eyed, and laughs.
“What does a kid like you want with an old lady like me?” Her voice is rough with disuse.
“I’m twenty,” he says, miffed. She laughs in his face. “Nineteen,” he tries.
“Eighteen at most,” she says, finally. “And a young eighteen, at that.” Kakashi, barely fourteen years old, decides that eighteen is fair enough.
“As to what I want… I have this perfectly good wallet right here with me,” he says, producing the man’s wallet out of his jean pocket. He flips it open and glances over the bills inside, then tilts it towards her so she can see.
She sucks in a sharp breath.
Kakashi wonders if it’s a lot of money, period, or a lot of money in comparison to what the woman has currently. Either way, it would do her some good.
“That’s not yours, sonny,” she says, smiling. “Aren’t you going to return it to that nice man?”
Kakashi hums in agreement. “You’re right,” he concedes. “It’s yours now.” He takes all the paper bills and coins out—they seem to be the currency—and then squints at the plastic cards. “Can you use these cards?” It’s a genuine question.
She shakes her head mutely. “Nah, sonny. I wish.”
“I’ll keep them, then.” Kakashi takes the cash and carefully squishes it all into her donation cup. The wallet returns to his pocket. “This is for you.”
She laughs, breathless. “I’ll bite. What do you want? I’m afraid I’m no longer as spry and pretty as I once was, so if you’re looking for a quick lay, it’s not gonna be here.” She tugs the bills out of the cup and shoves them into an inner pocket, so the cup is left with just coins. “You’re far too young for me, anyways.”
“Nothing like that.” Kakashi hopes his cheeks aren’t flushing, and if they are, that she can’t see them over his mask. “I want information. Who holds the most power in this city?”
The woman stares at him. “Any child could tell you that.”
“Humor me,” Kakashi says. “I’m visiting.”
“Officially,” the woman drawls, “the government is always the highest power.” She sees something in Kakashi’s face and sighs. “Cops and all that. Laws. The people who enforce them.”
Kakashi nods. “Unofficially?”
She leans forward. “The Port Mafia,” she says, almost gleefully. “Organization that runs off crime and blood money. They keep us all in check, hm?”
“Is there a place where the government’s power is localized? Or the Port Mafia’s?”
“Do you have a map?” She doesn’t expect Kakashi to, he can tell, but he pulls out the one from earlier and hands it over.
“Here,” she says, tapping with a nail. “They call themselves the Armed Detective Agency.” She squints at the map and skims her finger over the paper, tracing unfamiliar names and roads. “Here. The Port Mafia headquarters. Officially, I think it’s some sort of office building for an up-and-coming company… but everyone knows otherwise.”
Kakashi stands. “Thanks.”
“Wait!” The woman almost looks worried. She beckons him down again with a wrinkled hand. “Be careful,” she says. “Rumors go around, y’know? The strongest ones are always the most unnatural ones. They’re not normal, you hear?”
Kakashi squats. “How do you mean?”
“They’ve got supernatural powers. Abilities,” she says. “That’s what those freaks call them.” She looks at him searchingly. “You can’t beat them.”
“I’ll be okay.” Kakashi curves his eyes into a smile. “If you can’t beat them, join them, yeah?”
He sets about preparing. The information the woman had given him was very good. Wonderful, even. Here there is the existence of Abilities, likely something similar to chakra. He would—he is, actually—stake his life on someone’s Ability bringing himself here. He noticed nothing amiss back in Fire Country; no traps, no explosions of chakra, no seals. It has to be something on this side that brought him here. If it wasn’t then Kakashi is totally, completely fucked.
He tries not to think about it.
Conning a civilian into letting him rent an apartment is easy. He signs the lease under a fake name and tells them, yes, I did transfer the money over. They look at bank statements and want to believe it, so they do.
This is how Komugi Nouka, age twenty-one, moves into his single-room apartment on the 18th floor. It’s not huge, but it’s not cramped, either. The view is beautiful—he’s on a floor that’s higher-up, providing him with a breathtaking look into the huge city. Fuck, the city is gigantic. Not for the first time, Kakashi wonders just how many people could fit into a place like this, so full of light and gas and steel.
Then he goes out and starts stealing. Not too much from one place, but he starts with hair dye—black—and ends with a set of furniture for his little apartment. In-between he stocks up on essentials: cooking appliances, food, first-aid kits, a headband he can slip over one eye.
Black replaces his silver hair. A medical mask replaces his cloth one—his cloth one is better, but it’s a bit more eye-catching. It’s not commonplace to hide your mouth unless you’re sick. He comes out of his apartment a changed man.
Kakashi gives himself two days to learn everything he can. This means he does nothing but sit in the library or scroll on the internet at public computers—and oh, the internet. It’s the most insane thing he’s seen so far; something even more vast and open and endless than this planet. And there’s an outer space; and stars are balls of gas and fire; and there are seven billion fucking people in the world, more being born every day. After the first hour he creates two very low-chaka shadow clones to help him absorb more information.
On day three he starts The Plan. It’s fairly simple, all things considered. He begins committing petty crime under the henge of Komugi Nouka and tricking the clerks into thinking he’s paid with a genjutsu. Food, mostly, and clothes. After he leaves, he just barely drops the illusion. Not a lot, but enough for whoever he’s stolen from to grow suspicious. Check their inventory, maybe. See that their cash records don’t line up.
Every few days he does something bigger—a piece of furniture, a nice set of linens. Something to spike attention.
It’s genuinely one of the easiest cons he’s ever done.
So he steals, and he learns, and waits for the Armed Detective Agency to come to him.
One day, there’s a knock at the door. Kakashi, reading a book on his new couch, jolts up at the sound. His information-clones look up, too, but return to reading when they see Kakashi dealing with it. One, in the door's sightline, slips from its spot on the couch and onto the floor.
“Just a minute,” Kakashi calls, and in the few steps to the front door he’s turned himself from Hatake Kakashi, fourteen, to Komugi Nouka, twenty-one. He checks his reflection briefly in the metal surface of his fridge—tall, freckles, brown eyes, brown hair. Perfect.
He glances through the peephole. They look normal enough, he supposes. Two teenagers and an adult. He opens the door and smiles shyly at them, slipping firmly into his role. “Hi?”
“Komugi Nouka,” announces the adult. Or… he’s much an adult as Nouka is. They look to be around the same age. Artfully tousled brown hair frames a pretty sort of face, but the most notable thing about him are the bandages covering both forearms—vanishing up into the rolled-up sleeves of his trenchcoat—and peeking out from his collar. “It’s nice to meet you!”
“Nice to… meet you too?” Nouka smiles, politely confused. “Do I know you?”
“I’m from the Armed Detective Agency,” the man goes on. “I’m sure you’ve heard of us…?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Nouka tries for a polite clearing of the throat. “I think… I might have? I’m sorry, who are you again?”
“Dazai Osamu!” Dazai flashes a pearly smile. “Here are my colleagues, Tanizaki Junichirou and Tanizaki Naomi!” The boy and the girl wave. Nouka spares them a half-glance and double-takes at the way the girl’s pressed up against the boy, hugging his arm with her breasts.
Right. Okay. “What does the… ah, Arms Detracting Agency want from me?”
“You don’t have any money,” Dazai says.
Nouka wavers. “Um?”
“We’d like to offer you a job at the Armed Detective Agency!”
Nouka laughs politely, with the air of someone who’s just realized something. “I’m sorry. You have the wrong person.”
“I don’t,” Dazai says. “You’re the Ability user who can cast illusions, right?”
Nouka closes the door in their faces.
“We could report you to the police,” Dazai calls through the door, voice muffled. “Will your illusions stand up to such scrutiny?”
Nouka reopens the door. “What do you want?”
Dazai claps his hands. “I’ve already said! We could use another illusion-wielder in the Agency; you’d be perfect!”
Nouka slumps against the doorframe. “Why, though?”
“Would you rather we arrest you for theft?”
Nouka huffs out a laugh. “No.”
The girl Tanizaki steps forward. “If you accept our offer, we’ll pay off everything legitimately. A percent of your paycheck will be deducted until the total costs are paid off.” She smiles, eyes sharp and bright. “Good deal?”
“I suppose,” Nouka says, resigned. “When should I be starting?”
“Come in tomorrow,” the girl Tanizaki says. “Nine in the morning.”
“It’s not so bad,” The boy Tanizaki says, finally. “Watch Dazai.” Then Dazai shimmers like a staticky image and vanishes like he was never there. Because he wasn’t. Boy Tanizaki rubs at the back of his neck. “See? We’re the same.”
Nouka blinks. “Holy shit,” he says. “It’s weird being on the receiving end.”
“My Ability is Light Snow,” Boy Tanizaki supplies helpfully. “What’s yours called?”
Nouka blanks. “Uh,” he says. “A Good Harvest.”
“That’s a nice name,” Boy Tanizaki says politely. “I’ll register you in the database. Have a nice day, Komugi-san.” He sketches a quick bow.
Girl Tanizaki follows suit. “Be seeing you, Komugi-san!”
Nouka closes the door and melts into Kakashi. “Hook, line,” he says to himself. “Sinker.”
The hardest part was not immediately attempting to disable the illusion once the boy had cast it. He could feel something… off, with the world. Kakashi wasn’t sure if Kai would work, or even injuring himself. The illusion seemed to not focus on Kakashi, but on their surroundings, projecting an image into the air. Likely the sharingan would be able to see through it, but Kakashi didn’t want to risk the sharingan somehow interfering with the mechanics of the boy’s illusion.
Kakashi stretches his arms above his head, padding back to the couch. With his position within the Armed Detective Agency secured, it’s time for his entry into the Port Mafia.
Sadly, he dispels his bunshins—wincing at the influx of information on medical practices and advances in the technological era respectively—and sets about getting ready for his entry into the Port Mafia.
Preparation doesn’t require much. It was a much more delicate process for the Armed Detective Agency; planting seeds of someone with an Ability harmless enough that they would approach for recruitment and not neutralization; someone who stole not necessarily because he liked it or wanted to get rich but to live, only.
He could probably just brute-force the Port Mafia.
Hm. He can’t think of a way that would grab their attention and their attention only in a positive light. There’s the option of going around and killing off their enemies, but then he’d get attention from the government as well. And then he might be treated with suspicion—what are you trying to gain from the Port Mafia, what do you want—so the easiest, quickest, simplest route would be… to just ask, he supposes.
Kakashi goes straight up the Port Mafia’s front steps and into the building. It seems to wield reputation and scary-looking figures posted at its corners rather than strict security—which, granted, probably works pretty well. But Kakashi greets a guard by name as he goes by, smiles at someone who smiles tentatively back, and walks in like he belongs. (He’d followed the guard back home a day or so prior until the man was addressed by name.)
He spends a few dubious minutes debating whether or not to take the elevator—then, eventually, does. As soon as it starts moving he goes stiff, unmoving. Other people walk around him when they need to get out. After it finally reaches the top floor, where the big boss resides, he stumbles out and resolves never to step foot in an elevator ever again.
The hall Kakashi exits into is long, plushly carpeted with beautifully intricate wallpaper and wall sconces lighting every few feet. There’s a window at the end opposite the elevator, and in the wall in-between the two is a set of huge oak double-doors.
Kakashi knocks twice.
“Come in,” someone calls.
Kakashi goes in. Inside is extravagant. A huge floor-to-ceiling window spans an entire wall, looking over the whole of Yokohama. Sunlight washes over a mahogany desk with papers and paperweights stacked across it. Even the extra chairs stacked in a corner of the room are beautiful, the wood inlaid with gold and the seats velvet.
“Who are you?” says the man behind the desk. Kakashi refocuses. The man—wearing a pinstriped suit with a purple-and-white tie—squints at Kakashi. His black hair is slicked back and shoulder-length. “Elise-chan, d’you know who he is?”
Elise-chan in question is a small girl wearing a frilly red dress sitting on the floor beside the desk, maybe nine or ten. She’s hunched over a pad of paper with crayons scattered around her, ringlets of blonde hair cascading down her shoulders and obscuring her drawing from view. “No, stupid Rintarou. How am I supposed to know?”
“I want to join the Port Mafia,” Kakashi says.
Rintarou looks at him quizzically. “How’d you get up here if you’re not a part of the Port Mafia already?”
“I walked in.”
“This seems like a breach of security.” Rintarou hums and haws to himself. “Are you good at anything?”
Unblinkingly, Kakashi says, “Killing.” He gnaws at his bottom lip, worried it might not be enough. “Math.”
Rintarou throws his head back and laughs. “Elise-chan! Wifey! Do you hear him?” He hacks out a choking laugh-sob. “Math!”
Elise-chan keeps drawing, pointedly remaining silent.
“Okay,” Rintarou says, wiping at his eyes. “Let’s test both. Wait! Ah! What’s your name?”
“Hatake Kakashi.” Briefly, he remembers the expected social etiquette, and asks, “And yours?”
“Mori. Or boss, if you win. I suppose it doesn’t matter if you lose, because you won’t be calling me anything from six feet under.”
Kakashi, slowly, lowers his center of gravity and lets chakra hum below his skin. “I’m ready.”
“What’s eighty-one times a hundred eighty-seven?”
“One five one four seven,” Kakashi spits back.
“Five hundred fourteen times sixty-three divided by four.”
Kakashi tenses, then relaxes. “Eight zero nine five and a half.”
“Elise-chan, kill him,” Mori says. Kakashi immediately reassesses the girl as the biggest threat in the room. He crouches lower and never lifts his eyes away from her.
“But I don’t wanna,” Elise groans, throwing her crayon at Mori. It hits him in the shoulder and he falls dramatically off his hair and collapses to the ground. Kakashi notes, inanely, that there’s a jacket draped over the back of the chair.
“Please, Elise-chan,” Mori begs. “Please! I’ll—I’ll give you some gummies, and take you out for some desserts after!”
She jolts up. “You better not be lying, Rintarou!”
“I would never.” Mori squats and offers her a hand up. “Let’s go, Elise-chan!”
She slots her small hand into his gloved one. Pinkish light surrounds the two, brief and pulsing. Mori spins her into the air and flings her at Kakashi without any visible effort. She flies towards him, suddenly decked out in a little nurse’s outfit and wielding a syringe almost as large as she is.
Kakashi dodges the first blow easily, shifting quickly to the side and twisting to keep her in his field of vision. But shit, she’s fast. She hovers where he was a moment before, resting the syringe on her shoulder.
“Annoying little rat,” she says, and flicks her wrist. Syringes materialize in the air—normal sized ones, this time, with a pinkish aura. She flicks her wrist again and they fly towards Kakashi like senbon, who leaps up high and higher into the air, flipping upside-down a split second before touching the underside of a rafter. Chakra glues his feet to the surface.
Elise shows no hesitation or surprise at his newfound abilities. Kakashi’s forced to leap away as another barrage of syringes slam into the wood where he was standing, landing lightly a few feet away from the girl. She bursts forward suddenly and slams the syringe into his side—tries to, at least, but Kakashi darts back, towards Mori and the desk. She follows, Killing Intent gleaming off of her in waves.
Kakashi gives her the advantage, and the ground, retreating quickly and dodging—barely. Then he trips over his own feet and his back slams into wood. Mori’s desk.
Elise drifts forward, content in her victory. “Bye-bye,” she says, and slams the giant syringe downwards. Quick as a snake, Kakashi pushes off the ground, flips over Mori’s desk, and snags the jacket slung over the back of the chair. Paper scatters in his wake, floating gently to rest by Mori’s feet.
“Wait,” Mori tries, “not my good coat—”
Kakashi leaps straight at Elise. She raises the syringe in defense and Kakashi takes the opportunity to snag the jacket on the needle, using the fabric as leverage to wrench it awkwardly out of her hands and to the floor. She summons more of the small syringes but it’s too late; Kakashi’s inside her defense and driving a chakra-enhanced blow into her stomach. She slams backward into the wall hard enough that he can almost feel the building shake.
Then he’s on her, delivering a kick into her ribcage; lacing his hands around her head and bringing it down into his rising knee.
“Enough,” Mori snaps from behind them. Obligingly, Kakashi drops the girl and stands back as he strides past. “You’ve done enough.” The affable man from earlier has vanished in the wake of Kakashi’s violence.
“Rintarou,” whispers Elise. She doesn’t bleed, though she should be. “Cakes, okay? After.”
Mori slips a hand behind her head, supporting her neck. “Okay, Elise-chan. Come back soon.”
She vanishes into nothingness in his hands, scattering away into the empty air.
Mori, slowly, stands. “Hatake, was it?”
Kakashi nods stiffly.
Mori grabs his torn jacket from the floor, Elise’s syringe having vanished along with her, and tosses it carelessly onto his chair. At his desk, he fiddles around with something Kakashi can’t see, then says, “Chuuya. My office. Fifteen.”
“Right away, sir,” replies a staticky voice from his desk.
Dragging out the chairs from the corner, Mori poses them opposite to one another. “I called a messenger. Your supervisor will be here in fifteen. Let’s talk.”
Chuuya is… not what Kakashi expects. He’s sort of awkward, with a short temper and shorter legs. Kakashi’s fucking fourteen and almost outpacing the man in height.
And the man really cannot plan ahead. He’s the sort of person to live in the moment, no matter how detrimentally it affects him or others.
Which manifests now. They’ve found the Crawlers hideout, as instructed by Mori. They’ve gone into it, as instructed by Mori. They’ve found a shitload of dead bodies killed at a shinobi’s hand—though Chuuya is unlikely to realize that—instructions by Mori not provided.
And then someone comes up the front steps. Kakashi hides in the rafters to assess the situation before engaging. Idiotically, Chuuya stays on the ground floor, in full view of the door.
A girl in a pink dress opens it. Kakashi breathes in and tries to place her smell—an immediately bad idea, because he gets a lungful of rancid dead body odor—and spends the next few minutes trying not to erupt in a coughing fit.
They leave. Kakashi takes a moment to hack his lungs out. Then, still coughing, he forms a shadow clone and sends it off after the two to listen in. He can’t trust Chuuya to provide an accurate retelling of events, so better to remove the uncertainty entirely.
Now: what to do about the bodies? Kakashi glances at them all: scattered, broken, burned. It reminds him terribly of the Kyuubi’s aftermath just a bare year ago and he winces, predicting the amount of work the girl’ll have to do to lay them all to rest. In a little while they’ll probably start bloating and smelling even worse, if that’s possible.
Kakashi wonders where she’s been taking the corpses.
He hops down from the rafters, landing quietly onto the ground floor. He follows the trail of death and decay out the door, to the side of the building, then around it. In the backyard is a shallowly dug mass grave with a few people inside it.
Fuck. And she was doing this all herself.
Almost without conscious input, he’s forming the hand seals for an earth jutsu that carves the grave evener, deeper; sealing the bodies into a scroll that he keeps on his person and ferrying them back to the grave.
Honestly? It’s light work.
His shadow clone dispels itself just as Kakashi’s finishing up, sending him memories of Chuuya and the girl talking in… a familiar park. The clone, having used a henge to transform into a little boy playing in the playground, has an odd perspective of everything—being two and a half feet tall will do that—but it’s definitely the same place.
There’s also a mother and child in the park. The mother keeps casting odd, worried looks at the shadow clone, probably worried about a child playing all by themselves, no parent in sight. The clone reassures her that mommy is just around the corner, don’t worry! The mother is mostly pacified by this, and keeps playing with her daughter.
The memory ends with the girl displaying an Ability and them leaving together.
Is it a coincidence that Kakashi and the unknown shinobi appeared so close to each other? Doubtful. Maybe the Ability that brought him here is localized. He shelves the thought for later inspection and shinshuns to the sidewalk in front of the house.
“Took you long enough,” he says when the two finally return. “Let’s go.”
Kakashi returns to the apartment after Chuuya drops the shinobi off to Mori. It takes him the better part of an hour as he weaves in and out of crowds, traffic, storefronts, and random apartments. Better to err on the side of caution; he can’t be followed, because he’s going back to where Nouka lives, not Kakashi.
He thinks he loses his tail around the fifteen minute mark, regains it at twenty, and loses it for the final time three minutes later in the bathroom of a pho restaurant (he climbs out the window).
It’s a standard precaution, really.
Kakashi comes back to his apartment through the window, showers, and picks up where he left off in his latest book. Once it hits ten o’clock, he heads to bed. He—or Nouka, rather—has an early start tomorrow morning with the Armed Detective Agency.
Kakashi spends the entire day at Port Mafia on edge. He's nervous, waiting for the onslaught of memories that denote the story of Nouka arriving at the Agency, Nouka being found out, Nouka dying. Chuuya picks up on it despite Kakashi's efforts to disguise it; upon being asked, he brushes it off as trouble at home. Chuuya doesn't seem to believe him, but that's okay, he doesn't have to.
Kakashi tries to shunt the worry off to the side as he spends the day figuring out how things work within the Port Mafia: the hierarchy, important places in the building, filing systems, how missions are assigned, etcetera. Most of it Chuuya knows, but some he doesn't, so for those Kakashi goes off and does his own little investigations.
Chuuya lets him head home early, probably because of Kakashi's jitters. This time, Kakashi pretends he doesn't notice the shadow following him on his way home. He does, however, duck into a shopping center on the way, and henges into a short woman in one of the larger department stores. Easier than running around for an hour, he reflects, but more dangerous; someone could see him, and he's using chakra when he doesn't need to.
Fifteen minutes later it's home sweet home. He showers, then cracks open another book and waits impatiently for Nouka's return. After the book begins to bore him, he starts working on a pair of glasses—non-prescription, just glass set into rectangular frames. Carefully, he applies a simple genjutsu over them over and over again until it sinks into the glasses itself instead of simply overtop it. There’s a seal for this, barely-remembered, and Kakashi practices it on paper until he can do it proficiently enough to carve into its temples.
Kakashi’s just finished with the glasses when Nouka returns with the intentionally loud jangle of keys and thudding footsteps. Kakashi ducks behind the couch so anyone in the hallway wouldn’t be able to see him when Nouka opens the door.
The lock clicks. Door opens. Nouka enters. Door closes. Lock clicks.
“Fucking finally,” Nouka grumbles, and dispels itself. Kakashi squeezes his eyes shut against the barrage of memories, confusing and jumbled. It’s always a gamble to keep a shadow clone out for a long time—the resulting surge of memories are almost a physical pain in his head. He takes a few minutes to rearrange everything in an understandable order.
EARLIER THAT DAY
Kakashi nods at Nouka, then goes out the window, on his way to the Port Mafia. As for Nouka… He checks the time—8:30AM, perfect—and opens the door to leave. In tumbles a dozing boy of maybe fourteen, with a straw hat crushed beneath straw-colored hair and freckles that match Nouka’s. He wears overalls and no shoes.
“Um.” Nouka crouches over the boy and gently shakes his shoulder. “Hello?”
The boy blinks up at him, slowly. His lips part a little, as if in shock. “Komugi-san?” The boy scrambles to his feet. “Hi! I’m Miyazawa Kenji, from the Detective Agency! Please call me Kenji!” He bows low and pops up grinning.
Nouka scratches his cheek. “What are you doing here?”
Kenji puffs out his chest. “I’m here to take you to the Agency.” He smiles. “I volunteered ‘cause you seemed to know a thing or two about farming!”
Nouka blinks. “Oh. Okay. Um, should we get going?”
“Sure!” Kenji offers a beaming smile.
The boy fills the entire way to the Agency with mindless chatter. Nouka finds he doesn’t quite mind. Kenji talks about life at the Agency, the people there, his life back at home, and farming techniques. When Nouka manages to get a word in edgewise, he asks why Kenji was sleeping when Nouka found him. The boy says, happily, that he'd arrived at four in the morning to make sure he didn't miss Nouka's departure. Nouka quietly thanks Kakashi for leaving through a window.
Someone runs up to them when they’re a few blocks from the Agency. Startled, Nouka realizes it’s Boy Tanizaki.
“There’s a situation,” Boy Tanizaki says, hands on his knees, panting as though he’d run a mile. “Come quick!”
Nouka and Kenji trade worried looks. Immediately, Nouka knows something is wrong; Kenji’s face of concern isn’t real. His frown keeps threatening to turn into a smile and his body language hasn’t shifted to reflect the emotions he should be feeling. Nouka, quickly, glances back at Boy Tanizaki. He looks honest and scared enough, but… something feels off.
“Komugi-san,” Kenji says, tugging at his arm. “Hurry, hurry! It sounds important!”
Along the way, Boy Tanizaki explains the situation: a bomber come to claim revenge on the Armed Detective Agency has barricaded himself with a hostage in the main office, threatening to blow up the entire floor!
“Why?” Nouka interrupts. “Does he want something?”
“To blow us all up?” Kenji says almost cheerily.
“What has he asked for?” Nouka directs this one at Boy Tanizaki. “What are his demands?”
“I think he’s gone off the deep end,” Boy Tanizaki says plainly. “He’s not making sense. Just raving about killing us all and killing himself too because we arrested his mother.”
Nouka halts in the middle of the street. He can see the Agency’s building a block down. “Let’s call the police.” He hunches his shoulders a bit, angling himself inwards. “You’re just a detective agency, after all,” he reasons. “The police will know what to do.” He watches their reactions carefully.
Kenji and Tanizaki glance at each other. “No,” Tanizaki says slowly. “No, what if they don’t come in time?”
Nouka looks to his right, where a police station sits maybe ten feet away, its doors propped open. Someone’s smoking on the front steps. “Tanizaki-san,” he says almost chidingly, pretending to forget his shyness in his disbelief. “Are you being serious right now?”
“We can handle it,” Kenji blusters, pulling Nouka past the station and down the street. “Tanizaki-kun will call them just in case!”
“Yeah,” Tanizaki agrees, and fumbles out his phone. He punches in a number far too long to be the police and holds it up to his ear as they half-run half-jog to the Agency. They reach the Agency’s building just as Tanizaki hangs up on whoever was on the other side of the line. Not the police, certainly.
So they want him inside for some reason. The bomber is most certainly not real; either they’re straight up lying or someone’s inside pretending to be one. But why? Are they planning on luring him inside to kill him? But no; that’s irrational. He would have gone inside anyway, because the plan was quite literally to meet them here. And work for the Agency. Which would, presumably, involve him going inside the building. Maybe it’s not the Agency’s building and they’re fakes, not real employees. But the address they’re at is the correct one, at least according to all his research.
He discards possibilities as fast as they arise. Soon Kenji’s dragged him up the stairs and to the Detective Agency’s office—there’s even a little plaque that says so. And then Tanizaki pushes open the fucking door in full view of the presumed bomber. Kenji pulls him through and to the side so they’re hidden by a large, leafy plant.
There’s no way in hell that the “bomber”—a tall man with tied-back blond hair and rectangular glasses—didn’t see them come in. There’s no damn way. The man is quite literally sitting on a desk with a sightline directly to the door, hostage tied up underneath him.
If Nouka wasn’t certain before, he knows now that this isn’t real. Because the other option is that Kenji and Boy Tanizaki are complete fucking idiots, which, honestly, he has to consider as a viable option.
Wait. Nouka squints. The hostage is Girl Tanizaki.
“Komugi-san,” Tanizaki hisses. “Do you see the bomb on the desk?”
Obligingly, Nouka peers through the plant’s leaves and looks at the little device on the desk. It’s cylindrical, with a display face that’ll presumably have a countdown once the man presses the detonator.
“We might be able to dampen the explosion if we get something to cover it,” Tanizaki continues. “But… ideally it won’t go off at all?”
Nouka wants to smash this guy’s face in. “Okay,” he says instead. Quietly, he begins weaving a genjutsu. Chakra hums beneath his skin.
“Where’s the president?!” the bomber yells. “Get him out here right now! He has to pay! Someone has to pay!”
“We should get the president,” Nouka says reasonably.
“He’s away on business,” Kenji chirps.
“I’M GOING TO BLOW THIS ENTIRE FLOOR TO HIGH HEAVEN,” the bomber shouts. “GET THE PRESIDENT OUT HERE!”
Tanizaki blows out a breath. “Kenji, go see if you can try and get him to calm down. We need to save Naomi.”
Kenji salutes cheerily and steps out from behind their cover. The bomber immediately zeroes in on the boy.
“Stop where you are,” the bomber growls. “You’re one of those damn Agency workers, aren’t you?”
“Sure am,” Kenji says, grinning. “Please don’t blow me up, mister bomber sir!”
“Shut up and put your hands up. Stand by that wall.” The bomber jerks the detonator in his hand to motion.
Kenji goes and stands by the wall.
“Well,” Nouka says. “That was a bust.” He smiles, teeth a slash of white. “Tanizaki-san. Why don’t you fake the President from your ability, then sneak around and take your sister to safety?”
Tanizaki hesitates. “Um,” the boy says. “Er.”
Nouka tilts his head in an approximation of concern. “Is something wrong, Tanizaki-kun?”
"He's got an Ability," Tanizaki says. "Um. To tell if there's an Ability being used in the area."
Nouka winces. "Are you sure?”
Tanizaki nods feverishly.
“It doesn’t stop an Ability being used on him, though, does it?”
Tanizaki hesitates. “Um.”
Without fanfare, Nouka stands above the plant’s cover, exposing himself to the bomber. The bomber says nothing; indeed, the man remains oddly still and silent. Nouka walks over to the bomber, and delicately plucks the detonator from his limp grip. The bomber's glassy eyes track no movement. Carefully, he keeps the detonator in his off hand as he unties Girl Tanizaki.
Kenji skips over, crouching down on Girl Tanizaki’s other side. "Komugi-san, you're so cool!" Stars twinkle in his eyes.
"Not that cool," Nouka says shyly. "The bomber has permanent brain damage now, I think. He won't ever be the same. My ability physically forced him into a state of vegetation."
Girl Tanizaki is freed. She looks at him, eyes wide, mouth agape, her horror almost palpable. "What did you just say?" she demands.
Kenji’s grin freezes into place. There’s something terrifying at the cock of his head and the lack of presence behind his eyes. “You hurt Kunikida-kun?”
Nouka shifts his weight from foot to foot. Killing Intent washes off the boy in waves. If Nouka was a regular person, he’d most definitely be shitting his pants—and not figuratively.
The door slams open. A tall older man strides through the desks and to the bomber, whose head has lolled limply back. His unbound silver hair fans around his shoulders with every step, as striking and cold as his expression. Fury writes itself into wrinkles and the age marks of his skin and the strike of his heel onto the ground.
A woman follows on his heels, mouth set into a hard line. She's almost a ghost behind the man’s huge presence.
"I am the President of the Armed Detective Agency," the man snaps, looming over Nouka. "What have you done with Kunikida-kun?"
Nouka takes a half step back. "I thought he was a bomber?"
"It was a test." His expression does its best to flatten out into something neutral.
The woman goes straight for Kunikida. She sweeps him easily into her arms and says, "I'll see what I can do.” A butterfly pin in her hair glimmers as she turns around. Kunikida's long limbs hang limply and awkwardly.
"Wait," Nouka calls, almost timid. "He'll be fine. I was lying." He drops the genjutsu with a flick of his wrist—better for them to think he needs a physical action as a trigger—and Kunikida shudders to life, albeit confused.
"Yosano-kun," he says, staring up at her, horror tinging his voice. "What’s going on?"
Yosano drops him like he’s hot coals. There’s a flailing of limbs and cursing as he hits the floor and a chair besides.
The president’s gaze flicks from Kunikida, struggling to stand, and Nouka, cowed. Abruptly, he snorts, rage loosening from his limbs. The tension in the air diminishes almost palpably.
“Did you know, my boy,” the president says, “that it was a test from the beginning, or only now?”
Nouka clasps his hands tightly in front of him. “I suspected,” he admits.
The president hums. “I presume we’ve made a good choice, then.” His gaze hardens. “But Kunikida-kun will be quite alright?”
Nouka makes a noise of assent. “Did I pass, then? The test.”
The president’s expression flattens out. “We’ll… have to see,” he says. “You were unconventional in your approach and therefore I must be unconventional in my evaluation of your results.” He pauses. “I believe you have partly passed your exam. You may have to go through another trial to be fully accepted into the Agency, as per the rules of my Ability. Is this acceptable?”
I wasn’t asked if the first test was acceptable, Nouka retorts in his mind. Aloud, he says. “Yes.” Then, hesitantly, “As per the rules of your Ability?”
“Ah,” the president says. “I haven’t introduced myself, have I? My name is Fukuzawa Yukichi, the president of the Armed Detective Agency. My Ability is All Men Are Equal, in which I am linked to my subordinates, aiding in the control of a wild ability or the gentle encouragement of a shy one.”
Nouka can only think of how useful something like that would be in wartime. Then, he wonders; will the man notice that he doesn’t possess an Ability; that it’s chakra? That, as a shadow clone, he isn’t strictly real?
The president turns on his heel. “Dazai,” he calls. “You were the one who discovered Nouka; therefore you and Junichirou will be in charge of him. Work together accordingly.” A brown-haired head pops out from the doorway and a hand appears in salute. Bandages trail from his wrist. It’s the man who Boy Tanizaki had impersonated back at the apartment—Dazai Osamu.
Dazai Osamu. The one who used to work in the Port Mafia as Chuuya’s partner.
“Yosano, please check Kunikida for any damage. The rest of you may return to regular duties.” He turns back, offers a tight smile, and turns into a side room. The door clicks shut behind him.
“Let’s go down to the cafe,” Kenji declares, once more bubbly and happy. “I’m hungry after all that scariness!”
“You’re always hungry,” Boy Tanizaki rebukes, but allows himself to be led towards the door.
They—Dazai, the Tanizakis, Kenji, and Nouka—head down to a cafe on the building’s bottom floor. It’s cute, quaint, all warm oak and dull tones, with a long counter against one wall and a row of booths on the other. The man behind the bar nods to their group as they come in and take a booth. Nouka makes sure to take a seat on the outside for an easy escape. Dazai claims a chair at the counter so as to not crowd the booth.
For a few moments there’s silence as Kenji slides into the window seat, Nouka after him, the Tanizakis opposite. Then both Tanizakis and Kenji all begin talking at once, clamoring over each other for Nouka’s attention. Nouka steals a glance at Dazai, ordering a coffee; the man catches his gaze and smirks. Almost embarrassed, he returns to the people at his table and tries to calm them down.
“How did you know it was a test?” says Kenji, loudest. Nouka patiently explains how shitty Kenji is at lying and how terribly unprepared Boy Tanizaki was when facing off against the supposed bomber and Nouka’s unexpected questions. Also that Girl Tanizaki’s restraints were visibly a bit loose, and they came through the front door in full view of the bomber, and the fact that Boy Tanizaki could have easily subdued the bomber without help.
Somewhere along the line he began to refer to the Tanizakis by their given names, by their request. Naomi tells him it’s too confusing. Tanizaki this, Tanizaki that.
“It’s my fault,” Kenji says, guiltily. “I can’t really lie. But I really wanted to meet you!”
“Poor planning on our part, I suppose,” Junichirou says. “That’s what happens when Ranpo doesn’t review the final plan.”
“Ranpo?” Nouka cocks his head.
“You’ll love him,” Kenji says, smiling. “He’s so brilliant!”
Dazai drags a chair over. “You’ve the makings of a great detective,” he says cheerfully. “How about you try and guess what we did before the Agency, just based off appearance alone? It’s a fun game we like to play with the newbies.”
Nouka smiles shyly and tries to decide how much of his hand he wants to reveal. “Oh, I’m sure I’d mess everyone up, but it sounds… fun?”
Kenji throws a gentle elbow into Nouka’s side. “Do me first,” he insists.
Nouka huffs a laugh. “You’ve already told me you were a farmer, Kenji-kun. As for Naomi-san… I think you’re a student. Or still are? Junichirou… a student too?”
Naomi clutches closer to Junichirou, nearly atop him. “You’re so smart!” She laughs, sliding a hand around the back of Junichirou’s neck to caress his cheek. “Just like my sweetest older brother,” she coos. Junichirou goes stiff as a board and tries to lean away from her, a blush spilling across his cheeks and tips of his ears.
“Not now,” Junichirou hisses.
“What about me, Nouka-kun? Can I call you by your first name?” Dazai smiles.
Nouka studies the man. “Sure,” he says absently. “Um… hm.”
“I think there’s a prize for the first person that guesses where he used to work,” Junichirou says, desperately fighting off his sister’s wandering hands. “Wasn’t it… a lot of money?”
Nouka doesn’t need the money, not really. But to expose Dazai as a past worker of the Mafia… would it be worth it to see the looks on their faces? No. Then they would ask how he knew.
“An author,” Nouka guesses. “No?”
Dazai flaps a hand. “Not even close!”
The conversation goes into more normal, smaller things, but Nouka swears he can feel Dazai’s gaze on him the entire time. Even when they return to the office, even as he goes off with Kenji to investigate some gang.
Dazai has found something off with him. Some crack in his persona.
Kakashi blinks rapidly. The next parts are almost unimportant, some superficial investigations. Not as interesting as Dazai’s immediate suspicion of Nouka.
He shelves the thought for later; there’s not much he can do about it other than continuing to act as normal. In this vein, he tries to forget about it, reads some more books, goes to bed. Wakes up screaming and cursing halfway into the night, then washing his hands over and over again until they’re more rawness than skin.
It’s alright, though. He’ll be fine. He always is.
At the Port Mafia, Kakashi's first order of business is to steal a messenger uniform. He does so, easily; there's plenty of spares hanging up in the storage room tucked away on the first floor. The uniform gives him access to pretty much anywhere he wants. And with the glasses he made last night—non-prescription, the genjutsu on them making his scarred eye look both open and normal—he fits in very well. The medical mask has to go, though, and he mourns its loss in the time it takes to remove it and go out the door.
Then: there’s no time to mourn. He’s no longer Kakashi of the Sharingan, of Konoha, of his mask.
He’s just another nameless messenger going about their daily duties, ferrying scheduling notes and meeting times and notices to and fro, newsboy cap pulled low, brown vest flapping. It's incredibly easy to go wherever you like if you walk fast, with direction, with purpose.
It’s a pretty fruitless day, though. Kakashi-the-Port-Mafia-worker chats with Chuuya when he’s not Kakashi-the-messenger. As a messenger he sort of just wanders around and looks for things he thinks could be useful, but some places are barred—even for him—so he makes a note of such rooms and offices and wings, saving them for later.
The day ends. He goes home. Nouka’s there too. Nouka dispels. Kakashi spends a few minutes lying on the couch reorganizing the clone’s memories into something comprehensible. The clone’s certainly had a more exciting day than Kakashi has; something about trying to find a serial killer that kills with fire and lighting. Also an investigation into a strange surge of bulging concrete and odd formations of dirt. Kakashi recognizes it all as fire jutsus, lightning jutsus, and earth jutsus.
The next day at the Port Mafia comes with a slew of executions. Kakashi and Chuuya go out on a mission. Kakashi watches, silently apathetic, as Chuuya decimates a warehouse of people. After, for a late lunch, they get noodles.
“You can kill someone if you want next time,” Chuuya offers tentatively. He’s so obviously clueless on how to treat a stranger it’s almost funny.
Not like Kakashi’s one to talk.
“Maybe.” Kakashi watches Chuuya slurp noodles with a sort of wild, hungry abandon. Quietly, he pulls down his mask and begins to eat. Chuuya doesn’t look up until he’s done, not once.
At the Agency, Nouka learns how the paperwork is filed. Very routine. Very boring. Etcetera.
Then, before he can truly get very far into infiltrating the Agency or the Port Mafia, Kakashi figures out where the Ability user is.
The lights are dim. His map of Yokahoma lies on the table, papers scattered around it and on the floor. Chuuya snores gently away on the couch. If, by following the logic that the Ability is localized, he finds the Ability user… what does he do next? Go home with a wealth of knowledge of things to revolutionize Konoha in the back of his head? Return to living mission-to-mission in ANBU?
Yes, he supposes. What else is there to do?
There’s a few minutes where Kakashi debates if he should tell Chuuya or not. He could just go off on his own, sneak away, feign ignorance. But… Chuuya’s been nothing but good to him, if a little awkward. So Kakashi wakes him up, tells him to fetch a pen, and starts to explain.
They’re greeted at the door by a woman. Kakashi recognizes her instantly as the concerned mother from the park, back when he was spying on Chuuya and the Crawlers girl. The one who’d been worried about the clone’s parents, since at the time the clone was posing as a little kid.
Obviously she doesn’t recognize him. Chuuya looks at her like she’s vaguely familiar, but seems to mostly ignore it. Kakashi, too-aware of how Chuuya at his shoulder, tells her why there are here in short, clipped tones.
She brings them inside. Kakashi catalogues her house—she’s messy but not too messy. Without a child she would probably be very tidy, but with children comes disarray. No spouse, not as far as he can tell based off photos and decorative taste—there’s no clashing aesthetics or anything of the sort. One theme.
They go through perfunctory introductions before they get to the meat of the problem. Sayaka looks more and more worried as Kakashi explains the situation. He reads it easily in the line of her shoulders, the tightness of her limbs, the way she leans back slightly as if to retreat, remove herself from the situation. Her hands are always moving, pouring them tea, fiddling with the hem of her apron, brushing hair back from her face.
And… the Ability user turns out to be a child. She’s so… young. Younger than Kakashi ever remembers being, or feeling, because after his father died he grew into maturity as fast as he could, no matter how ill-suited he was for it.
Chuuya goes outside to make a phone call. Kakashi guesses it’s Dazai, to nullify the Ability and bring everyone home. Muffled words drift into the room through a half-open window.
“It’ll be okay,” Kakashi says to Sayaka.
She startles. “Pardon?”
Kakashi folds his hands across his lap and meets her stare. “It’ll all be fine,” he says, softer. “We will sort it out, and your daughter will be feeling better in no time.”
“I’m just worried,” Sayaka says, quiet and subdued.
Kakashi glances at the doorway. Thinks of the child, of her flushed cheeks and slouched shoulders. Of Mori, and the little girl at his side.
When Chuuya comes back, Kakashi immediately drags the man back out. He takes them far from the window—just in case Sayaka’s listening—and almost… scolds the man.
Mori, to put it straight, is a pedophile. And the Ability user, if under the Port Mafia, will be so very vulnerable. He hammers this into Chuuya’s thick skull until his eyes widen in understanding and he pushes out a slow breath.
The next little while passes in a blur of nervous anticipation, though he hides it easily. Home is close enough to taste.
Nouka arrives with Dazai and it’s all Kakashi can do not to laugh, honestly. He stares at the shadow clone with barely-suppressed mirth. They all follow Sayaka into her daughter’s room, though Nouka and Kakashi linger in the doorway so as to not crowd the room.
“So,” Kakashi says. “You work for the Agency.”
“So,” says Kakashi’s shadow clone. “You work for the Port Mafia.”
They stare at each other, a private joke that only the two of them know.
“Are you ready?” Kakashi asks.
Nouka huffs. “Only if you are,” he says, and they share another mirthful look.
Dazai’s touches the girl’s forehead. Bright light spills through the room.
“Goodbye,” Kakashi says quietly, voice lost to the snap and twist of air as his clone dispels. Chuuya starts to turn, to look at the sound, but Kakashi's going, gone, vanishing from the strangest world he’s ever known with hardly a whisper.