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Chapter Text

There was water all over his face, forcing itself in through his nostrils, stealing all the air still in his lungs.

The rough currents fought to drag him under, while he desperately tried to keep himself afloat, trying to breach the surface and take a desperate breath of air, while the waves crashed over his head.

His lungs burned.

He needed air, but he couldn’t breathe.

He couldn't breathe, and he couldn’t see - his empty eye sockets pulsed in tandem with his heartbeat, pounding in his head so loud he swore it was about to burst -

It was pitch black.

He couldn’t tell which way was up, his body ruthlessly hurled by the water, slamming him against rocks, dragging him deeper, deeper, the water filling his lungs more and more.

He needed to breathe.

The roaring of the Naka was deafening against his eardrums, while he tried to claw at the cliffside, trying to grip something solid, pull himself out of the water, and breathe. The cliffs were too steep, and the sharp rocks protruding only scratched his palms.

The water was everywhere, his lungs straining, he was sinking, drowning, dying-

Oh gods, please. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die! Itachi, oh gods, please I’m dying. It hurts, it hurts, it HURTS

“Breathe!” his lungs yelled.

“Breathe!” screeched his organs.

“You need to breathe!” screamed his brain.

He gave in and took a deep breath; the brackish, muddy water rushing in, filling his mouth, foul and viscous.

He reflexively choked, a desperate gasp bringing only more water into his lungs. His head was fuzzy, the lack of oxygen ravaging his brain. He could feel his grip on consciousness leaving him, bit by bit, as the darkness consumed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blearily opening his eyes to an incredibly bright room, the boy was confused, the phantom press of water still present at the back of his throat.

The room was blinding and noisy, with the vague outline of people running in and out. The sharp scent of antiseptic in the air placed him at a hospital, which he quickly deduced, mentally cataloging every detail he could.

Hospitals usually meant safe, however inconvenient they may be, but the boy did not relax. He could not ignore a deep uneasiness that had settled within him. He did not recognize the hospital, it was not Konoha General, which was extremely concerning.

His eyes struggled to focus, an unfamiliar feeling for a member of a clan famed for their ocular doujutsu, when the boy suddenly reeled at the realization that he had eyes. He had eyes. How?!-

The boy lifted his hand to touch the thankfully - miraculously - no-longer empty socket. Or at least attempted to. His body was heavy and clumsy, probably some of Danzo’s poison still in his system.

He looked down, with surprising difficulty, at his newfound clumsiness. When the sight of his hand shocked him. It was ridiculously tiny, and incredibly chubby, like a baby…

It was the hand of a baby. Why was his hand, his hand, suddenly the hand of a baby? He began to inspect the rest of his - naked! Why was he naked? - body, and with increasing desperation came to the conclusion that it was not just his hand that spontaneously de-aged. Un-aged? Dis-aged? This is unprecedented!

The boy now found himself in a baby’s body and was suddenly filled with the urge to bawl his eyes out, which he found extremely unnecessary and demeaning, but did anyway.

The boy’s head gradually became fuzzy, eerily similar to the effects of oxygen deprivation he had experienced a few hours - Minutes? Days? - ago.

He could feel his higher cognition slipping away through his chubby, baby fingers, reduced to the soft, spongy, brain of a newborn.

The full extent of the boy’s memories was too much to process for the young body he now inhabited, and were placed gently in the back of his mind, stored. Later…the universe seemed to whisper.

The newborn’s eyes flashed red for the slightest microsecond, a pinwheel pattern etched in strange shapes. This occurrence went unnoticed by the others in the room.

Completely unaware of their newborn’s internal conflict, Nakagawa Hana and Takeshi gently coo and cuddle their son, with tears and soft smiles on their faces.

Uchiha Shisui, 16 years old and jounin of Konohagakure, drowned in the Naka River, alone and blind. A dimension away, a few seconds later, Nakagawa Hana and Takeshi welcomed their newborn son Suihei, in a small rural hospital in Shizuoka prefecture, a few hours away from Musutafu.

Chapter Text

The best time to fish is during a steady rain. 

The soft pitter-patter of the droplets onto the water and grey clouds shrouding the sun are ideal for good bites. The stillness of the water and the scent of storm still in the air after a great downpour is also a good option. At least, many fishermen swear by these conditions. 

In a sleepy seaside town in Shizuoka, it had not rained in far too long. 

The hauls were poor, nets coming home too bare for a town where fishing was its lifeblood. 

Nakagawa Takeshi, a local fisherman, was returning home from market with far less money than he would like. 

“Where have all the fish gone? At this rate, I…I don’t know.” 

An old, wizened sailor, sitting on a stoop assured the younger man, “Once it rains, the fish will all come back. Just you wait. Rain will come.” As if responding to the man’s words a crack of thunder echoed through the sky. A smug smile stretched across the sailor’s face. “Now get on home to your wife, boy. I hear she’s due any minute now.” He made a small shooing motion with his hands. 

Takeshi huffed good-naturedly but did pick up his pace. The man was right, Hana was  very pregnant. He would be meeting his child very soon. 

Once Takeshi arrived home, he saw that his house was deserted. Soon after, his phone started blowing up with notifications, his in-laws yelling at him to get down to the local hospital; Hana was in labor. 

Takeshi rushed to his car, which was rusted and run-down but reliable, and quickly made his way to the only hospital in the surrounding area, the only one for miles in any direction. 

With a remarkably poor parking job, he ran out of his car and past the front desk, to the room where his in-laws were beckoning him inside. As soon as he entered, his wife immediately clamped down on his forearm, leaving red finger indents on his skin. 

“Takeshi, dear.” Hana’s voice was strained. She made eye contact with him and with an unimpressed look on her face said, “This sucks ass.” 

The next hours were a blur. Yelling was definitely involved - “Don’t you dare pass out on me, Takeshi!” 

Meanwhile, the rain had picked up, turning into a veritable deluge. It was the most rain the town had seen in a very long time, lasting far into the night and only stopping by early morning.  

Around daybreak, the baby was born while the rain was reduced to a soft drizzle, the sun peeking out from the clouds. 

Hana, exhausted and gently cradling her newborn son, spoke softly to her husband, “So…what shall we name him?” 

Her husband quickly stared out the window at the ocean. “His birth, he brought rain with him, brought a huge storm. After…what?... months ?” He turned to face his wife and child. “Right after a storm is over, is one of the most rewarding times for fishing. The absolute stillness of the early-morning ocean after a storm, like a great mirror reflecting the sky back at itself. You’re surrounded by molten glass, all around you, filling your whole vision, glittering…” he trailed off. “…the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. It was unclear whether he was referring to the view, or the bundle of joy in his arms, but his eyes - transfixed and on the verge of tears, full of love - made it easy to tell. 

“Suihei (水平), we’ll name him Suihei,” he said. 

“...still water, huh.” Hana gently boop-ed the newly christened Suihei on the nose, “The perfect name for the son of a great fisherman.” Looking at her husband she said, “That was quite poetic, ‘Keshi. Didn’t know you had it in you.” 

“Surprised me too. But I had to do justice to such a beautiful scene, a perfect name for the son of one as beautiful as yourself.” He gently nuzzled at Hana’s neck. 

“Noooo, stop it,” she whined, “I’m all sweaty and gross!” 

The new parents laughed softly, comfortable and overjoyed. 

----------------------------

Nakagawa Hana née Maeda was a fairly unremarkable woman. 

She was pretty, but not the brightest. A fairly mediocre modeling career behind her  (Never quite making it to the runway, sticking mostly to catalog shoots) followed by a brief stint as a flight attendant, (AirJapan was not happy when she discreetly tried to stuff a few of the watches in the first-class lost and found into her handbag, a (faux) Birkin, of course) and finally settling as a stay-at-home mom (Who took occasional shifts at the local conbini when money was tight).  

Born to two lower-middle-class parents, one of five siblings, she dreamed of the high life. Clothes, shoes, jewelry, the whole shebang. 

She moved to the city as a young adult to make it big, returning home to live with her parents once things didn’t pan out. They welcomed her back, happy to have at least one of their children back at home . There she fell in love with a quaint fisherman who was basically her polar opposite when it came to life goals, but she adapted to small-town life quite well. She adapted a little less well to motherhood - Suihei was an accident - but she did fine enough, she guesses. She never lost her high fashion bug, though. 

Quirk legislation is much looser away from big city centres, and Hana took great advantage of that. 

Hana had a minor emitter quirk called color changing, which allowed her to change the color of objects through touch. It was only temporary, depending on the size of the object and the amount of effort, but as long as she remained touching something, the color could be changed for longer stretches. She was well-known for using her quirk so often no one was sure what exactly her hair and eye color really was. 

Her penchant for switching her eye color did bring up questions regarding what exactly counted as touching, but nobody thought hard about the mechanics of her quirk, much less herself. 

She never did find out that she didn’t actually change the colors of things, but instead was able to cast minor visual illusions. Illusions that seemingly affected only color, but full-fledged illusions nonetheless. 

Shisui would come to appreciate the fact that his mother’s illusion quirk went under the radar, which kept him off quite a few lists. It’s well-known how tightly illusion quirks are regulated. 

A minor aesthetic quirk is preferable. As big of an ego boost a bingo book entry was - there’s a reason why shinobi show off their entry to their friends - it was inconvenient to have your abilities plastered everywhere. Subtlety is a shinobi’s best friend. That, and sharp pointy objects. 

-----------------------------

Nakagawa Takeshi was a rising star in Tokyo’s police precinct, homicide division, when he suddenly quit and moved to a small, middle-of-nowhere fishing village. 

When questioned, he touted the sludge-like coffee and poor dental coverage, but he was really done with having to deal with deranged people day in and day out. 

His quirk was called Insight, it allowed him to gain insight into peoples’ personalities, mindsets, etc…by seeing through their eyes. Categorized as an ocular emitter quirk; when making direct eye contact, he was temporarily able to see from the point of view of another person, with some leftover echoes of their feelings, thoughts, and perceptions. What really messed with him is that he perceived their thoughts as his own, which got old fast when interviewing homicidal maniacs. 

His parents were disappointed when he passed up a promotion and turned to fishing full-time, but Takeshi had never been happier. Fish don’t make eye contact with him, and neither does the water. (His wife Hana was the exception, he always got the warm fuzzies when he made eye contact with her. Bright colors, so many colors . Much nicer than homicidal intent.) 

Takeshi happily resigned himself to the constant sand under his fingernails. The fish guts all over his hands, all the time, and the smell took a bit longer to get used to. But it really does grow on you. 

The wide-brimmed hat was a plus as well. It’s very easy to avoid eye contact with those on; Just pretend you have to squint because of the sun and graciously look down, no one suspects a thing. 

And it was so slow. No one has anywhere to go, nowhere to be. Takeshi took to staring at the ocean for large stretches of time, sipping at tea, just because he could. Yeah, Takeshi was much happier. 

----------------------------

A terrified cry echoed into the night, splitting the silence. It’s unfortunately familiar for this family of three. 

Nakagawa Hana, in bed with her husband, groaned as she woke up. She refused to open her eyes as if keeping them closed would stop the last of the sleep from leaving her. She turned to her husband who was fast asleep and shook him awake. 

“Wake, up. It’s your turn.”

“...whah?...” Takeshi’s voice was still thick with sleep.  

“Suihei’s woken up again. It’s your turn to deal with it.” She promptly rolled back onto her side and covered her head with the blanket. 

The cries had devolved into loud sobbing as Takeshi made his way to his son’s room. 

“Hey, buddy…bad dream?” Takeshi crouched down and started running his hand through Suihei’s hair. 

“Yeah,” he rubbed his eyes, which were puffy and red, “It was really scary.” 

He’d been having terrible nightmares consistently for the past few weeks. Woke up screaming more often than not. It was a departure from how Suihei usually acted. People were starting to notice a difference. The boy was often complimented by everyone for being such a great kid, sunny and happy. But recently he’d been oddly quiet, often sitting alone and sometimes spontaneously bursting into tears, his eyes oddly glazed, as if he were elsewhere. 

His parents have caught him staring at his reflection for long periods, often prodding and poking at his eyes, with a weirdly introspective expression for such a small child. It was mildly unsettling. 

Recently, the boy was left near inconsolable after Hana attempted to bathe him. Screaming about how he ‘ didn’t want to die’. It had taken significantly more cajoling than usual to get the boy to agree, his usual bath toys not nearly enticing enough. Again, this was extremely odd. Suihei had always luxuriated in bath time, the customary bubbles often leading to extremely adorable giggle fits, but he had staunchly fought against it, instead opting for a shower (He had still been weirdly miserable with the shower. His parents were puzzled.) 

This night, however, disregarding the nightmare, Suihei was acting as he usually did, if a bit subdued, which could be easily explained by the nightmare. 

“I bet. You were very brave.” He picked up the 4-year-old, and pretended to whisper conspiratorially in his ear, “Do you think it would help if you slept with us tonight, ‘sui?” 

Suihei nodded his head vigorously, a small smile creeping up his face. “Yeah! Wanna cuddle!” His smile drooped slightly, “ ‘Cause I don’t wanna be alone. It’s dark in my room…” 

He mumbled something under his breath, looking away from his dad. 

“What was that, kiddo? I didn’t hear you,” said his father. 

“I said it was really dark, like someone had taken my eyes.” 

Takeshi whirled to face his son straight on, “What?”

“Ripped them straight out of my face. It hurt,” tears started dripping down his chubby cheeks, “It hurt real bad.” 

“What are you talking about, baby? Are you okay?” Takeshi started gently examining his son’s face, looking for anything amiss, slightly frantic. “Do your eyes hurt?”

While inspecting his eyes, Takeshi made eye contact and - It hurtsIthurtsITHURTS MY EYES He feels the blood pooling in his empty sockets, the damaged nerves screaming and raw. The poison running through his blood, burning and acidic in his veins. The water filling his lungs and- 

It was over, Insight only lasts a couple of seconds, but it felt like hours to Takeshi. He looked at his fingers, the ones that were ghosting over Suihei’s eyes and found blood. 

“Hana! HANA!” He stomped his way to the master bedroom. “Hana, we need to go to the hospital.” 

Hana, still lying on the futon startled. “What?” 

“Hospital, Now.” He speed walked to the car, quickly fastening Suihei into the booster seat, who had already started drifting into sleep once more, a light trail of rapidly drying blood under both of his eyes. 

After quite a few minutes of Takeshi restlessly tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, Hana slid into the car. 

“Was the full glam makeup really necessary?” 

“If we’re interacting with other people, and I assume we will at the Hospital, I need it.” 

Takeshi didn’t respond and started driving. 

“So…why are we going to the hospital?” 

Takeshi stopped white-knuckling the steering wheel for a split second and gestured to Suihei’s sleeping face, whose brows were slightly furrowed in what appeared to be pain.

Noticing the blood, Hana exclaimed, “Oh God! What happened?” 

“No idea. I went to put him back to sleep, the usual, and I felt a bit bad so I was bringing him to sleep with us. It seems to help sometimes. When…I don’t know! His eyes started bleeding!” 

“For no reason?!” 

“Hana, I don’t know.” He gestured at the empty street in front of him. “Which is why we’re driving to the hospital. 20 minutes later than I would’ve liked ,” he mumbled the last bit. 

Hana shot a glare at her husband. “I didn’t know?! You should start with ‘The kid’s eyes are bleeding!” 

“Why else would we be going to the hospital?!” 

“Lots of reasons! You know-” 

Suihei interrupted, “Tou-san, Kaa-san, where are we going?” 

“We’re just going to the hospital, ‘Sui. Like when grandma didn’t feel so well, so we went to the hospital, and then she felt all better, remember?” said Takeshi, a strained smile on his face. 

“Mhm…” Suihei agreed, head drooping. With a slightly different affect he continued, “I don’t really like hospitals. The medic-nin are overbearing.” 

Hana looked at her husband and mouthed, ‘ What the fuck’ . 

Takeshi shrugged helplessly, “He said some weird stuff at the house, too.” 

“Like…?” 

“Something about having his eyes ripped out?” 

“...Jesus.” 

--------------------------

“Well, everything seems to be in order. Just some slight inflammation and redness in the sclera.” Dr. Tanaka leaned back and faced the Nakagawas, leaving Suihei kicking his feet back and forth on the examination table. “It’s probably just quirkiasis.” 

Both of the Nakagawas had blank looks on their faces. 

The doctor sighed, “Like odontiasis….” They continued to stare uncomprehending. “Teething, like teething, but for quirks.” 

Takeshi started, “I don’t think-” 

“Irritation and inflammation on the affected area, slight changes in personality and affect, reserved and depressed mood,” said Dr.Tanaka, counting on his fingers. “It’s textbook. You know how your personality often matches your quirk. With quirks that emerge later in life, personality quirks often come with it.” 

“But what about the bleeding? That can’t be normal?” said Takeshi, still worried. 

“I’ll admit it’s a bit more violent than usual, but imagine a whole section of your DNA is trying to express itself, not just some teeth. That explains the mood and the bleeding, something like that is mighty uncomfortable.” 

Hana, who had been quiet until now piped up, “Well, if the ‘personality quirks’ that pop up match the quirk,” she made air quotes with her hands, “What kind of quirk talks about ripping people’s eyes out?” 

Dr.Tanaka was silent for a moment, “Well, he should tell you himself once it manifests. Which should be very soon, by the way. I don’t think it’s anything too bad. He looks like a fine kid.” He looked at Suihei, who has started humming softly to himself. “When they’re bad, quirks that is, you can really tell.” 

Hana stared at Suihei with a complicated expression on her face. 

Takeshi goes to scoop him up into his arms. “Thank you so much, Tanaka-san. We really appreciate it. Right, ‘Sui?” He nudged him softly with his shoulder. 

“Thank you, Tanaka-san.” Suihei waved with a huge smile on his face. 

-----------------------

A few days later, something similar happened. Suihei woke up screaming, and this time Hana went to go deal with it. Takeshi had left on a longer-than-usual fishing trip, so Hana was alone with Suihei.  

She made her way to his bedroom and sat down on the floor next to him. “You alright? Why’d you wake me up this time?” She yawned, putting her hand over her face. 

“Yeah, Kaa-san. I’m sorry I bothered you.” He was sniffling slightly, but no blood was leaking from his eyes. 

“Hmm,” she hummed noncommittally, tucking the boy back in bed, “Go back to sleep.” 

He closed his eyes, but as Hana was about to leave, he spoke, “Is Tou-san gonna be back soon? My other Tou-san left for Iwa and never came back. Never came back the same, that is.”

“What are you talking about, kid?” 

“My dream Tou-san. He died, I think. Slowly.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” She shifts to fully face Suihei. “Go to sleep.” 

She stood up and closed the door behind her. 

She shuddered slightly, “Since when is my kid a horror movie extra? Frea-key…Just don’t stab me in my sleep, kid.” 

----------------------------

Eventually, on the first night since the nightmares began that Suihei hadn’t woken up distressed, Suihei woke up his parents early in the morning. 

“TOU-SAN! KAA-SAN! LOOK!” He jumped onto their futon, waking them up with a start. “LOOK WHAT MY EYES CAN DO!” 

He turned his quirk on and off, his irises flickering from their usual black to a bright, softy glowing red. The red irises had some sort of pattern on them, a circular pin-wheel-ish design with black accents. 

“Oh! That’s so cool, buddy!!” Takeshi hugged the boy. 

Hana, no less enthusiastically, said, “Well, Thank God that’s over! No nightmares yesterday night!” 

Takeshi shot his wife a look. He looked at Suihei, who stopped jumping and was now only rocking back and forth, clearly excited. “Well, bud. What’s it do?” 

“It! It…uh.” His excitement dampened a bit. “Uhm. I don’t know? I think that’s it.” 

Hana let out a bark of laughter. “After all that. You get a fancy nightlight? Talk about overkill, huh.” 

“Anyways, if that’s all it does. We’ll go down to Dr.Tanaka today and have him start the quirk registration process, okay?” 

Suihei, who had wilted like a flower, jumped up again. “YEP! Everyone’ll know how cool my eyes are.” 

------------------------

“I’ll be honest. I was expecting something more exciting.” Dr. Tanaka pushed his glasses back up. “Your quirk is pretty standard fare,” he pointed at Hana, “But yours Nakagawa-san. Yours is quite interesting. This is a surprisingly tepid mix…It makes sense, but…” He trailed off. “I’m sorry Suihei-kun, but what did you say your quirk’s name was?” 

“Sharingan!” 

“Thank you, young man. Could you explain to me its name?” 

“Yeah, so…Copy, wheel, eye, because it’s an eye quirk, and the funky little pattern looks like a pinwheel!” 

“Understood. And the ‘Copy’?” 

“Umm, I’m not sure. But that’s its name, though.” 

Dr. Tanaka wrote a few things down on the forms. “Well, if you’re sure.” He looked up. “I’m always surprised by quirk names, it’s such an interesting phenomenon. I don’t think we study it enough. As soon as a quirk manifests itself, the user suddenly has a base awareness of it, and it always, always comes with a name. Interesting, right?” 

“Yes, Tanaka-san. Again, thank you so much for helping us with that little scare we had last week. We appreciate it,” Takeshi said. 

“It’s no problem.” He finished writing a few more things. “So, to confirm, ‘Sharingan’ is a minor ocular quirk. It turns his eyes red, just aesthetic.” 

“Yes, Tanaka-san.” He pointed at himself and then his wife. “An ocular quirk plus a color-changing one. It makes sense.” 

Sitting on the examination bench, in a mirror of the last time he was there. Shisui grinned to himself. It was sharp enough to cut.

Subtlety, subtlety~ A shinobi’s best friend. 

Shisui started kicking his feet. 

Chapter Text

Shinobi had extremely short life expectancies. 

Those who were truly skilled either died in glory, young and well before their peak, or were some of the few who lived out their lives naturally, or what was left of their natural lifespan (Shinobi business is stressful business, and stress shears away many years.) 

A flee-on-sight, S-rank, or similar usually landed you in this category. Eg: Madara - lived for way too long. Minato - died way too young. 

Shisui himself belonged to this category, and unfortunately took the first route, with a sadly muted glorious passing. The backstabbing involved in village corruption was significantly less lustrous than death on the battlefield. Shisui was still not over it, he deserved a big bang! Or a gentle walk into the night surrounded by friends and family. Instead, he drowned, sad and alone. The sheer disrespect!

Those unremarkable enough to slip past radars had similar odds to the extremely skilled. No one went out of their way to kill these guys, unlike the truly skilled and their myriad of assassination attempts. Your choices are, again, very young, or by the powers of sheer complacency, the unremarkable can live out their years. Eg. Umino Iruka - not skilled enough to win with any consistency, but he lived through the 4th great shinobi war by looking the other way and sticking to his desk job. Commendable. 

To be weak or to be competent was a death wish for shinobi. The weak were slaughtered with ease. The competent were too good to skate by undetected like the unremarkable, but they were not remarkable enough to fight fate…or foreign assassination attempts. Eg. Asuma - Good, but not that good. Which gets you killed. 

During war, life expectancies were even lower. Reaching double digits was often a feat. Reaching double digits relatively unscathed was an even harder one. 

This “shinobi expiration rate” led to most generational shinobi families being incredibly dysfunctional, which is why shinobi clans were much more sustainable in the long run (extended family is able to take care of orphans, or even the civilian side of a clan.)

A stable family unit in shinobi society (not counting civilian-born shinobi) was the same as a decent civilian-made kunai, incredibly rare and a bit of a novelty. 

----------------------

Shisui had not been a gambler, despising anything he could not discretely rig for himself, but he did have something of a morbid game he used to play throughout his first life. 

Shisui had been something of an exception. An outlier in something other than his prowess and power, which had been extraordinary. 

He had been a shinobi who had both parents for the large majority of his life. (His father had passed from illness when Shisui was 10, losing his leg and his health in the third shinobi war due to poison. 10 years was more than 60 percent of 15, though. “Majority of his life” was probably aided by the fact that he had died so young.) 

An unprecedented phenomenon. 

Uchiha Suzume and Uchiha Ryuusuke had both been shinobi and had been Uchiha Shisui, Uchiha prodigy extraordinaire’s, loving parents. A Double Jackpot! 

See, due to his atypical situation, Shisui often attempted to guess the parental status of enemy shinobi when on missions. He was gifted with the ability to smell daddy and mommy issues from a mile away. 

After soundly thwarting an attempted ambush to his Anbu squad, Shisui with his foot still pressing down on the still groaning enemy-nin’s face, would turn to Lynx, and with a faux-serious expression would proclaim, “Mommy issues, this one. Very serious mommy issues. You can tell from the slight hesitance at left-handed shurikenjutsu, it’s endemic.” 

Genma, poorly attempting to muffle his laughter behind the Lynx mask, would always lose his mind when Shisui did this. Genma said the expression was a perfect imitation of the few civilian psychologists on Konoha’s payroll, who always walked around with an air of superiority, outraged at the shinobi’s barbarous practices . They never lasted long. Anbu and T&I often competed to see who could get them to quit first. Such wholesome inter-division bonding. 

Through Anbu’s connection with T&I, Shisui often got to look at some pretty classified intelligence, and he always tried to subtly check his guesses. He was right more often than not, which Genma found hilarious. Even Kakashi would crack a smile. 

Shisui obviously refrained from “playing his game” on his fellow comrades. Shinobi don’t pry when it comes to their friends. Well…only when necessary, and you definitely don’t tell them about it, you just discretely meddle.  

Regardless, Shisui counted one stable, present parent (Not necessarily a biological or legal one, mentors and team leaders often filled a parental role for many.) in the life of a shinobi, as a Jackpot, a Parent Jackpot. Two parents were a Double Jackpot . 

So, when Uchiha Shisui was finally fully present and conscious, not the uncomfortable fading in and out that had been happening once the memories started trickling in, he began a sweep of the Nakagawa residence, spotting the two sleeping figures of his (new?) parents still sleeping. The two figures. “ Twice in a row? Damn, I’m lucky. It’s a Second Double Parent Jackpot!” he thought to himself. 

Shisui stood still in the hallway for a few seconds before making his way to his parent’s room, attempting to step lightly and silently. When the wood groaned under his feet, he sighed. “The muscle memory’s there, but it’s not quite right. This body can’t recreate the movements just yet. I’ll deal with that later.” 

“So…how do I act again?” he thought out loud. Shisui got a good look at all the family photos hanging on the wall. Most photos have Suihei -“ Me, I guess. That’s weird”- with a huge smile, often blurred at the edges and in motion. “Loud and cheery, got it.” 

He schooled his face into a neutral expression, then broke into a huge grin. 

“TOU-SAN! KAA-SAN! LOOK!” Shisui jumped onto the Nakagawas’ futon ( His parents? He’d have to go over this later, as well. They were his parents, but also not? ) waking them up with a start. “LOOK WHAT MY EYES CAN DO!” 

-----------------------------

Sitting on the cold bathroom floor, Shisui took stock of his situation. A weak, toddler body, and a single, dull kitchen knife he managed to swipe earlier with the aforementioned pathetic toddler body. Not good. 

He exhaled strongly. “Later, I’ll deal with that later.” He added his lack of weapons to the growing mental pile of later . Right next to his poor physical state. 

He continued going down his battle readiness checklist, feeling more and more discouraged. “Someone could totally kill me right now. And it wouldn’t even be hard,” he told his reflection accusingly. 

Shisui attempted to reach for his chakra, to check how developed his chakra systems were but was dumbfounded when nothing seemed to respond. “It’s not chakra exhaustion… I may not be an expert on it like Kakashi-taichou, but I do know what that feels like.”

He quickly ran through his pre-cognizance memories, which was an extremely weird feeling. The memories were his, but there was an odd distance to them, a disconnect. He mentally compiled all of the paltry information his 4-year-old reincarnated self ( What a mouthful. ) had gathered about the world. With growing disbelief, Shisui concluded that he was in a completely different dimension. Find out more about the world was instantly added next to Acquire weapons .  

Closing his eyes in a last attempt to sense any chakra, he attempted to spread out his awareness to his surroundings, searching for any bright spot. He wasn’t a sensor by any means, much less a sage, but he was passable. Any Konoha-nin worth their salt can tell Hashirama trees apart from others purely from their chakra signatures. Everything that was alive was supposed to have chakra, down to the smallest inchworm. When the usual soft hum of life was completely silent, Shisui felt unmoored. An empty void where the pulse of chakra had been constantly in the back of his head. “ I guess this world doesn’t have chakra, huh.”  

Without reaching for his chakra, Shisui flickered his Sharingan on and off a few times as he normally did, staring intently at his expression. The activation worked and felt the same as usual, except for the lack of a slight draw at his chakra pool. “Seems to be in working order…somehow?” The concept of this world’s ‘Quirks’ flashed in his mind. “Ah, got it.” These ‘quirks’  seemed to be a sort of unique kekkei genkai that most of the population had, ranging from completely useless to actually quite powerful. 

Having the Sharingan calmed Shisui down substantially. Even if ambushed, a decent genjutsu could deal with most combatants who would go after a child. He would probably pass out after, but unconscious was better than dead. 

However, without chakra, the shunshin was out of the question. Shisui huffed lightly. He would have to get his speed back up manually, and without chakra to reinforce him, it would take even longer. He deftly twirled the kitchen knife in his hand. But it would definitely be shorter than the first time around. 

-------------------------------

“Oh. Hello, Crow-san.” A large crow was pecking at Shisui’s window. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Shisui while opening the latch, letting the bird in. It flew in and landed gracefully, talons digging into the wood of his dresser. “Caw?” it squawked inquisitively, tilting its head. 

Shisui let out a small laugh and tilted his head in return, repeating the caw back at the bird. He extended his arm, offering it to the crow. The crow flapped its wings, hopping slightly, but did not land on Shisui’s arm, instead choosing to perch atop his head. It nestled itself in Shisui’s curls, cawing contentedly. 

Shisui no longer had his crow summoning contract (Itachi had it now. Please let him be okay, let his summons be protecting his dearest friend.) but he had always felt attuned to the birds even before the contract. Even a dimension away, crows still sought him out with unusual frequency. The birds seemed to sense some sort of residual kinship and were extremely friendly. Case in point. 

These crows were not summons, however, and were incapable of understanding human speech. That didn’t mean they were unable to communicate. Their intelligence was one of the reasons Shisui loved them. 

Shisui’s crow was rusty, his newly young vocal cords unaccustomed to the rattling, grating sounds necessary for the language. But he could still make himself understood. “Crow-san, do you want to be part of my flock? I could use a friend as smart as you.” Shisui flinched at his terrible accent, coughing slightly. 

The crow hopped to Shisui’s still outstretched hand, leaving Shisui’s hair in disarray and preening under the praise. “Strange Human is perceptive, I am the smartest of my flock. The others were scared to approach you, Strange One, but I knew you were different. And see, I was right! You speak our language. Poorly…but you are speaking it!” 

“I’m a bit rusty, Crow-san. I apologize.” 

“I am the one who should apologize.” The crow looked a bit sheepish. “I speak my mind a bit too eagerly, Strange One, especially to Humans. They don’t usually understand me.” 

Shisui snorted. Rifling through his pockets, he produced some nuts and offered them to the crow, who scarfed them down eagerly. “It’s alright Crow-san. I was, and continue to be, offended by my own pronunciation.” Shisui squawked, a grimace on his face, his throat protesting. 

“It is alright, Strange One. I will gladly join your flock…If you allow me a question.” 

“Shoot.” 

“You are Human, are you not?” 

“Yes?” 

“But you are also Flock. You speak our language. How is that?” 

“I was taught. I had many dear companions. They could speak both crow and human, but most much-preferred crow. It took many years, but I learned out of respect. There are too many summoners who do not respect their summons enough. It’s a privilege that has to be earned! You need to value their companionship, not just call them when you’re in trouble. They are incredibly intelligent and-” Shisui got more and more heated as he continued. “Sorry, I always get a bit intense when talking about this.” 

“You did lose me a bit, Strange One. I do not know what you mean by summons, but I appreciate your passion. It is clear you were Flock, they cared for you and clearly cared for them. Human-Flock, it would be a pleasure to join you.” 

“Thank you, Crow-san. Please call me Shisui. What shall I call you?” 

“I do not have a name in the way Humans have one, as you’re aware. I am named after the sounds of the leaves rustling at dusk…I have always been curious about Human names, however. You may select one for me… If you would like.” The crow was trying to keep excitement out of its voice. 

“All right.” Shisui ran his fingers lightly through the crow’s feathers, straightening them out. “What do you think about Riku (俐暮), Crow-san? It has many different meanings, but for you, I would choose smart and dusk.” 

“Rih-kuh. Riii-ku. Riku. Riku! RIKU!” The crow croaked with enthusiasm, sounding it out. “My Human name!” 

“I’m guessing you like it?” 

“Oh, this is wonderful, Strange Hum- I mean Shisui . Splendid!” Riku squawked. “I have a Human name! How odd! How wondrous!” 

Shisui was fully laughing by now. He had been in a pretty horrendous mood since he came to awareness. But talking with his new crow friend was the best he’d felt since waking up in this ridiculous 4-year-old body. He’d been trying desperately to ignore the fact that he’d died. He really didn’t want to think about that anytime soon, think about everything he left behind, when he drowned, when he kill- Nope. Repress like a good little shinobi, Shisui. Do not think about the clan. Or the village. Or the fact that Danzo was now running around with his eye. Oh god, his eye. Were his friends ok? Was Itachi ?! Riku interrupted Shisui’s spiraling thoughts with a peck. 

“Is Shisui alright? Riku has been observing the Humans for many years and is guessing that you are in poor spirits. I shall lift them for you. Watch and be entertained.” 

“It’s alright Riku, I’m oka-” 

“Silence, Shisui-Human. I am in the process of lifting your spirits…with song! I have seen Humans do this before, I am an expert.” 

Crows were not known for the beauty of their songs. Riku began cawing loudly, regardless. He ‘ sang’ for about a minute. “Did it work? Has Riku helped Shisui-Human?”

“Yes, Riku. I appreciate it.” Shisui’s grin was so huge it was hurting his face. “Really helpful.” 

Suddenly, the boy and crow heard a loud yell from across the house. “Suihei! What’s all that racket?! You better not be feeding the birds again, boy!” 

The crow looked ready to say something in response, even though he had no idea what had been said. Shisui lightly held Riku’s beak closed and yelled back. “Sorry, Kaa-san! The window was open, but I don’t know why the birds are so loud.” 

Shisui placed his finger in front of his mouth in a shushing motion. Whispering to Riku he said, in crow, “This means quiet. Do you mind being quiet when I do this motion? That way we can talk inside the house. We cannot let the other, tall Human, hear us. She wouldn’t be very happy.” 

Riku looked offended but unruffled his feathers at the explanation. “Alright, Shisui-Human. I can be quiet. Riku will learn all of your funny symbols. But Shisui-Human must do me a favor.” 

“Yes, Riku?” 

“Can you teach me the Human language? I would like to learn.” 

“Of course!” Shisui continued, “This is your first word. ‘Snacks .’ It is a very important word to know.” 

“ Snacks ,” Riku echoed. “What does it mean, Shisui-Human?” 

“It means I give you these.” He fished out more of the nuts he had kept in his pocket and offered them to the crow. 

“Oh, Shisui-Human. I quite like this word!” He repeated the word a few more times for good measure. “Snacks. Snacks!” 

------------------------------

Shisui was sitting by Nakagawa Takeshi on a small fishing boat. It was very early morning, the sun had still not fully risen to take its place in the sky. The soft rays were reflecting off the water and coloring the horizon in a soft pink hue. 

Their boat was about 15 min away from shore and the water was calm. It was a beautiful sight, but Shisui was not having it. 

His shoulders were the slightest bit tense and he was eyeing the water with much more caution than necessary. His hands had a vice grip on the fishing rod, and he kept anxiously tapping his feet while trying to avoid looking at the water. 

A small wave lightly rocked the boat and the metal fishing rod groaned under his hands, bending slightly. Shisui started breathing slightly faster, eyes darting back and forth across the water as if trying to find a threat. 

Takeshi wordlessly pushed down his son’s fishing hat, covering his eyes and his view of the water. Shisui relaxed slightly, and Takeshi wrenched the fishing rod out of his son’s hands. They were both silent for a few seconds. 

“Since when are you afraid of water ‘Sui? I remember you loved to play around in the shallows.” He looked at the bent fishing rod with a grimace. “And how the hell did you do this?” 

Shisui opened his mouth to answer. Probably with some sort of lie, when Takeshi continued, “Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t need to know.” 

They were quiet for a longer time. Takeshi staring out into the water, and Shisui staring down at his hands. 

The sun was reaching its apex when Shisui piped up. “Takeshi-san?” The fisherman hummed in acknowledgment. “Does it bother you when I call you that?” 

“Instead of Tou-san or something similar?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I mean…It’s-” Takeshi’s fingers twitched. He began methodically dismantling the fishing rod for want of something to do with his hands. “I can’t say I don’t mind. But…” 

“But?” 

“You’re not doing-” 

“-Fish.” 

“Ah, thank you.” The bobber moved slightly, sinking minutely and then popping back up. Takeshi began reeling the fish in. “You always spot them before me. You’ve got good eyes.” 

“Hmm. Your genetics, I assume.” Shisui shifted, looking down to the bottom of the boat again. He had a small smile on his face; it seemed it was mostly to himself, like a joke only he was aware of. 

Takeshi cleared his throat. “Where was I?”

“I’m not doing…” 

“Ah, yes. You’re not doing it out of malice. At least, I don’t think you are.” The bait was put away, carefully. Takeshi turned to look at the bucket near Shisui’s feet. “You aren’t, right?” 

“No. I’m not. I wouldn’t.” 

Takeshi nodded softly. 

“You aren’t trying to humiliate me, or call me a bad father or make a statement - you always call me your dad when talking to others. So I don’t know why you do it. Uh, no idea. It’s just a thing you do.” 

“Just a thing?” 

“Look, I know I say you act like a bird. With all your head-tilting and stuff. But there’s no need to parrot everything I saw back at me.” 

“Sorry.” He let out an awkward laugh. “I just…It’s hard to talk about it.” 

“It’s alright. Take your time.” 

Takeshi began re-organizing the hooks in his case. Not from smallest to largest. But from dullest to sharpest. The hooks near the end varied from the size of Shisui’s hand to smaller than his nail, but all were wicked sharp. Shisui had swiped a few over the past year, or he had asked Riku to nab a few for him. Most were stashed beneath a loose floorboard in his room. He always kept one tucked into the heel of his shoes, along with a small fish-gutting knife he had stolen from another fisherman. Looking at the impeccable organized box, the metal glinting meanly in the sunlight, Shisui grinned. He always appreciated Takeshi’s organizational skills. Very orderly, and surprisingly deadly. 

“I don’t- I’m- I, uh-” Shisui started a few times, none sounding quite right. “I don’t think I should explain. But I’m not doing it to be disrespectful or anything.” 

“I know. I believe you.” Takeshi threw out his line again, the bright lure glittering as it sailed across the sky, landing in the water with a slight plop . “It’s not like its hindering our relationship or anything. I think we’re much closer than I ever was with my dad.” 

“I’m guessing I wouldn’t want to meet him?” 

“No, it’s not that. I just…I don’t think we ever really talked , you know. ‘How was school today, Takeshi?’ ‘Good’ ‘How’s your job, Takeshi?’ ‘Good’ ‘How’s your wife, Takeshi?’ ‘Everything’s good.’...Now that I think about it, that might’ve been my fault” He had a wry grin on his face. Shisui giggled a bit. “So I know. Too many questions can get tiring. That’s actually why I quit.”

“From the police department? I thought that was because of-” Shisui gestured at his eyes, “-these bad boys.” 

“Well, that was part of it. Constantly being bombarded with ‘serial killer brain’ was not fun.” 

“I can imagine.” 

“But I think I was not cut out for police work, personality-wise. I’m just not curious enough. Everyone else was obsessed with finding out motivations, spending hours pouring over evidence, getting all conspiracy theorist with the red thread. And I…I just solved things as quickly as possible. I didn’t care about why, I just cared about who and when. Like, I don’t need to know why you killed your hamster in the third grade. I have positive id on CCTV footage of you murdering people . Just get it out of the way, you know.”

“Did you hate interviewing suspects, then? That probably sucked given how your quirk would’ve made you amazing at that.” 

“Yeah, I hated interviews. Had to do them all the time. I wasn’t the best though; there was this guy. Tsukauchi. He could tell if you were lying, it was wild.” 

A police detective with a lie detector quirk. Shisui had no idea how the whole reincarnation thing would react to it, not knowing how the quirk worked. Not that he was planning on getting involved with the police. It’s not like he’d ever get caught when didn’t want to. Could cause issues down the line, though. Good to know. 

“That does sound wild. Probably very helpful for solving crime, but I wouldn’t that quirk anywhere near me .”

“Planning on committing crimes, are you? Something to hide?” 

Shisui laughed. “Nope,” he said popping the p, “Not that I’d ever get caught if I did. I could still be holding a severed head when the police arrive and still get away with it” 

“That’s for sure,” said Takeshi lightly. He finished putting everything away. 

Suddenly, Takeshi looked serious. He stared at Shisui’s nose bridge, imitating eye contact, and started talking. “I know there’s something off here, I’m not stupid. Feels like I’m talking to one of my old colleagues, not my 5-year-old. You’re too sharp, weirdly mature, and way too comfortable with violence.” 

Shisui tensed. Takeshi continued, “But I know you’re showing this to me on purpose. I see how you act around other people, you’re too good an actor for this to be anything but intentional. I appreciate that trust, and I’ll give it right back. I won’t pry. I won’t ask questions. Cause I don’t need to know. ” Takeshi took a deep breath, steeling himself. “I don’t want to know. That one glimpse I got that night was enough. Enough to tell me I should back off and mind my own business.” His voice lowered. “ I get nightmares from what I saw. That split second when I met your eyes. It was about a week before you got your quirk…It has probably something to do with your quirk, doesn’t it?” 

“Yeah, in a way.” 

“Well, that’s all I wanted to know. It’s quirk related, then. Hana thinks you’re possessed or something.” Takeshi grabbed Shisui’s hands, both pairs were calloused and rough. “I won’t pry any further. I just wanted to say that no matter what. Quirk shenanigans, or if it were actual demonic possession. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter to me. You’re my son and I love you, ‘Sui.” The fisherman’s eyes are on the verge of tears, but his voice is steady. “You’re my weirdo kid. Strangely buff for a 5-year-old, and probably wiser than me. I love you, okay? No matter what.” 

“I love you too…Tou-san.” Shisui choked up at the end of the sentence. 

“You don’t have to say that if you don’t want to.” 

Shisui was quiet. He removed his hands from Takeshi’s grip, who briefly looks crestfallen, and then quickly attempted to cover it up. 

Shisui leant over and hugged him.  “I love you too, Takeshi-san. I really do.” Takeshi tightened his grip, sniffling slightly. Now, whispering Shisui continues, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I can’t…My dad’s dead. But you’re my dad, too.” 

Takeshi pointedly ignored the ‘my dad’s dead comment’ and continued hugging his son. 

After a few minutes (Shisui had always been tactile for a shinobi.) he untangled himself from the hug. “This was an unexpectedly emotionally-charged fishing trip.” 

“That’s for sure.” 

–------------------------------

Ask Mom

“Ask Mom” is the weekly advice column for all of your parenting woes. This week we have child psychologist Ujiwake Yamane and childhood quirk specialist Inate Kazuhira answering your pressing parenting questions. 

Buckle your seatbelts parents, because this week’s column is going to be a doozy. We have a sharp-toothed 10-year-old who’s still a terror, a lazy teenager who won’t do her chores ‘because of my quirk Kaa-san’, and baby’s first demonic possession.

Help!

• My son vividly describes incredible violence; I think he’s possessed. 
• My 10-year-old daughter won’t stop biting people; It’s a problem. 
• My teenager won’t do her chores, says it’s because of her quirk; Her room’s a mess. 

First off, a concerned mom’s account of her 5-year-old son’s suspected demonic possession: 

Dear Fellow Moms, 

I might sound insane but I think my son is possessed by a demon. Or a ghost, an onryō , or something. I just know there’s something not right there. 

My husband and I live in a small fishing village with our son. My son has just recently turned five, but the weird behavior has been going on since shortly before his fourth birthday. He was a lovely and happy child, totally normal. He got on well with other children, loved finger-painting, loved going on boat rides with his dad, etc… But a couple of months before his fourth birthday he got quieter and withdrew from me and other children. My parents assured me he was just very well-behaved, or maybe just a more introspective child. I was inclined to believe them until he started saying very disturbing things. I know children, especially at this age, do sometimes say disturbing things, not realizing the weight of what they’re saying, but I feel my son’s words are not just slightly disturbing but incredibly concerning. They’re ridiculously violent, and very descriptive. But worst of all, they’re accurate. 

My husband was a police officer, and he’s dealt with many a gruesome scene. He confirms that the things my adorable toddler said were very much plausible, down to the description of the blood splatter a type of stabbing would result in. I’ve never wanted to know this much about the gouging of eyes. 

The horror didn’t stop with just words. No, of course not. The worst event, and the one that really cemented the possession angle for me, was the week before his quirk manifested. He’d been having recurring nightmares and waking up screaming, until one night he talked about the gouging of eyes and bled from his eyes. We took him to the doctors, who said it was just quirkiasis, but I don’t think so. To top it all off, his quirk turns his eyes red. Glowing red. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life; he’s possessed. My husband says I’m overreacting, but I think he’s too used to disturbing and concerning things to see the giant red flags. 

I never planned on being a mom, especially not this early, but I love my son. I miss him and his cute laughter, and I want whatever thing replaced him gone. Please Help! 

Black Magic and Baby Blues

(Transcription of the ‘Ask Mom Podcast,’ which you can watch at our website.) 

Ujikawe: I feel for you, it is always really stressful for parents when they think something might be wrong with their child. But let’s address your concerns. 

Ujikawe: First off, your main concern seems to be the disturbing language. As you said, children at that age do often say things that may appear creepy or frightening. With most children, it’s often a test of boundaries or taboos. It’s the same reason why so many small children seem to find gross-out humor so fascinating at that age. 

Inate: (hums in agreement) 

Ujikawe: They’re testing out what’s acceptable and what’s not. Your reaction is very important; Make sure to be curious and not immediately shut down the avenues of communication. Ask open-ended questions about where these words are coming from. In most cases, this type of language often comes from friends or the type of media the child is consuming. 

Inate: For example: Is he, or does he know, people who watch hero shows? They’re really popular, but not the most appropriate for a small child. They’re basically crime procedurals but more sensationalist. They’re often not accurate, but some can be pretty gruesome with their villains. 

Ujikawe: There seems to be no mention of violent action, only words. As long as your child doesn’t seem to want to enact any of this violence. It’s usually fine. Like I said, ask questions, follow them to the source. 

Ujikawe: The withdrawal from friends and family is a bit concerning as well. There’s always the chance that this is the sign of something more serious, like a mental health issue, or - I’m just speculating now - maybe your son has gotten his hands on some case files your husband could still have around the house. Maybe that’s why it’s so accurate. Anyway, if you think there’s a serious issue, always consult a professional. I can only do so much from a short letter. Now, Kazuhira-san, what’s your angle?

Inate: Probably quirkiasis, along with some usual toddler boundary-pushing, like you mentioned Yamane-san. You mentioned the strange behavior started right before he turned four, which was when his quirk manifested. I often see behavioral changes linked with the emergence of quirks in children. It’s so common, in fact, that it’s one of the main symptoms of quirkiasis. 

Ujikawe: And quirkiasis is so common, that most of my job is just referrals. ‘My child is suddenly obsessed with frogs, there must be something wrong.’

Inate: Then a few weeks later. Frog quirk, surprise, surprise. 

Ujikawe: (laughter) 

Inate: The most concerning part of your letter is the bleeding from the eyes. That is pretty violent quirkiasis, even for an ocular quirk…But you did say you took him to a doctor. Doctors aren’t infallible of course, but if someone checked him out it should be okay. 

Inate and Ujikawe: (in unison) We are professionals giving general advice. However, always check with your child’s primary care physician and specialists, if necessary. We, and the ‘Ask Mom’ podcast and advice column are not liable in the court of law. 

Inate: Gotta cover our asses, you know. (Clears throat) You never expanded upon what exactly your son’s quirk was, other than the fact that his eyes turn red upon activation. I’m assuming his quirk could have some sort of more morbid aspect to it that is contributing to the unsettling language. 

Inate: It can be pretty rough for kids with ‘Villain quirks.’ They’re so often pathologized, even by their own parents, sometimes. More volatile, or ‘evil’ quirks just need support and understanding, or sometimes they might need professional accommodations for more unusual quirk factor management. The usual route in these cases is to not use the quirk at all. But recent research has shown that there can be negative effects from prolonged quirk suppression, so a healthy way of quirk expression is much preferable. 

Ujikawe: What Kazuhira-san means here by accommodations involves making things as smooth and comfortable as possible for all types of quirks, not just ‘evil’ ones. For example, specially designed furniture for heteromorphic quirks or making sure transformations quirks aren’t negatively affecting their user - which happens more often than you would think, both physically and mentally. Transformation quirks can sometimes be mentally taxing. 

Inate: Yes, exactly. Accommodations can be very important. Especially in curbing alienation, or dissatisfaction and discomfort, which can sometimes lead more easily to villainy. One of my patients was a girl with the ability to cause pain through the remote activation of neurons. Everyone told her she would just become a villain with her quirk; That she should just never use it, lest she becomes evil incarnate. She’s a doctor now, and she definitely uses her quirk.  Through careful control, she can help patients with nerve and neuron death, restoring feeling and mobility. People who thought they would never be able to use their hands again, can. Because of her quirk, and because her parents, who were doctors themselves, saw potential and referred her to me. 

Ujikawe: Another aspect of ‘villainous’ quirks that go undiscussed is the effect their manifestation can have on the child’s psyche-

Inate: (interrupting) I’m so sorry to interrupt. But just to define ‘villainous’ or ‘evil’ quirks as we are using the term today. We’re referring to quirks that are considered societally unacceptable, be it due to their subject matter or capacity to cause harm. Or just quirks that people are uncomfortable around and can lead to societal exclusion. 

Ujikawe: Ah, yes. Can’t believe we didn’t clarify. There’s no such thing as an ‘evil’ quirk, any quirk can be used for nefarious purposes if applied that way. But some quirks are indeed a bit more difficult to manage. Back to what I was saying. There are no evil quirks, but some quirks can be a challenge when they manifest, especially in children. We often try to keep our children away from topics that we consider to be inappropriate due to their age, but when their quirk involves these subjects, it can be hard to navigate. For example, a child with a quirk that allows them to see ghosts or some other death-related quirk can be difficult to broach. Especially if the quirk manifests when young, and we don’t really want to explain the concept of death before someone is ready. 

Inate: Like with your son, I’m assuming his quirk has a more violent aspect, which is probably one of the toughest situations to manage. It’s hard to balance keeping your child safe and protected from topics above their maturity and developmental level, and not disavowing a key aspect of themselves, which is what often happens to people with ‘villainous’ quirks.

Ujikawe: This can lead to problematic issues regarding self-confidence, body image, and self-worth to name a few. 

Inate: So, I know this must be hard for you, but I would recommend not continuing with your current ‘possession’ mindset. Your son is probably going through a rough patch and is probably really confused about the quirkiasis symptoms - which can be disorientating, especially the personality aspects. Those sometimes cause identity crises, when new aspects of your personality or sudden interests appear. You also appear to be consistently shutting down any attempts to communicate or self-express; While it is important to prevent any behavior that could cause harm, saying that he’s possessed because of his quirk is probably not the way to go about it and could cause serious resentment down the road. 

Ujikawe: For sure, would not recommend. 

Inate: …I mean, if you’re still concerned in a few months, or the symptoms escalate unexplainably in a sinister direction, you’re always free to consult your local religious figure of choice. 

Ujikawe: That was a real tough one. I feel like we covered a lot of ground. 

Inate: Yeah, that one was wild. On to…(looks at paper) a ten-year-old won’t stop biting people on the playground. 

Ujikawe: Ouch. 

Inate: This one should be interesting as well if it’s quirk related. I’ll start this time—-

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“He’s such a helpful child. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” Minori whispered to Hana. “Boys! Could you move these boxes to the back for me? Don’t want to leave them outside with the rain picking up like this.” 

“Hai, Oba-san!” Shisui sprang up and picked up several of the boxes, stacking one on top of the other neatly, and with great ease. 

“Hai, Kaa-san. We’re going.” An older teenager sat up from the couch where the boys had been lounging. He went to pick up several boxes as Shisui had but faltered when he struggled to lift more than one. He settled for carrying a single box, eyebrows raising in disbelief as he stared at the boy who was at least 10 years his junior. “They give out steroids to just about anyone these days, huh?” 

“Shut it, Yuuta. You’re just jealous of these guns.” Shisui shifted all the boxes to one arm and flexed the other. 

“...how?” 

“Trade secret.” Shisui winked. The real secret was an unholy combination of Anbu training regimens and what little Shisui remembered of Maito Gai’s routine. Shisui hadn’t been a taijutsu specialist the first time around, but he had been no slouch. His speed was as much physical as it had been shunshin based. His current workout routine made him want to cry, though.  

“Whatever.” Yuuta rolled his eyes. “Let’s get this over-” 

“-Boys!”

“Yes, Kaa-san?” and “Yes, Oba-san?” were said simultaneously. 

“Could you also do inventory while you guys are back there?” 

Yuuta groaned, “Fine.” Shisui just nodded. 

As soon as both boys had left the room, Minori turned to her best friend with a smile. “What’s this about? Gimme the Tea.” 

“This isn’t exactly a social call,” Hana said. “It’s actually about what I was asking you about earlier.” 

“The ‘Have you noticed anything weird about Suihei?’ thing?” 

“Yeah.” Hana stared expectantly. “So…anything?” 

“Uh. No? He’s perfectly polite. A bright little guy. He’s been wonderful; helping me around the shop for some pocket change.” Minori trailed off. “Should I have?...noticed something?” 

Hana stayed quiet and started playing with her nails. 

“Hana. Don’t leave me hanging here. What’s up?”

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly. 

“Hana, I’m your best friend. You know you can tell me anything, and something is bothering you.” 

“I don’t know…he’s just different. Different from before.” 

“You mean from when he was a baby? Hana, children grow up. He’s almost six now, of course, he’d be different. Yuuta here is not the little angel he was when he was tiny, it’s natural.” 

“That’s not what I mean. I know children grow up and change, but-” Hana sighed. “It’s just…” Hana lowered her voice to a near whisper, “I think he’s possessed, or cursed, or some-” 

The door slammed open. A man dressed in bright yellow fishing overalls rushed in, dripping wet. Minori stood up and went to the man, “Dear, are you alright? I thought you guys were going to be out until later?” The man ignored her, staring straight at Hana, and yelled, “Hana! It’s Takeshi! He fell overboard!” 

------------------------------

Shisui sat cross-legged on the ground, mindlessly pulling weeds out of the dirt. “Didn’t think this would happen this early.” He looked to the gravestone, ‘Nakagawa Takeshi’ etched into it. “I’m sorry.” His voice was wavering slightly. “Another father I couldn’t help. I was just standing around, while you were- while you were drowning.” 

“ I’m sorry Takeshi-san…Tou-san. I couldn’t even get in the water to look for you with everyone else. I was too scared, I couldn’t stand the feeling of water on me. Too much of a coward to do anything. Too much of a coward to deal with anything, just killing myself and leaving it all to Itachi. I’m-I’m just so sorry.” Shisui was crying by now, droplets of water stuck in his eyelashes. 

He drew his knees to his chest, making himself as small as possible. This was where Hana found him hours later. 

“Let's get going, kid.” 

“Coming, Kaa-san.” Standing and stretching out his limbs that had been still for too long, he turned to the gravestone one more time. “I always said Kakashi-Taichou spent too much time talking to dead people, but I’ll be back Takeshi-san. I promise.” He cleaned off what little dust had gathered on the grave. “What are we going to do now?” 

“Moving back to the city. Make it big.” 

“I thought Obaa-san and Ojii-san offered for us to move in with them?” 

“I don’t want you anywhere near my parents.” She leaned in close to Shisui’s face. “I still think you caused this somehow, demon child.” 

“And that’s strike two. I think I was a bit early with my double jackpot proclamation.” Shisui thought to himself. 

“That’s a bit rude, Kaa-san,” Shisui’s Sharingan flickered on for a split second, a cruel grin on his face, “Don’t you think.” 

“Whatever, kid.” 

She grabbed onto his arm with a bit more force than necessary, dragging him to the car. Shisui let her. 

He did not particularly want to go to the city. He had gotten quite comfortable with the small town quiet, but he knew he’d have to go eventually. He would have to figure out what he even wanted to do in this world. The dream of a quaint and peaceful life had been washed away, along with Takeshi’s waterlogged body. 

He would now admit that he sorely missed the thrum of adrenaline in his veins. The shinobi part of his brain had been craving some excitement since he first awoke, but he had been ignoring it as best he could. He had always been a bad pacifist; Itachi never judged how much he enjoyed the fight, but this world surely would. Now there was no need. It’s much easier to get sharper knives in big city centres. It’s also much easier to fade into the background, the millions of people becoming indistinguishable as the light fades. Shinobi thrive under the cover of night, shrouded in darkness. He’d do what he could to help. His way , that was. Heroes and Villains were such a hopelessly naive way of looking at things. He didn’t think he was cut out for the heroism, the big names and bright lights were not his style. “ A nameless shinobi who protects peace within its shadow. That is a true shinobi." 

The car sped past a large new billboard. Shisui used his Sharingan to read what it said. ‘Vigilante concerns escalate. These shadowy enforcers of justice unlawfully try to maintain peace. Some say it helps neighborhoods or communities oft overlooked by heroes. Others say it’s much closer to villainy than any true heroism. More at 5.’ 

Wow. That was an almost perfect match. 

Vigilantism did have a nice ring to it. 

Chapter Text

Soon after his sixth birthday, Shisui enrolled in the local public school. 

He walked in on the first day wearing the uniform - the collars were a little lower than he liked, but overall it satisfied his Uchiha sensibilities - and an edgeshot-themed bento he picked up on the way there. 

With a bright and sunny smile on his face, he internally steeled himself for dealing with hoards of small children. It was one of Shisui’s greatest weaknesses. He was not very good with small children, especially civilian ones. He liked them well enough. Small children could be quite cute if you ignored the fact that all children under a certain age always had weirdly sticky hands. Little children also thought he was really cool, most of the time, which was nice. Adults just resented him. He’d led quite a few teams where his subordinates were decades older than him, he’d imagine it stung. Back to young civilian children, he just didn’t know how to interact with them. Although he could appear immature, he was still a Shinobi and generally unaware of the maturity levels children are supposed to have. A few crying children later, he left most of the interaction with children to Itachi. Itachi was the opposite, unbearably awkward when dealing with adults, but unfailably good with children. Look at Sasuke! 

Shisui was a bit better with older children and kids from shinobi clans. He wouldn't mistakenly traumatize them with a routine story. In this world, however, there was nothing remotely similar to Shinobi, and Shisui definitely could not be himself around these children. He also couldn’t ignore them entirely, that would land him in an office somewhere for antisocial behavior. So, he plastered a smile on his face and thought about the tactical benefits that schooling would bring. 

The smile had been genuine for at least a couple of hours; It remained firmly stamped on his face for a few days - gotta keep up appearances. It was gone, never to be seen again, after a week. 

Shisui soon found out that he hated school. With the passion of a thousand goukakyuu no jutsus. 

It’s not that Shisui hated learning. No! Of course not! Shinobi are very big on self-study. Most of shinobi life outside of missions involved diligent self-study and self-improvement. Late nights squinting sessions were integral to shinobi’s development. If you don’t feel like the old yellowed scrolls are giving you eye strain, regardless of your sharingan; you’re not doing it right. 

So, shinobi - the good ones at least - were avid learners, continually and tirelessly working on their techniques, be it perfecting them, or developing entirely new ones. A sharp mind for noticing and memorizing details was also necessary. Infiltration and espionage require covers that are often intricate, logistics are a necessary nightmare, and missives get long.

However, standardized schooling was a whole nother beast entirely. Even during peacetime time, the best-case scenario for the end of formal schooling in the life of a shinobi was at 12 years of age. The number of specializations and the amount of one-on-one mentoring necessary for shinobi past that point made any standardized learning moot. 

Shisui sped through the academy the first time around, barely 2 years and he was shipped off to fight in the third shinobi war. He had been a tiny genin, barely kunai-fodder, at least until he survived long enough to unlock his mangekyou. Shisui barely remembered anything taught in the academy that he hadn’t already learned through existing in a shinobi clan. This period of his life consisted of blurry pop quizzes about foreign trade routes and an atmosphere of impending doom so thick it made his eyes water. For example, Kirigakure usually uses these southeastern routes to trade grain, however, because Kiri’s a little bitch that doesn’t honor trade agreements or ceasefires, they’re going through these routes instead, which…violated so many treaties. At this point, the chuunin teacher of the week would curl up and cry in the corner, usually devolving into hysterics. The greatest hits were some variation of ‘I don’t want to die,’ or ‘Please don’t send me back to the front lines.’ Quality education!

This time around, Shisui did not have the same knowledge base that had him white-water raft (as opposed to cruise) through the academy. So he supposed school would be a great opportunity to learn more about this world, increasing his aforementioned base of knowledge. 

Turns out he did not need school to do this. The amount of information so readily available everywhere, to everyone, at all times, was incredibly shocking to him. The knowledge he could easily get through a Google search, or god forbid a leisurely stroll to a library, would’ve probably taken an intelligence mission and several deaths to get in the Shinobi world. The discovery of the world wide web turned Shisui into a veritable ipad kid. However, instead of mediocre toy unboxing videos consuming the majority of his screen time, google scholar became his haven. 

The sharingan combined with his prodigious intellect left Shisui snoozing through all of his classes in a few weeks. Teachers soon learned that trying to catch him lacking was very hard to do. Even if it looked like he’d been sleeping for the past hour, he would know exactly what you were talking about. Teachers stopped trying to catch him wrong-footed very quickly. 

The most interesting part of his day was his occasional chats with the middle school chemistry teacher. She had a PhD in explosive engineering and was way overqualified for the job, but she made sure that the lab was always superbly well-stocked. Chemistry as it existed in this world was much more developed than his universe’s counterpart. Medic-nin probably had a better idea than most, but for many, chemistry was not on any radar. Especially not when it came to explosions - that was just exploding tags or fire-natured chakra. A few conversations in, he soon discovered chemistry’s possible applications on that front. Promising ...he had missed packing a bit of firepower. 

Shisui had been thoroughly fire-natured in his first life. He had had minor alignment with wind - primarily to make his shunshin even faster, he didn’t really use Fuuton for anything else - and lightning - he could do the Chidori…theoretically. Working with Kakashi for years had its perks. But if he did do it, or any other major Raiton, he would end up looking like Kakashi in more ways than one (... chakra exhaustion ). Minor affinities notwithstanding, Shisui had been a Katon lover through and through. For Shisui and the majority of Uchiha, there was nothing better than a decent katon jutsu - there’s a reason why their patron goddess was who she was. A particularly gorgeous housenka could leave him mesmerized by its crackling, flickering roar. He hadn’t been a very lyrical person, but an especially nice bonfire could have him waxing poetic. He had been the kind of guy to hover his finger above candles in restaurants - letting the flames lick at his skin - then mope when he accidentally put it out, and then try to light it again discreetly, and then get kicked out of the civilian restaurant for scaring people with his very very tiny, - it had been small, guys - jutsu. He’d end up going to Ichiraku anyway. Easier on the wallet, a shorter walk home, and he had meant to come here in the first place, Itachi. Don’t snitch.  

Anyways, he had missed fire. It had constantly thrummed under his skin - always the slightest bit too warm to the touch - along with his chakra. The flames had been ready to run rampant at any moment, like hot coals at the back of his throat, smoldering and ready to catch. In his earlier years, he would sometimes cough up soot after long days of training, leaving him with the slightest gravel to his voice. Though he had been renowned for his genjutsu and speed, he had been no slouch in the ninjutsu department. An Uchiha without a decent goukakyuu would’ve been an embarrassment. He would rather not be an embarrassment, even a world away. He couldn't exactly recreate the jutsu in this chakraless world, but a decent Molotov or some thermite did the trick well enough. 

Swiping materials from the middle schools’ chemistry department very soon became part of his routine. The primary and lower secondary education was located on the same campus and he was easily able to slip away unnoticed. If the professor had noticed he wasn’t supposed to be there, she didn't mention it to anyone. He thought she just missed talking to someone as enthusiastic about explosives as she was.

He’d taken to stashing the stolen materials along with the knives he didn’t carry on his person at all times. He’d also stolen some other, more poisonous materials, to douse a couple of his weapons, as well as do some minor poison resistance training. Gemma had instilled in him a healthy respect for poisons, and some poison resistance instructions. That one time Hana almost caught him drinking rat poison had been an embarrassing testament to the dulling of his skills. He’d have to get out there soon, he could not bear being this rusty for much longer. 

He’d wait a bit longer to get more settled. He’d been learning the police patrols, as well as his way around Musutafu. Hana barely noticed how long his walks home took, or if she had, she hadn’t commented. Shisui needed to know the city like the back of his hand for quick escapes, he wasn’t as fast as he used to be. 

Putting his future vigilante escapades aside, Shisui quickly dodged the clumsy fist hurtling his way. Thumb tucked into fist. Shisui scoffed in disgust. Amateur hour. 

The offending party was a few upperclassmen that had heard of his apparent quiklessness and decided to feel superior. Shisui hadn’t been flaunting his quirk like the other children, so the general assumption was quirklessness. Which was fine with him, even better cover. But these children were so concerned that they were harassing someone (seemingly) half their age. 

The leader of the group had slammed a hand into the wall as Shisui was making his way home. The boy attempted to loom over him, a pathetic attempt of intimidation. Shisui had seen that the boy was on his tiptoe-toes and internally snickered, any effect ruined. 

“So…” the boy started, attempting to sound aloof. “How are you coping? With being useless, I mean.” 

Shisui stared, feigning ignorance. “I’m not sure what you mean?” 

The boy quickly turned to irritation. “Cause you’re quirkless! You’re useless and will never amount to anything!”  

Shisui gave the boy a medium potency ‘Uchiha look of arrogant superiority’ and he immediately wilted. 

“Sounds like someone’s projecting~” Shisui’s expression switched from a diluted Fugaku imitation to a gleeful eye smile, reminiscent of Kakashi. 

“You-You- How dare you? I’m going to be a hero!” That’s when the boy threw his punch, swinging his arm - that was now purple? - in a move that would surely leave him unbalanced. 

Dodging the punch, Shisui stuck his leg out for a trip. As the boy was falling face-first into the concrete floors, Shisui grabbed the back of his jacket. He wasn’t that wound up. He wasn’t going to beat up these children, no matter how much he wanted a fight. He was just going to…scare them off, you know. 

Turning to the other bullies, he did a ‘come here’ gesture and leaned back onto his heels. 

At the same time, he heard someone running towards him. “Stop! Don’t fight!” A soft thump of something being dropped. More running. “Don’t worry, kid! I’m coming!” 

The man skidded to a stop behind the older children. He was wearing the bottom half of a gi. The top half was wrapped around his waist and revealed a black rash guard, emblazoned with a logo. “Mutou Martial Arts,” it read. The logo was a clenched fist surrounded by stylized wisteria. 

The boys took one look at the man’s getup and his biceps - thicker than Shisui’s head, approval twitched Shisui’s mouth into a smile - and ran. The man’s mouth was about to open, ready to say some admonishment or other, when it clicked shut at the sight of the boys’ desperate escape. “But I had such a cool line ready,” he said mostly to himself, slight disappointment tinging his tone, “Aw man…” 

Shisui and the man watched the retreating backs of the boy in silence for a few moments. A quick glance at the back of the man’s shirt revealed more words. ‘Head Coach.’ 

“Thank you, Mutou-san. I appreciate it.” 

“No problem, kid. I-“ The man startled. “How do you know my name?” 

Shisui pointed to his own shirt, front and back. 

“Ah. Smart.” The man reached behind him as he talked. “Say- I saw that trip there. Those were some good instincts. I don’t usually teach kids this young-“ He interrupted himself. “Wait. How old are you?” 

“6.” A few beats. “And a half.” 

“Ok. Wow, really good instincts, then.” He continued trying to reach the backpack he left behind a few hundred feet away. “Like I was saying, I usually teach adults or teenagers, if at all. I mean, I don’t usually teach. I'm mainly a competition fighter. But I’ve taken up coaching when I’m not fighting. But that’s it, really. One-on-one, high level. My last athlete was Ishii Sayaka. The Olympic athlete, you know. Well, you probably don’t know. Nobody cares about the Olympics anymore. Cause you can’t use your quirks, so nobody cares.” He sighed deeply, a slight downturn on his lips. “She retired recently, ankle injury. It was nasty, the tendon-“ He caught himself. “Probably shouldn’t say that to a kid, huh.” He continued rambling, “So yeah, she’s retired now. So I’m out of that job. My dad has- had , he’s too old to fight now- a martial arts studio, karate. But I do MMA, and I’m good enough at karate. So…I’m taking over! I’ve never really taught before, not to people who don’t have any experience, but I mean, how hard can it be? I know everything I need to know, I just have to teach you guys.” 

Shisui’s smile kept ticking up in increments. The excitement (and the bulging muscles) reminded him a bit of Gai, minus the sharp, steel foundation found at the core of every shinobi. 

The man standing in front of him did not read as a Shinobi at all, but Shisui could recognize the taut lines of his shoulders, the core ready to spring into action, the legs subconsciously braced for movement, for impact — he was a fighter. Shisui held himself in a similar way. The familiarity was comforting. 

“Seriously…?” Mutou whispered to himself, craning his neck back. “Wait one second! I’ll be right back!” He sprinted to his backpack, mumbling complaints all the way. 

He returned clutching a small stack of cards. 

“Here.” He gave Shisui a business card. “Tell your parents to give me a call or something.” His expression turned more serious, a tinge of melancholy at the edges. He looked off into the direction the boys had run off to. “I know what it’s like. It can be rough, it feels like no one believes in you. That you’ll never amount to anything.” He turned to face Shisui. “I see talent in you! I see potential! So what do you say? From one quirkless guy to another. Wanna kick ass?” 

He looked incredibly sincere. Very reminiscent of a kicked puppy, and it hurt Shisui to keep up the lie by omission. What a Shinobi he was. 

“Mutou-san, I’m sorry but I do have a-” 

“It’s alright…young-man-whose-name-I-do-not-know, I was very forward. You probably shouldn’t even be talking to strangers anyway. No matter.” The man seemed to be trying very valiantly to remain unaffected, but Shisui thought his eyes were the tiniest bit misty. “I see myself in you. You’re destined for-”

“No, no, no, no.” Shisui quickly interjected, slightly panicked. “I would love to be your student, Mutou-san.” He could use a place to train that wasn’t illicit. 

“Really?!” 

“Yes. I just wanted to tell you that I’m not quirkless. Those boys had it wrong, see.” Shisui flickered the sharingan on and off. 

“Oh, I see!” The man talked with renewed vigor. “Still, it would be a pleasure to help you develop your skills, you clearly have boatloads of potential!” 

“Thank you, Mutou-san. I’m honored.” 

“Starting now you can call me Kenshi-sensei! Uh…” He foundered for a second. 

“Nakagawa Suihei, Kenshi-sensei.” Shisui bowed slightly. “I look forward to your tutelage.” 

“Ditto.” Kenshi's smile was blinding. “Shall I walk you home? It’s getting late, Nakagawa-kun.” 

Shisui nodded and began to lead the way. The sky had started to darken considerably, and the police would start patrols soon. A young child walking alone in the dark would probably cause concern. More trouble than it was worth to decline. 

After a few minutes of silence, Kenshi piped up. “So…what does your quirk do?” 

“Just that, really,” Shisui said with a shrug. 

“Like, it just turns your eyes red.” 

“Yeah, pretty much.” 

“….” Kenshi clasped Shisui's shoulders companionably. “Well, damn kid. You might as well be quirkless.” He let out a short laugh, and Shisui couldn’t help but grin as well. 

—————————————————————————————————————

Shisui slipped on his sandals. The soles were not as comfortable as his old Shinobi ones. There was less give to the bottom and less arch support than he would like. It’s the best he’d been able to find. He’d have to commission an artisan eventually, to make him a pair to his specifications, but for now, it would suffice. 

He apologized to every Shinobi to ever exist as he strapped a modified fanny pack onto his leg. He’d been using it as a makeshift holster for his pilfered knives, as well as the single kunai and shuriken he’d gotten from a novelty shop with his meager pocket-change savings. He could steal, but surveillance was much trickier to deal with in this world - technology was still the most confusing thing for him in this new world, and he’d rather not be a registered juvenile delinquent. Again, lists he wanted to stay off of. 

Also, stealing without need isn’t exactly what he wants to do in this world, with all of its goody-two-shoes morals. He’d have to do questionable things as a vigilante eventually, no need to start now. He’d always been comfortable with moral ambiguities, but he didn’t want to be an asshole. He was fine as is. 

Taking a leaf from Kakashi’s book ( not Icha-Icha ) he put on a mask to cover the lower half of his face. It was a cheap medical mask from the convenience store, but Shisui had dyed it black for the aesthetic . Kakashi’s signature hair had always made the disguise essentially useless, but Shisui’s more inconspicuous black hair would be unrecognizable without other traits. 

Black exercise pants and a matching hoodie finished the makeshift vigilante outfit. He had no access to any strong, but light materials like Kevlar, so he opted for something more easily replaced rather than protective. He just had to not get hit. Doable. 

He set a tripwire by his door. If tripped, it would warn him of Hana’s approach. Hopefully, he’d be in range to return, now that he didn’t have the option of a quick kawarimi or shunshin, but she’s not the kind of person to check up on him unless he’s causing a disturbance. 

He let out a breath and opened the window, climbing up and ruining his upstairs neighbor’s flower planter. She wouldn’t mind, but he’d bring her flowers tomorrow to make up for it. 

He lifted himself up to the roof and did a quick scan of his surroundings. Clear. Feeling nostalgic, he jumped onto the nearest telephone pole and perched, toes curling around the edge of the metal. 

It was still. Surprisingly quiet for Musutafu at night, with everyone seemingly asleep. The yowling of a street cat could be heard. The lights of the city center twinkled in the distance, bright and colorful. 

It was dark. The shadows stretched long around the street lights and their jaundiced hues, casting pitch-black shapes across the floor. 

He cut out an imposing silhouette, bathed in moonlight. It was the kind of posturing he and Itachi used to do for fun, striking dramatic poses with their backs to the moon. 

He activated his sharingan. 

It was…familiar, close enough to make his heart ache, but at the same time incredibly foreign. It was…nice. All he needed was the thrum of adrenaline in his veins and he’d feel more alive, more whole than he had since he’d died. 

What a funny turn of phrase. More alive than when he’d died. Why obviously, that’s kind of part of being alive again. 

He was brought out of his musings by the sharp sound of a car alarm. 

Petty thievery was a reasonable place to start his vigilante career. 

He jumped off the pole, catching a balcony on the way down. His shoulder didn’t even twinge; He would thoroughly enjoy how light he was for as long as possible. He swung his legs, landing on a roof once more. 

The alarm was still sounding, echoing through the empty alleyways as he ran across the rooftops, breezing across gaps and feeling the wind on his face. With a strong push of his legs, he cleared a particularly large jump and let out a breathless laugh. Gods, he’s missed this. 

When he arrived at the scene of the crime, a man was trying and failing to pry open a car door with a crowbar. 

“Shut up, you darn thing. Do you want to tell everyone what I’m doing!”

Shisui soundlessly dropped down onto the hood of the car. He leaned, hanging over the man like a specter, and spoke, pitching his voice down a hair. “I’m pretty sure that’s what alarms are for.” 

The man turned around in a panic, fruitlessly waving the crowbar around. “Who’s there?!” 

Shisui’s smile had a mean edge to it. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?” The man continued to look around, desperately. Shisui spoke again, voice dripping with faux disappointment, “Why does no one look up ? It’s poor situational awareness.” 

The man did as he was told. He looked up, straight at Shisui, whose face was shrouded in shadow. 

“Boo.” 

The man screamed, but Shisui immediately clamped a hand over his mouth. “Nah-ah-ah-ah,” he said, wagging his other hand’s index finger. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to know you were here.” 

“Mmph, MMPH” The man yelled, the sound muffled by Shisui’s hand. 

Shisui leaned in and whispered in the man's ear. “Shh. If you can’t be quiet, I’ll have to put you to sleep.” 

The man continued to try and escape with even greater desperation. Shisui stepped on the man’s hand, pinning him to the car hood. “Since you can’t follow instructions.” He did a back handspring off the car, kicking the man in the jaw, knocking him out. 

Landing lightly on the concrete sidewalks, Shisui waved as the man’s body slumped. 

“Night, night~” 

The would-be car thief fell in a heap, making a dull thudding sound. 

Shisui grabbed the now discarded crowbar and placed it by the man. He also took out a small spiral notebook from his makeshift holster. He quickly wrote a few things down and taped the paper onto the man’s forehead. 

“Attempted theft of an automobile. License plate: 398FSJ. He’ll be unconscious for a bit. No need to thank me. -Crow xoxo” 

Shisui clapped his hands, cleaning off non-existent dust. 

“And that’s that. One of many I’m sure.” 

He clambered his way up to the rooftops once more, taking one last look at the man’s crumpled body.

“Was that a bit much?” He thought about it for a second. 

He shook his head with a laugh. 

“ Nah .” 

—————————————————————————————————————

“Kenshi-sensei?” 

Shisui kicked a soda can out of the way. It made a clattering noise. He continued sweeping dust into a small dustpan. 

“Yeah?” he responded, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. 

Kenshi also had a broom. They were cleaning the dojo, sprucing it up after it had been closed for nearly a year after Kenshi’s father retired. 

Shisui touched the wall with his hand, wiping some of the dust off a particularly dirty wall. He made the mistake of resting his hand on his hip, staining his black shirt with a white handprint. 

Gesturing at the dusty mark, as well as the general state of the dojo, Shisui asked a question, “Ishii-san retired almost a year and a half ago, right?” Kenshi nodded. Shisui continued, “And your father retired roughly a year ago?” Kenshi nodded again. “Why haven’t you opened up again until now? I know the year and a half couldn’t have been easy without cash.” 

Kenshi looked the slightest bit embarrassed. “I did a few tournaments to tide me over. I was fine.” He swept aggressively, avoiding eye contact. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I can do this myself.” He pointed at the broom, still looking at the floor. 

“I don’t mind.” Shisui twirled the broom like a staff, pointing the end at Kenshi. “And you’re deflecting,” Shisui said, raising an eyebrow. 

Kenshi shot back. “And you’re weirdly perceptive for a six-year-old!” 

Shisui was suddenly filled with understanding for all the young children who insist on mentioning the very specifics of their age. “And a half!” 

“Whatever.” 

A few beats of silence. The soft, rhythmic sound of bristles against the floor. 

“Still deflecting~,” Shisui said, sing-songing. 

Kenshi sighed deeply. He grabbed a punching bag that was already lying sideways on the floor, easily picking it up and placing it closer to Shisui. He sat down on it, slapping the empty spot to his right, sighing again. 

Shisui sat down, leaning back onto his arms. 

“Fine,” Kenshi said, “My dear first student, I’ll tell you the truth.” He faced Shisui, his eyes sincere, but with a slight desperation deep within their depths. “I’m absolutely terrified.” 

“Of what? Why?” Shisui asked, inquisitive. He had an idea, but he’d rather Kenshi answer himself. 

Kenshi gestured at each of the words inscribed on the wall, ‘Mutou Martial Arts,’ one at a time. “I’m scared I’m going to screw this up and ruin everything. My father’s legacy, my reputation-“ He squeezed his eyes closed. “My dad tried to give me the dojo years back. He kept trying every couple of years. I always refused.” He took a shaky breath. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can teach.” 

“Don’t say that to your first student, Kenshi-sensei. I don’t think that’s a great business tactic.” 

“Exactly! First student. First! You’re the only person I’ve managed to enroll in a year!” 

By now, both of them have slipped off the punching bag and onto the floor. 

“Personally, I think I’m a great find. So…” 

Kenshi stopped staring morosely at the family name on the wall, turning at the waist. He slapped down both hands onto the tatami and leaned onto them, very close to Shisui’s face. 

“You are! You’re going to be great!” His smile was blinding. “I believe in you! You’ll do incredible things!” 

“Well, then I believe in you too!” Shisui's face was filled with determination. Internally, he was disappointed in himself. He’d always been too emotional. Now he’d gone and gotten attached to this random martial artist. “That was very encouraging! See, you’ll be a great teacher.” 

“Aw, thank you, Nakagawa-kun.” His smile was smaller on his face, less excited but no less warm. Suddenly, his face dropped and he covered his face with his hands. “Ugh…I just vented to a six-year-old,” he said, slightly muffled, “This is embarrassing…” 

“Maybe a bit, Kenshi-sensei.” 

“I just got consoled by a six-year-old,” he continued, “Extra embarrassing.” 

Shisu let out a childlike giggle, rubbing the salt in the wound. 

“Now you’re just doing that on purpose,” Kenshi whined, “You act all mature until you make fun of me.”

Shisui let out an even cuter giggle. Kenshi looked unimpressed. 

They sat for a few minutes when Kenshi stood up. “I’ll be right back. It’s way too hot in here, I’m going to turn the air conditioner on.” 

“Mmkay,” said Shisui standing up as well, dusting off his clothes. 

Kenshi still looked a bit discouraged, so Shisui plotted while he was away. He quickly ran outside, the small bell above the door jingling as it opened, and grabbed the large duffel bag from the trunk of Kenshi’s car. It was where all his medals and trophies were kept. 

Kenshi returned and saw Shisui just standing there, suspiciously. 

“Wanna put these up while you tell me all about how credible and skilled you are?” Shisui smiled innocently. 

Kenshi pointed at his eyes and then at Shisui’s. “I know what you’re doing.” 

“Is it working?” 

“…yes.” He crouched to open the duffel, tilting it to show the inside to Shisui without the contents falling out. “Looking at tangible examples of your success always helps, and I do have many trophies.” 

Shisui cleared out a shelf near the back of the room, where Kenshi’s father used to keep his trophies. “Here?” 

“Yes, you gremlin, there .” He rustled through the bag, pulling out two medals. The first ribbon was a deep purple, the raised engraved characters had been worn away by time and many fingers running over them. The second had a deep blue ribbon and the actual metal was slightly bent. “This here was the first tournament I ever won,” he said, holding up the purple one. “I was maybe 5 or 6, I barely remember it. My dad kept this one hanging in his office for years until I finally begged him to take it down when I was a teenager. I was mortified because my dad would always start talking about how cute of a kid I had been. I appreciate it now, even though it was a bit embarrassing.” 

He raised the other one with a slight huff of laughter, “And this was the first tournament I lost.” He flicks the medal, spinning it to the other side, revealing a large 

three. “This one is my most important medal, by far.” 

“There’s definitely a story behind that,” Shisui watched as the ribbon untwisted itself. When Kenshi didn’t continue talking, Shisui grumbled, “Don’t stop! Keep talking!” 

“I only got third place on a technicality,” he continued, “It was a W.O. and I shouldn't have gotten even a participation trophy. I lost miles before the finals, but after a bunch of other guys got food poisoning, I was one of the only ones who could show up at the medal ceremony. So-” He shrugged, “-I got the medal, and…I was pissed!” 

Kenshi laughed, warm and bright. “I squeezed it so hard I bent it! I felt super self-conscious, and I wanted to do nothing else but fight and prove I deserved it…Because I didn’t deserve it. At all!” He started wrapping his hands, winding cloth between his fingers with precision. “That was during a really tough time in my martial arts journey - in my life in general, really. I almost quit!” 

Shisui, who was at the edge of his metaphorical seat, exclaimed, “What?! No!” He didn’t think Kenshi seemed like the kind of man to quit at anything, with the resemblance to Maito Gai being so strong. 

“Yup,” Kenshi said, popping the p, “I was 18, and had won every tournament I’d ever been in. I was bored , and the point sparring of Shotokan didn’t even get me excited anymore. I almost got into a street fight just to ‘test my skills ,’” he said, making air quotes. “And I got scared . I backed out. ‘Cause I’d never been in a fight where my skills had been tested, and when I felt tense, when I felt that adrenaline, that fear. I couldn’t do it.” 

He progressed to stretching, both hands now wrapped. Shisui followed suit, copying the man, instead of doing his usual routine. 

“I felt like shit after. I felt like I spent my whole life up to that point on a skill I wouldn’t be able to use. I was planning on quitting, going to college, and never putting on a gi again. I had forgotten all about the mindset and the philosophy I learned from my training. But I was right, I had never learned the most important part of martial arts…I never learned how to lose.” 

Shisui and Kenshi started a light warm-up, while Kenshi continued talking. 

“Sensing my desperation, my father reminded me of the importance of cross-training, or even just trying another style of the martial art you already know. I had neglected that for years, doing nothing but my father’s favored Shotokan style for over a decade. In a last-ditch effort, I flew to Tokyo and signed up for a Kyokushin class. I heard that the style was very good for practical application, and my almost street fight had left me shaken. I walked in with a white belt, the first time I’d worn anything but a black belt since I got mine when I was 11. After the class, I felt better than I had in a while. But it wasn’t enough. That night I learned the basic rules for competitive full-contact karate, and signed up for a tournament as soon as possible.” 

“And then?!” Shisui was playing up his interest a bit, trying to act like a 6-year-old, but he admitted to himself that he was quite invested. He understood that feeling of stagnation very well. It’s why he joined ANBU after only a few years as a Jounin. Shisui knew that when you feel like there’s no way up on the path you’re currently on, you often wallow, which often makes it worse. 

“Water break first,” He threw a water bottle at Shisui, who caught it easily. “Let’s finish organizing these-“ he kicked the duffel bag, “-and we’ll do your first lesson then. Continuing the story, I showed up to the tournament. First kick to the face and I was out cold,” said Kenshi, laughing. “I had a lump on my head for weeks! I felt terrible…But-” He raised a finger, emphasizing his words, “I’d never felt more hungry for it, more starving. Not just the win, - I did want to win, nothing wrong with that - but I was desperate to improve! I wanted to get better and punch the guy in the kidney. I fell in love with Kyokushin and I started boxing, dabbled a bit in Krav Maga, but really found my niche in BJJ, but I never stopped loving Shotokan. Fought a couple years in the UFC, did pretty well for myself.” He hefted a UFC belt onto each shoulder and hung them on the wall. “Didn’t have a perfect record. Not like I did before. But it was much better for me.” 

The duo kept putting trophies, medals, and belts onto the shelves. “As you can see, I won some other stuff as well. Not at all of it MMA, there was lots of Kyokushin, BJJ, and Shotokan Karate, as well. I’m technically not retired, but I’ve been coaching since a nasty back injury at the IBJJF Championship a few years back. I’m in tip-top shape now, but I probably won’t be competing until this-“ He opens his arms wide, “-is more stable…unless I fail at it completely.” 

“Which won’t happen.” 

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Nakagawa-kun, I’ll try my best to keep my father’s legacy alive with this dojo…but I can’t promise anything.” 

Then, his entire stance changed, his eyes alight with excitement, “Ignore all that. You don’t have to worry.” He got into a stance with his shoulders back and his back straight, bracing his knees, and putting his feet at roughly shoulder width. “This is the heiko-dachi. This is a fundamental stance in Karate.”

Kenshi led Shisui through some basic stances and positions, eventually starting some basic punches. Shisui had to pay attention. He might’ve been a fighter on a higher level than this world had seen - as far as he’d been able to tell - but learning an entirely new style always required concentration. 

They train for hours in their little corner of the still-dusty dojo. It was almost midnight when Kenshi and Shisui let their concentration waver for a few seconds; Kenshi glanced at the clock and cursed. “Shit! It’s almost midnight! We’ve been training for way too long!” Suddenly incredibly concerned about the amount of exercise he’d had a 6-year-old do, Kenshi whirled to face Shisui, “Oh my god! I’ve made you do exercise for hours!” 

“I’m good.” Shisui smiled, shrugging nonchalantly. 

“Jesus, kid. You’re going to be a monster,” Kenshi said, shaking his head in disbelief. “But we're done for today. Doing too much at once can be bad for retention. Let me walk you home.” 

“Thank you, Kenshi-sensei. Can we keep going tomorrow?” Shisui looked up with his best doe-eyes. 

“Of course! You’re a student of Mutou Martial Arts now.” 

The Konohan sense of teamwork and patriotism suddenly hit Shisui full force. As Kakashi would’ve said, ‘Pack-bonding’. 

Shisui thought back to what Kenshi had said, ‘I can’t promise anything.’ 

A deep mental sigh. 

Bet.

Mission acquired. C-rank. Long-term. Undercover?…

Make Mutou Martial Arts successful. 

—————————————————————————————————————

Chapter Text

Arriving home, Shisui sneaked in through his window, Kenshi having left him in front of the building at Shisui’s behest. (Before leaving, he handed Shisui a form for his parents to sign - a waiver and confirmation, apparently - apologizing that he hadn’t done so already. Shisui added it to the mental list.)

Hana was fast-asleep in her room when he soundlessly stepped onto the wooden floors, unaware of his escapades. 

Slinking to the kitchen for a quick drink before bed, he picked up the letters shoved under the front door. Angry, red characters were stamped to their front. Overdue bills. Really? 

He glanced at Hana’s closed door in disappointment. 

His father had left a not insignificant amount of money for the two of them after his passing. A surprising amount, considering his career - fishing wasn’t the most lucrative thing around. Hana had spent most of it on designer clothes, attempting to restart her modeling career. It wasn’t working. 

His father also set up a small trust fund for Shisui; one with very lenient discretionary options. One that Hana was unaware of, given the fact that it wasn’t empty or dissolved. Probably intentionally. Takeshi had known of her spending habits, as well as Shisui's unnatural precociousness, and planned accordingly. It wasn’t much, and it wouldn't last much longer given the rate he was taking from it, but Shisui deeply appreciated it. 

He threw the offending bill onto the coffee table, where similar letters had accumulated. The only reason they hadn’t been thrown out was because Hana was using the backs as scrap paper. Flipping the topmost letter, he saw the same thing written over and over again. Apparently, Hana had been practicing her autograph. Wonderful . 

Grabbing his tablet, the bright glow lighting up his face, he transferred some of his funds to the water and electricity companies, hopefully stopping the letters for now. Again . It was not the first time he’d done this. 

Details of the trust had come with a letter from Takeshi, declaring that the funds were for his education in the future. Shisui almost cried with how sweet the sentiment was, but he’d rather not get the water shut off, in the present . 

Thinking about educational costs, Shisui suddenly remembered that martial arts weren’t free in this universe. He’d never paid a cent in his past life, but it had technically been public education or job training , depending on how you looked at it. 

Shisui was aware that Kenshi was trying to run a business. Having a singular student who couldn't even pay, seemed like a bad start. He’d have to figure that out. 

Also, he’d somehow have to get Hana’s approval for that form. Would he slip the form and simply ask her to sign it? Disguise it as something else? A school field trip, perhaps? Maybe try and trick her into verbally agreeing and then setting that recording as her voicemail, should Kenshi call for confirmation? 

Shisui continued brainstorming more and more outlandish solutions to a relatively minor problem. 

Glancing at the letter atop the coffee table and its myriad of signatures, Shisui smacked himself on the forehead. He was so rusty. 

Activating his sharingan, he copied the signature, perfectly imitating the unnecessarily loopy writing. 

That’s one problem down. 

—-----------------------------------------------–-------------------------------------------------------------

Shisui’s forehead touched the tatami, the sweat-slicked skin almost sticking to it for a split second while he bowed deeply. 

It would've been nice to have a place to train other than beating people up as a vigilante, as well as a great way to explain his skills to authorities should they come knocking. A very practical and pragmatic venture. 

… Fine! Shisui would also admit that he was a bit lonely. He had gone and gotten attached to the man. What of it? He missed being able to companionably beat up his friends. 

But money was tight, and as he said, he wasn’t going to turn to stealing while he could. 

At Kenshi’s feet, Shisui began profusely apologizing. “I’m so sorry, Kenshi-sensei. I don’t think I can afford to pay you. I sincerely apo-” 

Kenshi cut him off with a laugh. “Nakagawa-kun, I’m going to train you whether you like it or not, kid.” 

He let out an internal sigh of relief but remained conflicted. Shisui wasn’t about to look a horse in the mouth, but he knew that martial arts in their modern form were a business. He’d researched it last night (He had been concerned , okay?), and apparently most studios go out of business in a few years, regardless of the skills of the instructor. He wasn’t going to contribute to that in Kenshi’s case, especially not directly . “But, you’re running a business and-”

“There’s no need to worry about it. Many instructors offer alternatives for students who can’t pay. My father used to let people clean the facility in exchange for membership. I was planning on keeping that up.” 

Kenshi pointed at the broom from yesterday, still leaning against the wall. “And you were doing it for free. It’s really not an issue, kid.” 

His expression went sheepish for a moment, “I do need that waiver, though. Or else, instead of training, I’m just beating up a kid.” 

Shisui wordlessly handed over the document. Internally, Shisui was unsettled by how delighted the prospect of not having to quit made him. This world was making him soft . 

Regardless, his lips twitched up in an involuntary smile, his dimples on full display. Kenji absolutely beamed in response. 

Damn it. 

“Thank you,” Kenshi said, tucking the paper into the hem of his pants. He then clapped his hands, “Now. Back to what we were doing.” 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shisui and Kenshi sat on a bench near a conbini. 

It was a beautiful day. Sunlight brightened their surroundings but was gentle enough not to burn. A mild breeze rustled the leaves of nearby trees, the sound a soft murmur of whispered nothings, mixing with the laughter of children and the distant noises of the city. Birds twittered and cicadas chirped, both hidden in the canopies above. The temperature was nothing but pleasant when sitting under the shade, and there wasn't a cloud to be seen, nothing obstructing the expanse of blue. 

Kenshi thought they were enjoying a short lunch break after hours of hard work. 

Shisui was conducting infield reconnaissance. 

The target was two blocks down. People filing in and out. Majority children, estimated ages: 10-15. Garish neon lights spelled out “Super Traditional Commando Elite Red Dragon Fist Dojo.” 

He squinted, lips curling in distaste. “What do they have that we don’t?” 

Kenshi turned to look at what Shisui was looking at. His expression soon followed. “...nothing. It’s a McDojo.” At Shisui’s uncomprehending stare, he explained. “A fake dojo. People get a black belt in half a year, and they don’t know how to do a basic punch, let alone the name of their ‘Karate Style’, or god-forbid their lineage.” He crossed his arms, huffing. “As long as you pay, no matter how little you train or how quickly you quit, you can get a black belt.” He scoffed, “At least, this isn’t one of the ones who claimed to be able to knock people with their mind.” 

“Like…with a quirk?” Shisui said, haltingly. 

“No, no. Like, uh, before quirks, there were these guys,” he tried to explain, “that faked these ‘super secret techniques’ and claimed they could kill people with their mind chakra or whatever. It was bullshit, so people called it bullshido. Like bullshit mixed with bushido. And these fake dojos were always like, weirdly cult-y, it was bizarre. And…uh,” He trailed off, realizing he was rambling. “Lemme just show you a video, one sec.” He opened his phone and started frantically searching. 

Knocking people out with mind chakra…sounded like some form of genjutsu. Shisui considered the possibility that maybe chakra had once existed in this world. 

Maybe he didn't reincarnate into another universe. Maybe it was just far-flung into the future, and when quirks first manifested, chakra somehow disappeared. Shinobi were good at not leaving a trace - that was kind of their job - maybe that’s why there were no records of them? 

Kenji showed a video to Shisui, and all of his thoughts were dashed. 

“This is pathetic!” Shisui said, peeved, “He’s clearly just pretending! Look at his breathing! This is-” 

“Exactly.” 

“We’re competing against this ,” Shisui looked at Kenshi, outraged. “How are we losing ?”

Takeshi pointed at one of the myriads of signs glued to the window of the dojo, it read ‘Quirk Training Certified.’ 

“That’s why,” Kenshi explained. “Your main martial arts demographic these days are middle-school-aged children.” 

He’d noticed that, yeah … Quirks and pre-high school children. It clicked in his mind. 

“I get it,” Shisui said, “They’re at the age for hero school applications. It’s by far the most popular career and I’ve heard that those schools are competitive.” 

“Yeah, they’re tough. Especially for kids who aren’t quirk powerhouses like most of those UA kids. Many try to get an edge in applications with some martial arts training.” He sighed. “But boring old martial arts aren’t enough, obviously . The main issue these kids have is that they just don’t use their quirks enough before trying to apply.” 

Shisui was following. It was similar to how clan kids came into the academy with a huge advantage. Yeah, they knew clan jutsus, but their main edge came from their knowledge of chakra. He followed the thought to its logical conclusion. “Because it's usually illegal to use your quirk without a license, I assume many kids probably only have a vague idea of their quirks' limits, how it functions. I’ve read that’s the real reason why the hero community’s so insular. It’s not nepotism - that’s part of it too, I‘m sure - but it’s because kids with hero connections have a much better idea of how to utilize their quirks, and they start quirk development early.” 

“Yep, exactly,” Kenshi went on, “And quirk licenses are hard to get, and even harder to keep…You don’t remember this since you’re so young, but they tried to have parks where quirk usage was legal a while back.” He gestured at the nearby park. “I think this one was one of them. Long story short, it backfired horrifically! The injuries that happened led to a bunch of lawsuits. That’s why martial arts places are the best for this. The waivers allowed many places to avoid damages, and martial arts studios have a much easier time getting those licenses because of it.” 

“So, most martial arts these days aren’t even that? It’s just proto-hero training.” He found that ridiculous. He understood the point of quirk development, but this world’s overreliance on quirks would backfire eventually. Imagine just practicing ninjutsu. (Mental Gai laughed at the foolishness. Shisui had been thinking a lot about him lately.) 

Shisui pointed at Kenshi, continuing, “And you can’t get a license, ‘cause you don’t even have a quirk.” 

Kenshi nodded solemnly. “Bingo,” he said as he booped Shisui’s nose. “You got it on the nose. That was great. You’ve got a good brain for strategy.” 

“Thanks.” Shisui blushed imperceptibly. He had always been weak to sincere compliments. 

Still staring at the faux-dojo, Shisui turned pensive. 

One of the many signs along with the aforementioned one, declared, “Learn Self-Defense Today!” 

Peering into the window, he spotted 17 incorrect stances from that glance alone. As a Shinobi, he appreciated a good con. Subterfuge was a big part of their wheelhouse. But honestly, he felt bad for those poor suckers. If they ever got into a real fight and try to pull this stuff, they'll end up hurting themselves more than if they didn't. It was an affront to self-defense. 

Self-defense… self-defense  

“What if we… advertise to another demographic?” Shisui snapped his fingers. “Kenshi-sensei, what percentage of the population is quirkless?” 

“Around 20%,” Kenshi said, realizing, “Most people think it's less because we're so underrepresented. A lot are older folks from when the percentage was higher, but quite a few younger people are also quirkless.” 

During the years after a ninja war, there was always a spike in civilians looking for ways to defend themselves. Some got caught in the crossfire themselves or heard horror stories of what Shinobi could do. They often went to the samurai out of fear of the Shinobi, but Shisui remembers a few missions after the third war petered out where he taught civilians some basic self-defense and weapons handling. “By any chance, has there been a huge boom in the self-defense industry, any time recently?” 

“Not recently , but there were two huge ones in the collective memory. One right when quirks manifested, and then when the quirk population first exceeded 50%! My father remembers that last one himself; he saw a huge increase in business, primarily from quirkless customers!” 

“Bingo!” Shisui booped his own nose in triumph. “We just have to advertise to the quirkless population! They have no shortage of reasons for wanting to be able to use self-defense.” He started counting on his chubby fingers, the last traces of baby fat remaining. “First, bullying – I got bullied for being quirkless, and I’m not even quirkless. Second, self-confidence - Martial arts help with self-confidence issues, which happen at a much higher percentage in the quirkless population. Third, the majority of the population has an unknown variable, some are useless, but some people can straight up breathe fire. I’d like to have some way to be able to fight back in an emergency.” 

Shisui continued, fishing the business card Kenshi gave him out of his pocket. The paper was slightly crumpled, but the clean, elegant design of the card was still easily visible. “You were already doing that, albeit unintentionally. ” 

“I said this already, and I’d rather not compound my embarrassment by saying it again, but…” Kenshi looked sheepish, but good-humored. “You were the only student I enrolled with this ‘unintentional technique,’” he said, making air quotes. 

“I mean, it wasn’t the most effective marketing. It only worked on me cause I could tell from a mile away that you were a skilled fighter-”

“Do you mean the gi and the guns?” Kenshi asked, flexing his arms. “I always wear it when I'm trying to advertise, and it’s not like I’m not always ripped. So, why hasn’t that worked before?” 

“Not what I meant. Like I was saying-” 

“You going to expand on that?” Kenshi raised an eyebrow. 

“No.” Shisui smiled sweetly, dodging the question with the subtlety of a shadow clone to the face. “We need to prove your credibility and the real-world applications of learning self-defense, but it needs to reach a lot of people.” 

“So, a publicity stunt?” Kenshi said, considering the prospect, “I think that might work! We could have you fend off some kids or something. You could wipe the floor with some poor sap and we’d have customers rushing in!” 

Shisui laughed nervously, “I was thinking more along the lines of winning a few tournaments.” 

“Nah, now you’ve got me stuck on that idea,” Kenshi said, smile growing as he kept talking. Shisui didn’t like the look on his face one bit. It was teetering close to the look he often had on his face before particularly mischievous deeds. “Like a ‘victim fights back against bully’ power fantasy. I think that would really appeal to our newfound demographic .” Kenshi emphasized the last word, clearly trying to remind Shisui who started the idea.  

Oh no. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Took you long enough,” Shisui said, face scrunched up in mock disappointment. 

He had been perching atop a roof, a few blocks away from his apartment, when the familiar flutter of wings alerted him to a presence. The soft scraping of talons against concrete, and the shrill affront that came with it, told him who it was. “Such a slight! You insult Riku!” 

The scraping became louder and more insistent, as Riku made his way towards Shisui, intent on delivering some light scratching. “Riku spends many moon cycles attempting to follow Shisui-human’s trail! And this is the response?! Ungrateful!” Riku screeched, in between pecks, “Unappreciative! Disrespectful!” 

Shisui gently batted him away, laughing. “I was joking, Riku. No need to get your feathers all ruffled.” 

Riku huffed, still offended, but relented. “Your trail was poor, Shisui-human. Much time wasted in a wild crow chase. It was confusing, and at times made Riku feel stupid. Riku is not stupid. So your trail was stupid.” 

“You got here, didn’t you?” Shisui reasoned. It had been harder than he liked to leave behind a trail for Riku to follow. He could no longer leave coded chakra messages, chakra trails, or simply un-summon Riku as he would have with a summon. He resorted to some more primitive methods, such as making Hana stop for many more bathroom breaks than usual in shady roadside gas stations to leave scribbled messages in the dirt. It had wounded his pride, but it was all he had thought of on short notice. “Would you believe me if I said it was a test, meant to sharpen your skills?” 

“No,” Riku deadpanned, raising his talons to scratch at his beak, letting their sharp edges gleam meanly in the moonlight. “And Riku does not need any sharpening, so it would be redundant and objectionable.” 

“Ha…” Shisui scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly. “Sorry, Riku. Didn’t mean to imply anything.”

Riku harrumphed but put his talons down. “Regardless, Riku has missed you and your strangeness, Shisui-Human. May Riku rest atop your head? For it has been a long and strenuous journey, particularly due to Shisui-human’s incompetence.” 

“Yeah, just go ahead,” said Shisui while Riku was already nestling himself into Shisui’s curls, making himself comfortable, not waiting for a response. 

“So, what are Shisui-human and Riku going to be doing tonight?” Riku squawked from atop Shisui’s head, barely restrained curiosity in his tone. 

“Before you rudely interrupted me, I was patrolling,” Shisui grumbled. 

“Well, Riku’s sorry . Riku had been watching from afar, trying to confirm Shisui-human’s identity, while the aforementioned had just been standing around for an extended period of time. So Riku doubts it was that important.” 

“You’re right,” Shisui flopped down, going from his attentive perching position to letting his legs dangle over the edge. “Nothing’s happening!” He let out a big sigh. “I’m as glad as the next person that no one’s being killed , but come on, some minor attempted murder wouldn’t be amiss.” 

“Ah yes, how paltry…” Riku sounded surprisingly sarcastic for a crow. 

“Hey, don’t make fun of me,” Shisui whined, “I’m trying to be a good person here.” He crossed his arms in defiance, “But I’m just so bad at it. Can you believe there are no bounties?! No ‘ go for it!’ list. What’s a Shinobi to do without a mission?” 

“Amateur vigilantism, apparently.” Riku said, a touch amused. 

“Amateur?” Shisui crabbed, “If anything, I’m more skilled than most pros! It’s just that my style comes off a little strongly around here. This world’s so Kami damned delicate that I can’t go around cleaning up the muck without offending sensibilities.”

“Does Shisui-human mean literal sanitation?” Riku tilted his head, “Or was that a more figurative approach to saying murder?”  

“No! I mean- yes…” Shisui tried course correcting. “Look, I- I don’t want to go around killing everyone, or even just your average crook. I don’t want to kill anyone,” he asserted. “But usually, there’s the kind of people that don’t leave me much choice… it’s odd that I haven’t come across any of them.” He glanced at Riku, who looked perplexed. “The big guys, you know? The bad dudes, not the ‘bad-ish’ ones. The shadowy overlords pulling the strings, the real rot festering beneath, the ones profiting from the pain of others.” The Danzo type. “That type of scum,” he continued, “Every place has them, no matter how glossy the veneer. And I’ve…I’ve killed my fair share of them.” Most of them were very deserved, in his opinion. He remembers cleaning his tanto off and climbing out through the window, intent on slipping out unnoticed, already mentally preparing his mission report for the Sandaime. He also remembers a soft squeak and small hands pulling at his sandals and whispered thanks. Tears and snot-stained faces, wordless gratitude, the smallest specks of hope leaking back into people. The slightest bit of warmth thawed his cold mask at the sight, settling deep within his chest next to the necessary detachment. The relief that he was doing some good, along with keeping his village safe and supported. 

Shisui grew more desperate as he continued. “I don’t even have to kill them, either! Scare them off with genjutsu, blackmail, and extortion, or even just maim them enough that they can’t keep doing whatever it is they’re doing.” Shisui mimed several different twisting and ripping motions with his hands. The meaning was abundantly clear and exceedingly gory. 

“You could even peck their eyes out for me, Riku.” He considered that for a moment then quickly backtracked, comedic shuddering attempting to mask the uneasiness in his frame. “Actually, don’t. I’ve dealt with enough eye trauma to not want to inflict it.” He paired the remark with a strained chuckle and a smile meant to be his usual smug grin, but it faltered and was quickly dropped. The nervous energy in his eyes remained, almost feverish in their motions. The Sharingan’s permanent recollection had been running rampant as he talked, Shisui’s eyes’ saccadding in frenzied movements - recreating battle scenarios, reacting to past foes, all the images his dojutsu had seared into his mind, the imprints superimposed onto his vision. They were all unnaturally crisp, the memories sharper and as defined as when they were fresh - more details immaculately conserved than anyone else could perceive. Their every minutia forever burned behind his retinas. Shisui squeezed his eyes closed, doing nothing. 

He frantically wrung his hands, breath coming in increasingly fast bursts. “But in this case, what they’re doing is nothing. Haven’t caught a whiff of any foul play, nothing on nearly large enough scale to warrant anything like that. This place’s squeaky clean! Nothing worse than a purse snatcher or your average villain of the week. People that any Academy kid with a forged hero license can deal with immediately. No need for one of the youngest Shinobi to ever become Jounin.” 

His voice had trailed off to a hoarse whisper. “I don’t think I’m a good fit for this world, Riku. I don’t think I'm good enough. He stared off into the distance, a faraway look in his eyes - their usual pitch black colors replaced by the signature red of the sharingan, as well as a dulling of their usual wickedly sharp edges, a muted glazed quality in their stead. The sharingan spun slowly, the tomoe, like tadpoles wading through a shallow puddle of blood, slowly drowning yet blissfully unaware.    

“I don’t know if I’ve said this aloud before. If I’ve ever admitted this. But I…I don’t know if I ever really believed in it,” His face was pained at the admission, scarcely able to keep going, “In… peace…I don’t think I ever believed it would last.” 

“I saw the war, I grew up with it, in it.” He remembered - could never forget - his first day on the battlefield, at barely five years old. 

Nothing but corpses and desolation as far as the eye could see. He cowered in his makeshift tent, missing his parents who were deployed deep into enemy lines. The fitful half-sleep, nothing but nightmares and misery. The snapping of twigs startled him awake - an ambush. The enemy min was attempting to take advantage of his slumber. Then there was the vivid red of arterial spray, getting in his mouth, open from shock. The was red all over his face, eventually dripping down his shirt all the way down to his socks. (It had been cold after the sun had set. The other shinobi had made fun of him, but he decided to put on his socks - his favorite pair. There was no need to be cold and they had cute little dragons on them. His grandmother had knit them for him.) They stained. It never came off. The blood never came off. He tried. His grandmother would be disappointed in him. His grandmother had died a few months in. It had been his favorite pair. It had been his-  The blood on his face was warm, he didn't need the socks anymore. 

His kunai was still lodged deep within the man’s throat. The gushing spray had trickled down to a light drizzle with the occasional gush and spurt. The man’s garbled attempts at speaking were unintelligible. Shisui was about to ask him if he could repeat what he said, maybe speaking a bit clearer, when he remembered that his kunai was still buried in the man’s throat. There was the slightest bubbling of the blood at the wound, and the hatred in the man’s eyes, boring down at him, was venomous. Shisui was about to apologize when he remembered that his kunai was still buried in the man’s throat. He removed it, and the man fell face-first onto the grass. The grass was more mud and fallen leaves than grass, and Shisui thought it would be very uncomfortable to lie there. You would get very dirty. He was about to ask the man if he wanted a hand to get up, when he remembered his kunai was - no. His kunai was no longer lodged in his throat. It was in his hand and covered in blood. The tip had broken off, so Shisui assumed he had struck bone. It must have been the man’s spine. Shisui didn’t think he had gone so deep, but he assumed he must have. He reached the man’s cervical bones with his ku- he killed him. He had killed him. The man was dead and he had kill- 

The blood was drying on his face, and the heat was leaching out from the man’s body. His eyes hurt. His eyes h-  He tried to wipe the blood off his face with his hands. His hand was covered in blood. It would do nothing. He wiped it anyway. He just smeared it. He decided to let it dry - it was as sticky as glue, so maybe it peeled like it too - and watched as the man’s eyes dulled. It reminded him of something. He tried remembering…Fish! His eyes looked like the old fish in the market. He smiled, he was glad he remembered. The blood had dried and he tried to peel it off like a film. Some of it came off in flakes. It didn't peel like glue. 

He walked in a daze to the nearest pond. The water was scummy and muddied. He didn’t care. He needed to wash it off. He didn't care.  

He scrubbed at his face until it was raw, but it wouldn't come off. The red wouldn’t come off. Why wasn’t it- He needed it off. It was sticky and gross, and if he ran his tongue over his lips he could taste it. Metallic and sharp, like he had accidentally bit his tongue. He didn’t bite his tongue, right? He stuck his tongue out and inspected it. There was blood on it, but he didn’t bite it. The blood wasn’t his, see. He had killed a man, and his blood was in his mouth. He had kill- Shisui spit out a glob of saliva. 

He was still crouched at the pond’s edge, the water beneath him. It was still. Still as death. Like the ma- like his name. Like his name. It was meant to be a fancy way of saying mirror, you see. Like his grandpa Kagami. At least, that’d what Kaa-san told him. Like a mirror, he could see his reflection in the water. There was still red on him. How? He had scrubbed real hard. For twenty seconds, like Otou-san had told him to wash his hands. It should be clean. Why wasn’t it clean? He peered closer to his reflection, his nose almost touching the water. He could see the red better, now. He could see it reflected in his eyes, staining them that exact color for perpetuity. 

Sharingan. 

He had the Sharingan, now. Two tomoe in one go. That was really good, he thought. His parents would be proud. 

They looked cool, too. He didn't like the color all that much, but the little shapes were very pretty. Like tiny little fishies swimming around in his eye. He should show it to someone. They would probably think it was cool, too. He turned to the man, still laying with his face on the ground. The blood had pooled and cooled into a small puddle beneath him. He should show it to him since he was nearest. He would probably think it was cool. Wait. No. He was dead. Shisui had kill- he was dead. Shisui doesn’t think dead people thought things were cool. No, they were busy being dead and stuff. Too bad. His brand new sharingan was really awesome, and the man was missing out. Being dead and all. 

“My first kill was when I was five. I didn't cry until a week days later. Shock and all that. From then on, I got good at not crying, not caring.” 

Except for when he died. 

A cliff face, and hands slippery with sweat. The shameful well of jealousy, and- 

Shisui shook his head, relegating those particular memories to their usual deep, dark, pit of forgetting. 

“Its blood and gore, its viscera. It shaped me, and I, it.” He exhaled, shaky. “My squadmates basically raised me during the war. Not my jounin sensei, she-” He trailed off. “My formative years, my first years as a Shinobi were the war. In all its glory. In all its decaying corpses, rotting carcasses, in all its smell of fear and piss and death.” 

He tucked his knees to his chest, curing up as small as he could. “I never did any d-ranks with my genin team, never painted fences, caught Tora. I was barely alive when it started, I fought in it, and I lived to see its pathetic conclusion. I think that’s why-” He thought that was why Itachi was so much better than him. Itachi didn't see the war, he caught a tail-end skirmish after the ink on the treaties had already dried. It was horrid and Shisui had never forgiven his uncle for it, but he hadn’t lived through it. Day in and day out, the mud and blood permanently dirtying the underneath of his fingernails. He hadn’t been forged by it. It’s why his wonderful cousin was such a great pacifist, such a bright and outstanding idealist. He had seen war, and then peace. Like with the nine-tails attack, they had seen the death and destruction, and then the rebuilding and hope .  

Shisui always felt inadequate with hope. He was good at instilling in others, sure. He thought it was the most important thing, of course. As a Konoha-nin, he drank Hope and Teamwork for breakfast. But he didn't know what to do with it. 

After the third war had ended, during the Yondaime’s short tenure, there had been an initiative to give the war genin some of the usual Konoha-nin formative experiences. D-ranks, genin teams, chuunin exams. He thought it was a great idea, but after his 5th or so courier mission, Shisui felt listless and stagnant. As soon as he could, he joined Anbu, and the thrill was back along with the blood on his tanto. A certain joie-de-vivre that he was missing. It’s the reason why Shisui thought himself a terrible pacifist. 

“I’m no sadist or anything, I don’t enjoy the screams and the death. Not at all. After the relief and the split-second contentment at a job well done, my stomach drops and bile pools in the back of my mouth, same as everyone. I cry in the shower after a particularly brutal mission, same as everyone. I have that bone-deep weariness that all successful Shinobi have. I am a pacifist, however bad and hypocritical. I don’t want another war, I’d do anything to stop it. Fight, maim, kill,” Kill myself . By gouging my eyes out and jumping off a cliff. Like a coward. Leaving it to Itachi to deal with it, do the hard part. Pathetic.

“But I don't know how to live for it. Live after it.” He sighed, deep and full of self-loathing. “I was one of the earliest flee-on-sights. Jounin at 11, Anbu captain in the following year…I’m- I’m just so good at it.” 

Shisui was twiddling with a knife, throwing it from hand to hand with pinpoint accuracy. “At killing, maiming, slaughtering…I deal in death . Always have, always wi-” He cut off, without finishing the thought.  

Too afraid to say it out loud. 

That he’s unfit for this. That he’s a bad person at his core. That he can’t be a good person, even without the extenuating circumstances of his first life. A monster by their standards. 

Out of everyone, why is he the one to be reborn into this idyllic world? There’s tragedy and pain, sure. But it’s so much nicer . (He doesn’t like it more . Like he’s been saying, he feels inadequate and monstrous here. It’s not a very nice feeling. He loved Konoha, but purely in an orphan per capita comparison…) He made fun of their morals and their delicate sensibilities and their softness. He scoffed at their lack of nerve, their weakness. Wore his toughness and ability to cause harm and death as armour. 

But he’s just scared to admit he doesn’t know if he’s anything without it. 

A shrill scream cut through the stillness of the night and Shisui’s doom spiral. Gently picking Riku up and moving him off his head, he smiled as best he could. Still raw from the unexpected existential crisis, his voice sounded rough from unuse, even though he had been talking quite a bit. As an experienced represser, however, he spoke as though unphased. “Speak of the bijuu and they shall appear. Come on, Riku. Things to do, criminals to stop.” 

With that, he jumped off the ledge, pulling his hood and mask up to cover his face. 

Riku, now incredibly concerned, followed. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Text

“For the record, I think this a bad idea,” Shisui said, pulling his cap down lower on his face. 

“Too late~,” Kenshi said, smiling deviously. He had a multitude of flyers and business cards stuffed into his pockets. Eyeing the news crew from across the street, he took a sip of his drink. “Let’s go over this one more time. First-” he started, leaving the sentence for Shisui to finish. 

Shisui sighed deeply, “First, we find a news crew covering something mundane, so we can show up and be more interesting.” 

“Check.” Kenji smiled, pointing at the ‘grand opening’ banner at the door of a new fast food restaurant. “Boring, but important enough to show up on local news.” 

“Second, find some quirkists and cause a minor scene, or pay some actors if necessary.” 

“We do not have the budget to pay people, but look-” Kenshi pointed, “Right there. Those guys look like they might be exactly what we need.” 

“I don’t know… this feels very profile-y, lots of stereotypes and assump-” Shisui began, when the aforementioned men slapped a tray out of the hands of a teenager, “-tions. Kami, really?” 

“Yup. I’ve seen them around before.” Kenshi said, crossing his arms. “Look! We might not even have to start a scene. They’ll just do it for us.” 

The group of men formed a circle around the teenager, jeering and laughing. “Come on! Stand up for yourself!” The tallest, apparently the leader, said. “Oh, wait! You can’t! HA!” 

Kenshi looked expectantly at Shisui and then at the building commotion. “Third…”

“And Third, beat their asses and get our name out there,” Shisui said, standing up, his chair making the screeching sound of metal against hard floor. 

He didn’t want to do this. He did not want publicity, which could cause trouble down the line with his burgeoning vigilante career. Did he have to do this? 

He thought back to Kenshi’s puppy dog eyes and his self-imposed mission. 

..Yeah, he was going to do this. And he was going to do it well! They’d be raking in the cash after this. Shisui wasn’t the kind of Shinobi to slack on a mission. 

He looked back at Kenshi with determination. Kenshi sent back double thumbs-ups. “If you need backup, I’ll be right here. But you’ve got this, they’re all just skin and bones.” 

“If I were any other seven-year-old, I’d say you were crazy.” Shisui analyzed his opponents. Three men, estimated ages 25-35. Low to nonexistent muscle tone. Awkward stances - not expecting a physical altercation. Quirks could be unexpected, but none carry themselves with any confidence belying even a moderately strong quirk. Easy kills. “But I agree with your assessment. Easy hunting.”  

He grabbed his apple juice from the table, nabbing Kenshi’s little drink umbrella, and sauntered towards the men, making sure he was in view of the cameras the whole time. 

He came to a stop a few meters away from the group and made eye contact with the teenager. The teenager’s eyes were wide and panicked, desperately gesturing at Shisui to back off. 

Shisui ignored the warning and kicked a fallen soda cup. The sticky sweet liquid splashed all over the men, prompting a growl. “Who did that?!”

“Me.” Shisui crossed his arms, putting on a cutesy angry face, making sure to highlight the age difference. He wanted to humiliate these guys a little bit. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size! Wait... sorry. Why don’t you stop picking on him, and uh…get ready to lose!” 

The men turned, letting the teenager scamper off while they were distracted, looking around before finally looking down, spotting Shisui. They all burst into laughter, Shisui grinning as well. He never liked being underestimated, but it did have its uses. 

Shisui took a loud sip from his apple juice, making sure to have the straw make a slurping noise. He skipped to the news crew, who were now capturing the disturbance, and asked the young news anchor to hold his drink. She almost dropped it, the glass nearly falling through her semi-corporeal form. 

“I’ll deal with this. Trust me,” he said, cracking his knuckles. He did a few poorly executed karate chops along with the included hiyahh and woosh sound effects. “I know karate!” 

The news anchor tried to grab at his shoulder, her blue skin flushing. “Young man, I don’t think this is a great idea,” she said, laughing nervously. 

“Why?” Shisui tilted his head for maximum cuteness. “I’ve been doing it for almost a whole month!” He had been training with Kenshi for closer to half a year, and that’s not counting the lifetime of life or death experience from before . He didn’t think a white lie would hurt in this case, though. He was making sure to lay it on thick. 

He ignored the news crew’s increasingly panicked protests and marched back to the men, who were still laughing. 

“Aww, guys,” The lanky leader said, in between stifled giggles. “Do you think we should back off? This kid knows karate!” He shivered, looking to his buddies in mock fear. 

“Very dangerous! Almost a month! Did you hear?!” The others joined in, guffawing. The burliest of the bunch leaned down, lighting his index finger on fire in an attempt of intimidation. The flame was a nearly translucent red, feeble, and cold. Shisui knew fire quirks were a dime a dozen, but Indra, that was pathetic. 

Shisui quirked his eyebrows and blew, extinguishing the finger in one fell swoop more easily than a birthday candle. The man snarled, clenching his hand into a fist, and began coating it in flames. The process was slow and clearly arduous for the man. Shisui took pity and punched him in the face. The loud crunch that followed told everyone it was most definitely a broken nose on the man’s part. 

Shisui stepped back slightly and watched as the man cradled his nose, howling in pain. His nose was doing its best to imitate a faucet, and the man swang wildly with one arm, the other still covering his face. Shisui sidestepped it and landed a roundhouse kick to the jaw. The man was out cold before he hit the ground. 

His friends watched in silence, the takedown too fast for them to react. Before they snapped out of their shock, Shisui made quick work of them. 

The first one went down to a kick to the groin, followed by an elbow to the back of the head when the man bent down to reflexively clutch the family jewels. The tallest of the bunch, the leader, ate the bottom of Shisui’s shoe during a flying side kick. The kick was unnecessary, but if there ever was a time to show off… 

Shisui twirled to face the camera and flashed a smile along with double peace signs. All the spectators had their jaws hanging open, and Kenshi took the opportunity to spring into frame, showering the shocked audience with posters and business cards. 

“MUTOU MARTIAL ARTS! JOIN NOW TO KICK ASS!!” Kenshi yelled, picking Shisui up and hoisting up to his shoulders. “JOIN NOW TO KICK ASS LIKE MY STUDENT HERE! MUTOU MARTIAL ARTS!”

Shisui sprinkled his own stash of flyers over people from his vantage point with a surprising amount of glee. 

The news anchor was the first one to recover, quickly snapping up her microphone from where it had fallen from her loose grip. She immediately started hounding Shisui with questions. 

“Young man, how did you do that?”

“Karate, I already said as much,” Shisui said, still sitting on Kenshi’s shoulders. He mimed a few punches to get the point across. 

“How old are you?” The anchor asked, her shock replaced by professionalism. 

“I turned seven a few weeks ago.” Shisui raised seven digits. 

“Do you have a strength quirk of some sort? You must have that or some other quirk that helped you defeat those grown men?” 

“Nope. I didn’t use a quirk!” Shisui grinned. “Just good old-fashioned martial arts.” 

She stared in abject disbelief for a few seconds before she kicked her cameraman in the shins. “Make sure you’re getting this, Makoto!” she whispered sharply, “We’ve got an actual story now!” 

She quickly returned to her press-perfect smile, and continued, “You hear that folks? This quirkless seven-year-old has defeated three full-grown men using karate!” 

Shisui protested quietly, but made sure his voice could be heard in the recording. “I never said I was quirkless.” He made sure to add that in, the quirk registry wasn’t hard to look through. He’d rather not have to deal with people calling bullshit. 

The news anchor simply spoke louder, ignoring his comment, and reiterating, “Young quirkless boy is Musutafu’s new martial arts prodigy! Defeats three men in unarmed combat!” 

Along with local news, the audience had recorded the encounter themselves. Shisui would bet his favorite tanto that it would be all over the internet before the day was over. And who said mass marketing was dead. 

Shisui took a final sip of his apple juice, having taken it back from the news anchor during her stupor. He sighed contentedly at a job well done. 

Objective completed. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“It worked! I can’t believe it worked!” Kenshi squealed in a very schoolgirl-esque manner. “Look!” He pointed at the long line of people standing outside the dojo. “Prospective students !”

“It was your idea? Did you not think it was gonna work?” Shisui said, but Kenshi was already beelining towards the door, ignoring Shisui’s comment. 

“Welcome everyone! Welcome to Mutou Martial Arts!” Kenshi opened the door in a wide swing, the bell jingling loudly. “Come in! I am so glad to have you!” 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“-And that’s the coffee machine! If you can call the sludge that comes out of it coffee.” The police captain winked. “Your desk is over there, the case files should be on there somewhere. Welcome to the MPD, Tsukanai-kun.” The captain gave Tsukauchi a friendly slap on the back and turned to leave. 

“Actually, it’s Tsukauchi?” The man had already walked away, and most likely didn’t hear. Tsukauchi resigned himself to his fate. He’d try to correct the captain next time. 

“Yo, yo! New kid! Come here!” A woman spun around in her chair to face Tsukauchi, sticking out two of her four hands for a handshake. After some mildly panicked deliberation, he shook both. The woman smiled, revealing sharp fangs. 

“Tsukauchi, yeah? Name’s Kumode Toki.” She leaned back into her chair, kicking off of Tsukauchi’s desk and wheeling herself to her desk. 

Tsukauchi had only seen her from the back before entering, and he was a bit shocked. She had seemed fairly inconspicuous from the back until you noticed the extra limbs and eyes, that was. Seemed to be some sort of spider quirk. Toki was a fairly petite woman with dark black hair, glossy and of the length to reach her lower back if loose. It was currently up in a bun that looked very close to falling apart, several strands in prime position to get into her eyes - of which she had several more than your average person - but the woman seemingly did not care, and only blew the offending hair out of the way. She also had several piercings on her ears and face, Tsukauchi caught upwards of ten at this first glance - a septum ring, a bridge, eyebrow, and industrial piercing, as well as an uncountable amount of studs and earrings dangling from either ear. The last one he spotted was a pair of very fitting spider bite piercings under her lower lip. He was sure there’d be more if he looked closer. His mother had instilled good manners in him, however, so he quickly averted his gaze before it became awkward.  

She smirked slightly and stuck out her tongue, which had a piercing smack dab in the middle of it. “And here’s another, newbie. Don’t worry, they’re all regulation…mostly.” Tsukauchi flushed - she had noticed his staring. 

Her smirk shifted to something a bit softer and she continued, “Sorry, that was a bit unprofessional. Lemme continue the introductions, yeah?” She looked to the right, pointing at a very sleep-deprived man. “That’s Kazuo. Inoue Kazuo.” 

Tsukauchi nodded. “It’s a pleasure, Inoue-san.” 

Kazuo simply glared, showing no other reaction to the greeting. If not for the slight trembling of his hand while he gripped a pen, Tsukauchi wouldn’t be sure the man hadn’t fallen asleep with that stern expression. 

“Come on. Be nice, Kazu-chan.” 

Kazuo stopped glaring daggers into the wall, and made quick eye contact with Tsukauchi, grunting in acknowledgment with a slight incline of his head. His eye bags had Tsukauchi wincing in sympathy. 

Tsukauchi assumed his blonde hair was usually bright, golden, and silky, but it currently looked very strawlike - dry and brittle. Kazuo reached a shaky hand to a half-full coffee mug on his desk, downing the whole thing like a shot. He placed the empty mug by his feet, next to several others. Tsukauchi noticed his collar and desk were stained, the latter boasting several ring-like marks. Caffeine dependency? He tried not to psychoanalyze people when he could, but he was a detective. 

“You can do better than that, Kazu-chan” Toki crooned, riling him up. “A handshake, maybe Kazu-” 

The man suddenly sprung into action, standing up from his chair, accidentally elbowing another one of his mugs, leaving it teetering close to the edge. He pointed at Toki, nearly apoplectic. “Dont. Call. Me. That.” He slammed his hands down to make a point and sent the mug crashing to the floor. “Fuck!” He kicked a trash can, strewing crumpled paper all over. “Shit!” He immediately crouched down and picked it all up, righting the can and placing it back in its spot. “I liked that mug, Toki,” he seethed, picking up the pieces gently, as to not injure his hand. He sliced open his thumb anyway. “I hate this fucking job!”

He stomped his way out of the precinct. A man tried to stop him at the exit, gently grabbing his arm. “Kazu-chan, you’ve already left twice today. The boss might start docking your pay if you take another break. I thought you said you were quitting?” 

“Not a smoke break, Mori-san.” The anger seemed to mostly leave, leaving him slightly deflated. “I’m just going to get some coffee. But I appreciate the concern.” He craned his neck to look at Toki. “Hear that! I’m going to get some decent fucking coffee in here!” Kazuo huffed and left. 

Tsukauchi looked around, but nobody else in the entire precinct even looked up at the commotion. “Is this… normal?” 

“I promise he’s usually mellower, Tsukauchi-san,” Toki said with a wry smile, “He doesn’t mind the nickname… when he’s not sleep-deprived and under-caffeinated, at least.” She pointed at the coffee machine. “And that would be my fault. Switched it decaf. He’s been grumpy ever since.” 

Moving the mugs closer to the center of the desk, making sure no other ones would fall over, Toki continued, “And that there’s Tamakawa-san. Tamakawa Sansa.” Toki gestured at a man with a cat-like head.

The man raised his hand, doing a quick wave, but remained focused on his computer screen. He quickly went back to typing. 

“We hear you’re a new transfer from Iwate, right? What are you doing in this dump?” 

Tsukauchi scratched the back of his head, with a slight nervous laugh. “It’s not my first time in Musutafu, Kumode-san. I worked here for a short time around 8-ish years back.” He sat down, placing his cardboard box atop his desk. “I am from Iwate, originally, though,” he conceded, glancing at Toki. 

“Call me Toki, Tsukauchi-san.” She leaned onto all four of her elbows. “What are you doing back here, then? You look straight-laced, your nose seems clean, why haven’t you gone running yet?” 

“I never worked in this precinct before. My last time here was up at the school ward,” he sounded slightly concerned now, “Is it very different?” 

Sansa scoffed from behind him. Tsukauchi startled slightly, unaware that the other man was listening. 

“Yeah, it’s very different. I’m assuming you must have pissed someone off to end up here. We all have.” 

“I don’t thi-” A sudden flash of memory. Tsukauchi bumped into a man, spilling lukewarm coffee all over his white dress shirt. He profusely apologized, while promising to buy the man a new shirt if necessary, or pay for dry cleaning, or- The man interrupted with assurances. “It’s no problem, kid. It’s no problem at all.” The man continued repeating that all the way to the captain’s office, mumbling it under his breath. Tsukauchi only found out a few weeks later that the man had been a relatively important higher-up at the HPSC. A few weeks after that, he received his transfer notice. 

Now, Tsukauchi was just happy the coffee hadn’t been hot. “I may have done something.” 

Sansa let out a snort and got back to typing. 

“Well, let’s check.” Toki reached over to Tsukauchi’s desk, snatching the case files from under the cardboard box, while Tsukauchi continued unpacking. 

She paged through it and let out a sudden burst of laughter. 

“ What ? What is it?” Tsukauchi said, sounding alarmed. 

“Wow…Someone really hates you.” She continued reading the files, “I mean, I knew someone hated you. ‘Cause you ended up with us.” 

Sansa exhaled with a pained chuckle, covering his face with his hands. 

“But wow .” She turned the pages, showing it to Tsukauchi and stabbing her finger at a certain section. “You’ve got Crow .”

Kazuo, who had returned, slightly out of breath, let out a strained giggle, sounding slightly hysterical. He placed the two coffee holders he was carrying down on his desk, where he flopped into his seat. “If he’s got Crow. Then we have Crow.” He dropped his head, letting it slam into his desk. “Oh no…” He whimpered. “...not again…” 

“Oh no is right,” Toki said, pinching her nose bridge, slightly below her piercings. “This guy’s the worst! He’s the first real vigilante we’ve had in a while.” 

Sansa finally stopped typing, fully joining the conversation. “You don’t know this, but we’re the unofficial vigilante team here at Musutafu. We deal with vigilante justice in all its forms, and it’s a raw deal, cause no one wants to deal with it. Especially in cases where people might consider it justified. It takes a toll on you after a while.” 

Toki whispered conspiratorially, “We know we shouldn’t, but we do try to look the other way until we really have to intervene.” 

Kazuo spoke, “And when we do have to…intervene. It’s usually super easy. Most vigilante justice is revenge-fueled one-offs. You have the occasional ideologue nut, but those are even easier. That guy,” he pointed at the files. “-is an anomaly. He’s an actual vigilante. Like Batman-style.” 

“No one knows your obscure pre-quirk comics, Kazuo. They’re centuries old,” Toki said. 

Kazuo rolled his eyes. “I mean this guy is just stopping crimes as they happen, with no sort of pattern or target. He doesn’t even use excessive force. If I didn’t know it, I’d just assume the guy was an underground pro. He even leaves signed notes!” 

“He what?” Tsuakuchi looked around. “Can’t you guys-” 

Kazuo interrupted. “Can’t we check his handwriting? Can’t we use the quirk registry to narrow it down? Can’t we use eyewitness accounts? Can’t we use DNA? Can’t we? Can’t we? Can’t we! We’ve tried everything!” 

“The problem is that he’s inconsistent,” Sansa explained. “Every eyewitness account is slightly, or wildly, different. There’s basically nothing in common other than ‘ red-eyed demon .’” 

Kazuo cut in, “For most of them. Some not even that.” 

Sansa continued, “His handwriting is different in every single note, as well.” 

Toki interjected, “We thought it might be multiple people or copy-cats because of that. But there are detailed mentions of other incidents in most of the notes. And the handwriting never loops. There have been almost 50+ incidents and all the handwritings are completely different. He’s even addressed it a note.” 

“ Addressed it, ” Kazuo mocked, making air quotes. “He made fun of us for ever thinking it wasn’t just one person. And I quote, ‘I’m a bit insulted that you guys don’t think I can do this by myself. L.  -Crow :)’” Kazuo looked miserable. “We still don’t know how he found out our theory. There’s no record of any break-in at the precinct. Then we noticed that though the style was different, the syntax was always a dead ringer. We had to scrap everything and start over. We have no motives and no profile. We were running around in the dark.” 

“The other issue is…he’s skilled. Like really skilled,” Toki said. “We can’t get any conclusive DNA results, because he leaves no traces where doesn’t want them to. He strikes too fast for police to arrive before he’s miles away.” 

“We can usually count on eyewitness accounts from people other than the victims, but the civilians are tightlipped with this guy. He does his thing in the roughest parts of the city, and people are seeing a pretty major improvement in crime rates, so they’re protective, even if they have info. Like Robin, you know? People most definitely knew his and Batman’s secret identity, including Commissioner Gordon, but they just looked the other way since they were a pretty straightforward net-positive.” 

“To summarize, this guy’s a pain in the ass,” Toki said, “As soon as he punched a guy in the uptown precinct, we happily handed over the case.” 

“Good riddance!” Sansa said. 

“They probably thought it was an easy case, given the hand-written notes ,” Kazuo said, with slight glee. “How long do you think till their forensic analyst had a mental breakdown?” 

“Probably shorter than you, Kazu-chan,” Sansa said, “We all know you’re the best one south of Tokyo.” 

“Thank you for the completely true vote of confidence, Tamakawa-san,” Kazuo said with a smile, sipping at his coffee. “Anyways, I guess what goes around comes around, unfortunately. Just put the Crow case aside for now, we’ll just be working on it in the background. No need to focus our efforts in what is most likely a futile endeavor.” 

“What else you got?” Toki asked. 

“Uh…” Tsukauchi flipped through the other files on his desk. “I’ve got the Quirk Rejection sQuad ?” 

All three of his fellow police officers groaned. “Seriously?!” 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Good spar, Watanabe-san.” Shisui bowed and helped the older man up. 

“Yeah, yeah, kid.” Watanabe waved his hand, dismissing the words. “You were holding back. You always do.” The man nursed his jaw, grumbling, and returned to the wall, leaning against it along with the other students who had been watching the spar. 

Shisui cleared his throat and addressed the students, “Everyone! Can anyone tell me the reason why Watanabe-san’s sweep failed?” They were quiet. “It’s because he telegraphed it from three miles away. Don’t do that, do this.” He demonstrated the sweep. 

Kenshi, who had been helping a young woman with her form a few mats away, made his way over. As always, he was beaming, his bright smile infectious. 

“My dearest student, have you been behaving yourself?” 

“Of course, of course.” Shisui grinned, alternating his weight between his legs. “As if I’d ever do anything untoward.” 

Kenshi snorted, well aware of the more underhanded tactics Shisui employed against people he didn’t particularly like. He gave Shisui a one-armed hug, mindful of the sweat coating them both. 

“I’m pleased to see you’re holding up,” he said to Shisui, looking at the students lining up against the wall, all of them were at least 5 years older than Shisui. “Has everyone been reasonable, no one too condescending?” 

“Nah, we’re good.” Shisui’s smile was a touch on the smug side. “Ever since we implemented the ‘honor duels,’ people fall in pretty easy.” 

“Good, I’m glad.” Kenshi’s voice turned to his usual ‘I’m being sincere right now’ tone. “Because you’re my right-hand man. I would’ve crashed and burned without, you know. People have to respect that, respect you.” 

“You would’ve been fine,” Shisui said, waving off the sincerity. It was too early in the morning for emotional intelligence. He’d appreciate the sentiment later. “Get back to your students, don’t want them to forget everything because you’ve been over here coddling me the whole time. Go.” 

Kenshi barked out a laugh, “I’m going, I’m going. I do have to talk to you, though, remind me later.” 

“Mhm. Sure.” Shisui shooed him away. “Go teach, Kenshi-sensei.” 

Kenshi laughed again, making his way back to his area of the dojo. That’s when the bell jingled, alerting Shisui that someone had entered. 

Kenshi shifted his path, going instead to the front door to greet the person. He liked welcoming everyone personally when he could. 

“Welcome to Mutou Martial Arts, how can I help you?” 

The man who entered was pretty unremarkable. Age estimated between 25-30. Black hair, black eyes. Above average muscle mass. No visible quirk factors. 

The man looked and spotted the students drilling and sparring in the background. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt! I thought class started at six. I even arrived fifteen minutes earlier to discuss things with you.” 

“It’s alright, no worries. Come in!” Kenshi lead the man to his small office, shouting to Shisui while he passed by. “Hey, Suihei-kun! Take over drills for me, will ya?” 

Shisui nodded sharply, gesturing at Kenshi’s class to join his side of the tatami, and resumed drills. He kept his ear tuned in on Kenshi’s conversation with the man, just in case. 

“I’m interested in joining your dojo.” The man said, “I’m Shimo Gouta, and…could I have the times so I don’t make a fool of myself again?” He laughed self-consciously. 

“It’s not a big deal, Suihei can manage while I talk to you for a few minutes. But yes, we have morning classes from 9:00-10:30 and 10:30-12:00, and then afternoon classes from 5:30-7:00 and 7:00-8:30. These are combined beginner and intermediate classes. We also have more advanced sessions from 8:30-10:00 and 4:00-5:30. We’ve got classes every day except for Sunday, but the dojo is open for open mat sparring if you feel the itch during the weekend. It’s not supervised, so be careful! And I recommend sparring unsupervised only with someone a much higher belt than you, or if you’re a higher belt yourself. There’s a signup sheet and scheduling slots for Sunday, and I recommend you do it a few days earlier. They fill up fast! There’s also the option of private classes with me, as well, if you want to get some guided instruction on something specific. We’re only closed, closed, on holidays. Those holidays are-” Kenshi interrupted himself. “That was probably way too much information, huh? Take this.” Shisui assumed Kenshi handed Gouta a flyer, from the vague rustling of paper. “This has everything I just said, written down. And our website also has this information on it.” 

Gouta sounded slightly overwhelmed. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be back tomorrow, on time, to enroll. I have some martial arts experience, so I wonder what level would work best for me?” 

“If you want, you can just sit in today. First week is free~” Kenshi said. “As for your level, I’ll have Suihei-kun asses you right now, if you’d like. You can borrow a gi. What’s your size?” 

“I’m a medium,” Gouta said, “Is Suihei-san your assistant professor? I don’t think I saw him walking in.” 

“Yeah, basically. If this dojo was a metaphorical ship, he’d be my first mate, and the only reason it’s not actively sinking.” Kenshi opened a closet, from the slight squeaking of wood. “Here’s your medium. And I’m pretty sure you saw him coming in. He’s the little gremlin working everyone else into the ground.” 

“ What? The kid?” Gouta predictably sounded perplexed and slightly concerned. “I thought that was your son or something. You want me to beat up the kid?” 

Kenshi snorted. “I’m assuming you haven’t seen the video, then.” 

“The what ?” Gouta said, “ Nevermind. I’m still hung up on the fact that you want me to beat up a kid. You heard me say that I’ve done martial arts before, right? I can’t take this seriously.” 

“So you’re saying you think you can take him,” Kenshi said, smile evident in his voice.

“Yeah, obviously ,” Gouta said. Shisui assumed he was actively putting his gi over his exercise clothes, due to the rustling of clothing. “He’s like, what, 10?” 

“7, actually.” 

“Just asses me yourself, sir. I’m only still here because I respect your accomplishments, and I’ll ignore the fact that you’re trying to get me to fight a child.” 

“If this were any other case, I’d agree with you. But…,” Kenshi said. Shisui could imagine how large his grin was. “To reiterate, you think you can take Nakagawa Suihei in a fight and won’t respect him as a possible instructor?” 

“ Yes . The kid is 7?!” 

Kenshi strolled out of his office and cleared his throat, addressing all of the students. “Students! Shimo-san here thinks he can take Suihei-kun in a fight! What does that mean?!” 

All the students, in unison, began chanting, clearly excited. “Honor duel. Honor duel! Honor duel!” They cleared to the outskirt of the mats, leaving a large open space in the middle. 

“You, Shimo Gouta, have insulted the honor of Mutou Martial Arts by implying that my best student is unworthy. You and him shall fight to the death!” Chuckles could be heard across the dojo. “Okay, fine. Not to the death, then. Instead, you shall duel until either of you admits defeat or is incapacitated. ” Students cheered. “Do both participants accept?” 

Shisui immediately yelled, “Yes, Kenshi-sensei!” He had already been in a fighting position on the mat. 

“Sure, I guess?” Gouta said. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you too badly, kid.” He certainly changed his tune pretty quickly. 

Shisui would gauge how seriously he would take this based on the man’s stance. 

The man got into a moderately solid stance, pretty decent, maybe this world’s equivalent to a brown belt? Maybe a first Dan black belt, if he pushed it. On his scale, it was a pretty good 4th-year academy student. 

In any case, Shisui knew he’d have to land the first strike to get the man to actually fight him. 

He quickly approached Gouta, sending a weak, but perfectly executed low kick to the man’s right leg. It would bruise if the man didn’t put some ice on it, but it was miles away from his usual bone-shattering attacks. He backed up, away from the man’s striking range. 

It was enough for the man to recoil, retract his leg, and get into a defensive position. He looked dumbstruck, and touched the soon-to-be bruise with his hand, flinching slightly. Looking at Shisui with completely new eyes, he desperately reassessed, raising his guard, and getting lighter on his feet. 

Shisui smirked, near animalistic, and let some very light Killing Intent leak out. He just wanted to get Gouta’s adrenaline pumping, not traumatize this random man. He wanted to see the man at his best. In combat, best , was somewhere between desperate and composed, as well as both at the same time, in equal amounts. The K.I. was so little, that it should be renamed “Fuck-you-up Intent,” instead, but it certainly did the trick. 

The man swallowed, near audibly from across the room, and trembled imperceptibly. 

Shisui closed in, nimble as always. He dodged some panicked punches, but a reasonable front kick - very clearly aimed at his knee joints and also illegal in most karate styles - nearly glanced off his calf. He upped his assessment to a freshly graduated genin and appreciated the man’s gall. Shisui finished his rush-in with a vertical punch to the man’s jaw but made sure it only clipped. He retreated, blocking a simultaneous jab to his face, as well as an unexpected attempt to bash in the back of his head with an elbow. 

Shisui smiled devilishly as the man spit out some blood, and was pleased to see a similar one returned. He was glad someone was enjoying this nearly as much as he was. 

Feeling emboldened, the man rushed toward Shisui. Gouta tried for a sweep, which was swiftly avoided and leaped over, and was rewarded with a kick to the face while Shisui was still in the air. 

Gouta fell backward, fleetingly unconscious, and Shisui jumped over his falling body, catching his head before it smashed into the floor. During their spar , they inched closer to the wood-floored section of the dojo. He’d rather not have his new sparring partner brain himself on Sugi hardwood floor. 

After a few seconds, the man jolted into awareness, rolling out of Shisui’s hold and staying low to the ground. Then, he stood and bowed, admitting defeat. 

Shisui bowed in return and turned to Kenshi, who was wiping off the blood and saliva glob from the tatami. 

Feeling Shisui’s gaze on him, Kenshi sent double thumbs up, which Shisui also returned. 

“I’m thinking Advanced, Kenshi-sensei. Maybe a few intermediate classes to jog the memory of the basics, but Advanced sounds about right.” 

“Thank you for your indispensable insight, dear student,” Kenshi said, exaggerating, but clearly pleased. 

Shisui curtsied with an imaginary dress. “My indubitable pleasure, sensei.” 

Not to be an “And then everybody clapped,” but…And then everybody clapped. Shisui knew it to be predictable, but he had put on a show for a reason. 

“You can keep the gi, it’s got your blood on it now. That’s the mark of ownership.” Shisui quipped. 

The man laughed, but then clutched his head when the action made his head throb. 

“You should also probably sit down.” Shisui pointed at the benches near the office area, “I’ll get you some water so you can get the blood out of your mouth, and an ice pack?” 

“Yes please to both. Thanks, kid.” Gouta hobbled to the benches and let out a sigh of relief when he leaned his head against the cold wall. 

Kenshi caught everyone’s attention once more and continued the class. 

Eventually, Shisui returned with both items and sat next to Gouta. 

“So how many years have you been doing this, kid?” 

Shisui deadpanned, “Do you want the actual or official amount?” 

“I have no idea what that means. What does that mean?” 

“Nothing,” Shisui ribbed, “And you, how many years?”

“Aren’t you going to answer my question first?” 

“No,” Shisui said, simply, “Are you going to answer mine?” 

“7 years, mostly Tae-kwon-do,” he stated. “My dojo shut down a while ago, though, my teacher went broke.”

“I could tell, your kicks were much better than your punches.” 

“Ouch, kid.” 

“Not saying they were bad, Shimo-san,” Shisui considered, “I’d say your punches were…reasonable.” 

“I’ll take that, I guess.” 

Gouta was quiet for a few moments, but then he asked a question. “You didn’t use a quirk, right? I don’t think you did, but I’m still a bit dumbfounded.” 

“Nope, I did not use a quirk to kick your ass.” Shisui joked, “Man, you really didn’t watch the video, huh.” 

“You and Mutou-san both mentioned a video, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“It’s a recent viral video I was in.  Search up “quirkless kid beats up” and autocomplete should fill it in.” 

“You’re quirkless ? I know you didn’t use a quirk in our fight, but I didn’t know you were quirkless?! That’s actually why I wanted to join this dojo! I’m quirkless too, and the website said you were a non-quirk training dojo. You must know how hard they are to find!” 

Shisui’s protest of, “I’m not quirkless , I just-” went unheard. 

Gouta lowered his voice to a near whisper, leaning in slightly, “Suihei-san, Have you heard of the Quirk Rejection sQuad? We’re a quirkless rights activist group! You’re a bit young, but the boss has been saying we need to get the younger generation involved somehow?” 

Shisui suddenly knew the feeling of having Destro witnesses proselytizing at his door. 

He did not like the sound of that name, though. Quirkless rights activism sounded good, he knew how quirkless people were often mistreated. But the ‘Quirk Rejection’ sounded like a doozy, and naming convection sounded similar to him somehow. 

Oh, he got it. “What is you guys’ relation to the creature rejection clan?” 

Gouta’s expression turned sour, “Those cowards aren’t taking it far enough!” 

Nope. Nopity nope. 

“We need to return to a quirk-free world! That is the only way to have a truly equal society!”

He could understand the thought process, but- 

“Through extermination-” 

Oh, Kami. 

“Of quirks!” 

Like people, or- 

“We are merciful, however, not like those quirked abominations.” 

Uhhhh. He liked the merciful part. 

“It is our ultimate goal to cleanse the world of quirks. Quirks are like cancer, a horrific disease we wouldn’t wish on our worst enemies. However, because the abominations are mutations, we believe the quirked can be cured of the disease.” 

That sounded ominous as hell. 

“We are not quirkless, my compatriot, we are quirk FREE!” 

Gouta stuck out his hand, “So what do you say?” 

Shisui knew saying, you guys are clearly an extremist cult, maybe even terrorists, and seem extremely and cartoonishly evil. No, he would not shake your hand, Gouta, it’s probably coated in the blood of innocents ( Like his own- Shut it, doom brain). Also, he could hear the capitalization of sQuad. He briefly considered a long con undercover mission, but the thought alone made him tired. Instead, he settled for a diplomatic response, one that would hopefully not insight rage in this clearly - at least sightly - mentally unstable individual ( Like yourself-  SHUT IT). 

“I don’t think my Kaa-san would let me.”

There. Perfect. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Text

The repetitive clicks of Madam President’s nails on the glass desk were nearly driving Hawks crazy. 

He was raw from his latest training session, a six-hour-long nightmare which included, in his opinion, excessive amounts of fire. As a result, his wings were reduced to the soft and mainly useless downy feathers near the base of his spine. They were only good for his sensing abilities, as they were especially sensitive, but the unholy combination of stiff dress shirt and the lack of the usual buffer of his other feathers left him incredibly uncomfortable as well as uncomfortably aware of everything . 

He could tell a secretary was answering the phone three rooms and a floor down with perfect clarity. The barely perceptible vibrations of the glass window panes told him the wind outside was roughly 60 kilometers per hour, with gusts reaching up to 20 kpm higher than that. By the slight irregularities surrounding it, he could also tell there were a few unopened boxes hidden near the bottom of the President’s desk, hidden to maintain her visage of perfection. 

He didn’t usually have to deal with this much sensory input regularly, but as he mentioned earlier, his other feathers usually did some muffling. Unfortunately, they were ashes in a training room somewhere, so, not very useful to him currently. 

The President clicked her pen, and the sound echoed viciously around the minimalist design of her office. Hawks winced, straightening his back in an attempt to stop the fabric from remaining glued to his back and feathers. His handlers told him to rush, and he barely had time to dry off and patch up after his hurried shower. 

 “ Eat shit, Ishiguro, ” he thought bitterly, mentally mocking his handlers, “ ‘Expedience is of the utmost importance, my ass.’ ” 

Unaware of his internal vitriol, the President clicked her pen again, clearly focused on the pile of paperwork in front of her. Now, Hawks just wished she would go back to the nail tapping, which was the significantly lesser evil.

With the plea obviously going unvoiced, Hawks shifted slightly, restless and trying to distract himself, but the squeak of his dress shoes just made him feel worse. 

‘Madam President has a matter she wishes to discuss with you, Hawks. Be there at 8 pm sharp, and not a second late…or you’ll regret it.” Hawks remembered that Ishiguro raised one of his stupid eyebrows along with the threat. 

He glanced at the hideously simplified -to the point of near uselessness- wall clock and read the time. 

8:17…maybe . It was definitely in the vicinity of 8:20 and past what he thought was 8:10, but he couldn’t tell the specifics. 

Anyway, he’d been standing here, waiting, since 7:50. He made a point of being early, hoping it would accrue some brownie points in his favor, but now he’d take anything Ishiguro threw at him for the option of being fashionably late. 

For the nigh half-hour he’d been here, the President had not once looked up. He guessed he could admire the focus, but he was this close to clearing his throat to get her attention. That faux pas would most definitely bring consequences much worse than his current situation, but he was too far gone, at this point. 

He just barely restrained himself from a fake cough, but he couldn’t help but stretch. 

His arms had been clasped behind his back for the entire time, and the tightness of the burns littering them would be one less thing bothering him if he moved a bit. His left shoulder made a slight pop as he lifted his arm above his head, having recently been dislocated. 

Hawks half-hoped the noise would rouse the President, but of course, it was imperceptible from across the room by someone without increased hearing. 

He always thought the President had some sort of sense-enhancing quirk, with the absolute omniscience of her vibe, but the one time he wanted to be noticed by her, she was unwitting. 

Fortunately, he did feel marginally better. Unfortunately, the movement had ripped the half-hazard stitches dotted near the junction of his neck. The newly reopened cut bled and the blood slowly trailed down his back, settling wonderfully near the base of his spine and seeping into his oversensitive feathers. 

Hawks would admit he was near tears at this point.

He hated this stupid room, and its stupid minimalist clock, and its echoey walls, and he hated his shirt and its stupid starched collar, and his shoes were uncomfortable, and his blood was sticky and was all over his feathers, and he wanted to cry. 

Could the President notice his existence, please? 

He glanced at the clock. 8:30-something, it jeered, inaccurate, and needlessly mysterious. Reassessing, he loathed that clock. 

The President was still clicking her pen, Hawks now crouching on the floor, his head in his hands, when the door swung open. The sudden breeze displaced some of the paper on the President’s desk, and she looked around for the first time in almost 45 minutes. 

She spotted a disheveled man, carrying a thick file, entering the room. 

“Ah, captain. It’s good to see you,” Madam President said, “Do you have the files I asked for?” 

The man attempted to smooth his hair back into some semblance of professionalism, and said, stumbling slightly over his words. “Of course, Madam President. Anything for you. Here.” He made his way to her desk and deposited them neatly. 

“Thank you, these are of high concern for the commission,” she said, leafing through the documents, “Tell me, captain, who do you have on this case currently? Anyone competent?” 

“I have my misfits and a new transfer, they’re unconventional, but they get the work done. As for the new transfer, his records were impressive, but I don’t know anything about him.” 

“Captain,” The President leaned onto her elbows, her face as unreadable as stone. “This group could cause serious unrest in hero society if we don’t do anything about it.” 

“Like I said, I already have people on it, Madam President.” 

“If you don’t mind, I’ll have one of my own on the case as well.” 

The police captain took the rebuke surprisingly well. In Hawks’ experience, men with that kind of power don’t usually take slights with such grace. 

“If you believe it to be the best option, Madame President. I have always deferred to your judgment with such things, even before you took over. I am relieved that old Sato-san has retired, I do think he was going senile.” He smiled indulgently. The President’s expression became strained for the slightest second, but the man backed off from the unintentionally inflammatory subject. “Back to the subject at hand, I assume you already have a person in mind?” 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, captain.” Her look was as blistering as Hawks had ever seen on the president, which was to say, not at all, and instead felt more like looking at an immense glacier and feeling incredibly small. 

The captain shrunk back, laughing awkwardly. “I’m not saying anything but the truth, Madam.” 

She ignored him and continued, answering his earlier question. “I do have an operative in mind, captain.” She looked at her watch. “He should be here by now.” 

“I’m right here, Madame President,” Hawks said, finally bringing attention to himself. With no remnant of his earlier distress visible, he looked the epitome of poise. 

It was shoddy work, if Hawks said so himself. Sweaty strands of hair were stuck to his temple, his voice had been the slightest bit wobbly, and his shirt was rumpled. The President saw through it, if her discrete disapproval was any indication, but the captain ate it up. 

“I was aware you had something important to discuss with me, Madame President, so I made sure to be punctual. It’s deplorable to be tardy. Don’t you agree, captain?” 

The barb had three aims. One, tell the President he’d been here for a while so he didn’t get in trouble. Two, disparage the captain, who the President seemed to not particularly like, to make up for his earlier misstep. Three, set up the room’s power dynamic: He submitted to the President, insulted the captain in a way he couldn’t fire back without sounding unprofessional, and subtly implied he had more insider information than the captain, and was therefore above him in the ladder. 

The President’s gaze no longer felt as heavy as an anvil atop his chest, so he assumed he was in the clear. 

His training involved suspicious amounts of the more subtle approaches, like manipulation, blackmail, and mind games, as of late. It wasn’t a wild hunch to assume the President had some say in that, and he tried to show it hadn’t been a waste. 

“Ah, yes. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long, my dear.” The President said kindly. My dear? And what is that? Almost an apology ? She was never this nice without company. 

Hawks knew it was a thinly veiled ploy to show their close relationship and alienate the captain even further, but he couldn’t help but preen. 

“Come here, Hawks. Let me introduce you to Captain Keishima. You two will be working together on this assignment.” 

“Of course, Madame President.” He walked over and shook the man’s hand firmly, like he’d been instructed. He made eye contact for slightly longer than the duration of the handshake, which he knew was not usual handshake etiquette, but he wanted to put the man off-kilter, no matter how vaguely uncomfortable it made him -he was still on edge from his downy feathers going haywire earlier. 

“It’s a pleasure, Captain Keishima. I look forward to working with you.” 

“Likewise, Hawks.” 

The President cleared her throat. “Well, if you’d excuse us, Captain. Me and Hawks have a lot to discuss. My secretary will see you out.” 

The man seemed blindsided for a few seconds at the sudden dismissal. He recovered quickly, and exited with, “Very well. Thank you for your time, Madame President.” 

“Always, Captain. You are a very valuable associate of mine.” The president let him go with a compliment, smoothing over her brusqueness. 

As the door closed behind the police captain, the President zeroed in on Hawks. Whatever was left of her kindly facade slipped away as if had never been there. 

“You were unseemly, Hawks. You almost embarrassed the commission with your lack of composure.” Hawks could feel the sneer, regardless of her unmoving expression. 

“It won’t happen again, Madame President.” He didn’t apologize, he knew that would only worsen the situation. 

“As long as this un-hero-like behavior doesn’t continue. Heroes keep their composure during any circumstances…and you want to be a hero, right, Hawks?” 

He took the bait. There was nothing he could do. “Of course, Madame President. There’s nothing I’d rather do.” 

“The commission has poured untold resources into your development, Hawks. It would be a shame if it were to go to waste.” Her cold gaze bore into him. “You know what we do with worthless assets.” 

Taffy-colored hair and blood on the very desk she was currently sitting at flashed through his mind. He’d have to remember to compliment the custodial staff on his way out. He could barely tell. 

He nodded in response, he didn’t trust his voice at the moment. 

“Good.” She pushed the police files in his direction, sliding them to the edge of the glass desk. “Read over these. I want these idealogue scum dealt with by the end of the month. We, and by extension hero society, cannot look weak. Especially not now.” The severe lines in her brow furrowed further. “Don’t disappoint me, Hawks.” 

He grabbed the files, holding them under his arm. He tried to inject every ounce of determination he had into his voice. “I won’t let you down.” 

“I know you won’t.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shisui was lounging on the couch, idly watching TV out of the corner of his eye and sharpening a kunai, when there was a knock at the door. 

He didn’t think they were expecting anyone, but he quickly dropped the kunai, kicking it under the couch. 

“Kaa-san! I’m getting the door!” he yelled, already making his way to the door. It was probably the neighbor, here to thank Shisui for the flowers he replaced after they were mysteriously trampled. He’d gotten some ajisai and left them at her door as an apology. He left no note, but his neighbor was used to his shenanigans. 

“Wait! Let me get it.” Hana rushed out of her room, her hair dripping wet, clearly fresh from a shower. 

“Ok…?” Shisui stepped out of the way and watched as Hana twisted her hair over a nearly dead potted plant by the door, like an impromptu watering can. He noticed she was tense, which was highly unusual for her. She usually could not care less. 

“Kid, can you clean up really quickly ? Make this place look presentable, or something.” Hana said, sounding stressed. “I thought they’d be here later. At least I took a shower in time.” She mumbled the last bit to herself. 

Raising his eyebrows, Shisui removed any visible clutter from the apartment, stuffing most things in a closet due to the time constraint. “Who is it that’s got you so stressed, Kaa-san? CPS?” 

If he were any other child, and not the fully aware reincarnation of a skilled shinobi, Hana’s parenting would probably be of much more concern. Maybe they noticed the fact that she had no idea where he was all the time. He quite enjoyed the non-existent leash, but the law would not consider his unusual circumstances. 

“Ha, ha, kid. Very funny,” she said, cycling through many hair colors as she looked in the small mirror by the entry hallway. “It’s your teacher. It’s home visit season.” 

“I thought kids weren’t supposed to sit in on these.” 

“Does it look like I care?” Hana drawled. “I have no idea what she wants to talk about, and I know even less about what it is you do in and out of school. I’m busy doing other things.” 

“You want me to cover for you?” 

She stared back. “Obviously, kid.” She gestured at the couch. “Bring some tea and biscuits or something, you’re apparently supposed to do that.” 

Shisui made his way to the kitchen, rifling his way through the mostly bare cupboards for something that fit the bill, while Hana finally opened the door. Both of them mostly ate out, Shisui with Takeshi, and Hana’s diet consisted mostly of the Hor d'oeuvres served at the fashion events she sneaked her way into. He heard that her color-changing hair was very useful in pretending to not be the same person who was kicked out last time. 

Eventually, he found some non-stale biscuits and some matcha that looked all right. Grabbing a whisk and the only bowl in the house, he waited for some water to boil and got to sifting. 

While he prepared some tea, he eavesdropped on Hana and the teacher. He assumed it was just his homeroom teacher, Saihara Miyuki, but when another woman spoke up, he realized Ikazuchi Hikari from the middle school chemistry department was also there. His interest was slightly piqued. 

He hastily poured another cup for the unexpected guest, plating the biscuits on a tray. 

“So, Nakagawa-san, we’re here to discuss your son’s performance at sch-” 

Hana interrupted, “I have to apologize on his behalf, he’s going through a hard time. His father passed away last year, and-” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss, Nakagawa-san.” Saihara looked genuinely sympathetic. “But he’s been having no issues…at all, really. I mean, sometimes, he appears to be distracted, but his performance speaks for itself. He’s excelling far beyond his classmates.” 

Ikazuchi spoke. “That’s what we’re here to talk about, actually. We know it’s highly unusual, but have you considered letting him skip a grade or two? From what I can tell, he seems to be at the junior high level at the very least.” 

Hana squinted, glancing over to the kitchen for a slight second, and then back at Ikazuchi. “I’m sorry, but, who are you? I know you’re, uh-” She pointed at Saihara. 

Shisui entered the room, carrying the tray. “Saihara-san, my homeroom teacher.” 

Hana snapped her fingers, “Yeah, that. And you?”

“I’m the head of the science department at the middle school, Ikazuchi Hikari. I’ve sent you a few letters and emails about Nakagawa-kun this past year.”

“Must’ve not received them, sorry. My spam folder is overactive.” 

“I’m sure.” 

Shisui vividly remembered the bills filled with autographs, he assumed a few of those had been from Ikazuchi. 

“Anyways, I haven’t seen a student with this much potential in years. I would hate to see him bored and unchallenged.”

Shisui passed out the tea, setting the tray down on the coffee table and sitting unobtrusively on the sofa. He received a hair ruffle from Ikazuchi for his efforts. 

“We were also worried about the social aspect,” Saihara wrung her hands slightly, “He doesn’t seem to connect with his peers very well.” 

“You hear that, Suihei-kun.” Hana laughed. “You’re a mini psycho.” 

Saihara frantically gestured. “No, no. That’s not what I meant.” She made panicked eye contact with Shisui as an apology. “Nakagawa-kun is perfectly social, he empathizes just fine with his peers, it’s just that lasting friendship seems to be a bigger issue.” 

“We think he would benefit from some more mature peers. Or at least one’s with a common interest. That might help foster some deeper relationships. Nakagawa-kun always looks like an older brother trying his best to engage with his younger siblings and their friends. There just seems to be a gap.” 

“We were also wondering if there were any after-school activities he participates in. It might look early to start thinking about junior high, maybe even a private or specialized institution, but with a student like Nakagawa-kun, it’s never too early.”

“No, I don’t thi-” 

Shisui piped up. “Actually, I do Karate. Pretty much seven times a week.” 

“Oh, really?” Saihara said. “That’s good. Where?” 

“At Mutou Martial Arts. My sensei was planning on me doing a tournament soon!” 

“Woah, that’s cool. You must be good.” 

“You could say that,” Shisui cheeked, shrugging. 

“Ha, ha, yeah. Karate!” Hana said with nervous laughter. “How could I have forgotten?” 

“Back to the subject,” Ikazuchi reigned the conversation back, “I would recommend Nakagawa-kun be moved up two years, and then we can reconvene, analyze his progress, and act accordingly.” 

Hana grimaced. “That sounds like a lot of work.” 

“It’s always a bit of a leap in the dark to move a student up, it’s really on a case per case basis, and if he’s overwhelmed we can always move him back down.” 

“No, not for him. Will this involve a lot of work..for me?” 

Ikazuchi looked a bit shocked. “Yes, there will be a need for your increased involvement. We will have to touch base with you more often, and I recommend that you also start keeping a closer eye on his schoolwork. However, this is a great opportunity and-” 

“As a parent, I have, like, veto power, right?” 

“...yes. We cannot make any important changes to his educational plan without your consent.” 

“Then, I say no,” Hana said. “Like I said, I am quite busy.” 

Ikazuchi looked a bit ticked off.

“Excuse me for a moment.” 

She rose, picking out her phone from her pocket, and retreated to the hallway. 

Shisui zoned out from the stilted conversation that Saihara and Hana continued to have after Ikazuchi’s sudden departure, and turned his eavesdropping skills to Ikazuchi’s passive-aggressive phone call. 

“Hello, Principal. It’s Ikazuchi...You know that one elementary schooler’s home visit that I wanted to crash…Yeah, that one….Mhmm….Yeah, the mom said no…When is my planning period, again?... Do you think I could?... Yes, of course….I’m glad you always agree…Ha, you’re scared that I’ll leave if you don’t? I guess I am overqualified…Anyway, thanks. Bye.” 

She strolled back into the other conversation, sitting down with a significantly lighter air than before. 

“Nakagawa-san.” 

“Yes?” 

“I have a proposition for you.” She leaned back, face serious. “I don’t usually take interest in specific students, especially not with my level of expertise, but your son is something special, and I want to help nurture that. Would you be willing to let me take over your son’s science curriculum, and have him work with me, one-on-one, on any projects he may want to pursue? I will just replace his usual science course, and have him come to the lab with me during my planning period, which fortunately coincides with his usual science slot?” 

Hana opened her mouth, but Ikazuchi continued, ignoring what most likely would have been a protest. “This will involve no extra work from you. You won’t even be able to tell. I just need confirmation.” 

“Alright, whatever.” Hana looked bored. “Are we done now?” 

“Yes, that was all.” She stood up, and looking at Shisui she said, her voice significantly softer, “Thank you for the tea. See you at school.” 

“I’ll see you two out.” Shisui stood up, leading the two women to the exit. 

Ikazuchi sighed deeply, once out of hearing range of Hana. “I’ll see what else I can do so you’re not bored out of your mind.” 

“I appreciate it.” His smile grew wider. “Does that mean I get to set things on fire?” 

Ikazuchi huffed slightly, the barest hint of a chuckle. “Yes, it does.” She raised her eyebrows. “Under a lot of supervision, but yes.” 

Shisui nodded, bidding both women goodbye and a safe journey. As soon as he closed the door, he began to plan his escape out of the conversation that would most likely happen as soon as he returned to the living room. 

“Kaa-san! I’m going out! See you later,” he yelled while attempting to leave himself.

“No, the hell you aren’t!” Hana stomped her way to the door. She smiled sweetly but with an undertone of great anger. “We’re eating at home tonight. Family dinner!”

Shisui found himself sitting on the couch a few hours later, takeout box in hand, a quietly seething Hana across from him in an armchair. 

Clearing her throat, and breaking the hours-long silence, she spoke tersely, “Do you enjoy humiliating me?” 

“Not particularly, no,” Shisui muttered into the cooling food, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not going out of my way to do it. You just seem prone to it, Kaa-san. ” 

“ Prone ,” Hana sneered. “What kind of seven-year-old talks like that? You’re really not helping your ‘I’m not possessed’ case.” 

“Oh. So you know how old I am?” He grinned wryly, looking up. “Surprising.” 

“I’ll let you know that I was a great mother to Suihei. Until you-” She motioned with her hand. “-you, replaced him or whatever. Not that you’d know, demon ,” she spat. 

“I’m not possessed ,” Shisui stressed, nearing annoyance. 

“Well,” she scoffed, looking to the side, “You’re not very convincing.”

Shisui rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young man!” 

“ Now you care what I do?” Shisui huffed. 

“About that! Karate?! Seven times a week?!” She said, indignantly. “Don’t you need my permission for that, or something?” 

“There’s a waiver with your signature on it if you want to check.” He said. “Either I forged your signature, or…” He stroked his chin as if he were thinking hard. “I just left it on the pile of overdue bills on the table. You probably ended up autographing it, like you did all the others.” 

She sputtered slightly. 

“Also, about the bills.” He smiled patronizingly. “Don’t you wonder why our electricity, or our water, or god-forbid our phone plan doesn’t get shut off? Me!” Shisui tapped at his chest angrily. “Me! I do everything around this house.” 

“What? How?” she started, confused. Then her expression turned mocking. “Oh wait, you’re a super genius, right? Your teachers told me all about your freakish intelligence today. That must be how! Who knew wraiths could balance cheques?” 

“Oh, whatever.” He rubbed his face. “I can’t deal with you right now.” 

“I can’t deal with you right now.” 

“Can we stop arguing like teenagers?” Shisui pleaded. “Neither of us are teenagers.” 

“If you stop acting like a teenager, demon. I’ll stop treating you like one.” Hana said. “Aren’t you guys supposed to research before you possess your targets? You don’t do a very good job of pretending to be my son.” 

Shisui started, but Hana raised her finger, silencing him. 

“He was kind and full of smiles, and the most adorable baby I’d ever seen. He was my baby. My baby! My son!” Hana was crying at his point. “Stop taunting me while you wear his face!” 

Shisui stayed quiet, letting her have the last word. He hoped she’d cry herself tired and go to sleep. Then, tomorrow, they could pretend this never happened and continue their awkward song and dance. 

Instead, she continued. 

“I just wanted to say.” Hana seemed unnaturally calm. “The happiest time of my life was being a mother along with Takeshi. I hate you for taking away both those things.” 

Calling him a demon was one thing, blaming him for Takeshi’s death was another. Choking on the beginnings of a sob, he ground out. “Oh, shut up, lady.” 

Her calm disappeared in a burst of fury. 

“I’m your mother ! You can’t talk to me like that.” 

Wiping the bit of grief he let slip through, he stared her down. Absolutely placid. 

“So, I’m your son, now? Cool.” 

He stood up from the couch, ignoring her furious protests. He craned his neck back, rolling his eyes up into his skull. “Now, if you'll excuse me! I’m going to go commune with the devil.” 

He slammed his door behind him, already shrugging on his hoodie and mask, intent on raining down sweet violence on the first petty criminal he came across. 

He was mostly angry, and very annoyed at Hana’s continued insistence of his malevolent nature, but it hurt quite a bit. He struggled enough trying to convince himself that he wasn’t a monster; his own mother professing it from the rooftops made him feel all sorts of horrible. 

Maybe she knew something he didn’t. 

Mothers always talk about some sort of sixth sense regarding their children. Hana sensed that something was wrong , fundamentally. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to be here. 

He always assumed he was a reincarnation that somehow remembered their past life, but what if he wasn’t? There was a point where he hadn’t been Shisui and Suihei, or mainly Shisui, but where it had just been Suihei and both of his loving parents. Did he -his sharingan, his memories, even his personality- somehow, actually, take over Nakagawa Suihei’s life? 

He sometimes wondered what would’ve happened if his sharingan never awoke. As much as he didn’t want to think about it, Hana’s last barb still ached. He did think it was his fault somehow. His fault his father was six feet deep instead of here with him. Or maybe they’d still be by the ocean, away from the hustle and bustle of the city, enjoying domestic bliss. Takeshi always managed to mellow out Hana’s sharp edges. There hadn’t been edges this sharp while he was alive, though. 

He jumped out the window after locking his door from the inside, as well as barricading it with a chair. Landing with a thump, and ignoring the slight protest his knees gave him, he sought out the first poor soul that would catch his hands and terrible mood. 

The criminals all calling him some variant of demon ended up not helping at all. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the early hours of the morning, the sun still a ways from rising, a groggy Kenshi awoke to his doorbell ringing. 

He opened it to find a small child looking up at him. His brain took a few seconds to process. 

“Hey, Suihei-kun.” He yawned. “What’s got you up so early?” 

“Haven’t slept.” Shisui looked incredibly hesitant for a moment, but then he forced some words out. “Can I come in?” He averted his gaze. “Please?” 

Early-morning-Kenshi was not running at full speed just yet, but he recognized a sort of sharp panic beneath Shisui’s words. Wordlessly he stepped back, leaving the door open. 

He quickly grabbed an apple juice -he had taken to stocking them in his fridge since Shisui had drop-kicked into his life- and hurried his way back to Shisui. 

Shisui was still standing at the entrance, only a few steps after the door, as if afraid to intrude. 

Handing over the juice, he noticed the state of Shisui’s knuckles. “Did you…punch a wall ?”

“Maybe.” Several drawn-out seconds of silence. “Repeatedly and without remorse.” 

Grabbing one of the several first aid kits he kept in the house, he flopped down onto the couch. Meaningfully slapping the empty spot next to him, he urged Shisui further into the living room. 

Once Shisui was quietly drinking the juice, Kenshi began cleaning and bandaging Shisui’s hands, being more delicate with the antiseptic than Shisui was used to. He could barely feel it. The concern made his eyes misty. 

“You want to talk about it?” Kenshi asked. 

“No.” 

“Okay.” 

Kenshi continued his work in silence, slight TV static the only noise in the room, until Shisui whispered after a few minutes.

“My mother’s being an ass.” 

“That sucks.” There was a deep feeling in Kenshi’s words, the amount of sympathy was making Shisui choke up. “Do you want to talk more about it, by any chance?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.” 

Kenshi had progressed to treating several smaller scrapes and bruises further up Shisui’s arms. He didn’t ask about those, but he probably drew a conclusion that was closer than Shisui would admit, but also couldn’t be further from the truth. 

“Can you walk me to school today?” 

“Sure.” Kenshi grabbed his phone. “I’ll send out a quick text telling people that morning class is canceled for today. No need for directions, either. I already know where your school is. I happened to intimidate some children there.” He winked. 

Shisui startled slightly. “Wait, no! There’s no need to cancel class. I forgot about it! I can just walk by myself.” 

“Not very convincing,” Kenshi deadpanned. The words were eerily similar to Hana’s earlier. But these were comforting, instead of vaguely devastating. “I’m walking you, kid. There’s no stopping me now.” He squinted in a fake seriousness. “And, I will make you smile before we get there. I promise.” 

Shisui’s lip ticked up the slightest bit at the edges. 

“Boom!” Kenshi laughed lightly. “I can do better than that, but it’s a start.” Glancing at his phone once more, he asked, “We still have a few hours before then…do you want to do some early morning training?”  

Shisui nodded, still subdued, but he looked less like he was a few seconds away from tears, now. 

“Before we go…Can I hug you?” Kenshi asked softly, “You look a lot like a wet kitten, sad and pathetic.” 

Shisui wordlessly agreed, not opening his arms for a reciprocal one, but he leaned into Kenshi, letting the man hold most of his weight. 

It was a very nice hug. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Text

Shisui’s mood had greatly improved during the past week, no longer looking like “a wet kitten, sad and pathetic,” as Kenshi had called it. A hugely cathartic training session was largely responsible for that. It involved utterly ruining a sandbag and some light cry-sparring, but it helped get most of the angst out of his system, or at least, enough that Shisui could behave mostly normal. He had noticed Kenshi’s growing worry at his unusually despondent behavior and acted accordingly. Shisui didn’t like seeing the man sad and certainly didn’t enjoy causing it.

The underlying wound was still festering away, but the pitch-like sludge he’d felt crawling up his throat had receded somewhat. The paralyzing existential dread was a more manageable malaise, now–all thanks to his excellent compartmentalization skills.

…He and Hana had still not spoken since the events of parent-teacher night.

Banishing these thoughts to their assigned shadowy corner of his mind, Shisui shook his head, unclenched his jaw, and leaned back into the car seat, consciously forcing himself to relax. He didn’t usually allow his mind to wander, not without reason, and especially not during a mission. He’d rather not develop such an inconvenient habit. A shinobi must have an iron grip on their psyche at all times. When a shinobi starts slipping, they don’t stop, until…well… Hidden villages have notoriously poor career retention.

Returning to mission-relevant thoughts, Shisui allowed himself to be the slightest bit excited. He was glad they were finally taking his preferred approach to expanding Mutou Martial Arts’ renown. A good old-fashioned tournament. One that he would easily win, considering the overall level of this world’s martial arts, but would doubtlessly enjoy. Sparring with Kenshi was superb, of course, he was a martial artist far above the norm, even in elite spheres. But Kenshi still held some reservations when sparring with Shisui due to his currently diminutive stature, and adversarial settings, such as a tournament, always had a sharper edge to their combat. The whisper of true deadliness that was absent when sparring with friends or comrades thrummed silently in competition. A taut muscle here, a clenched jaw there, the slightest bit of cold sweat mixed in with the usual fare of exertion, a vicious retaliation barely restrained. It was exhilarating. It also held a lack of lethality that soothed most of Shisui’s ethical conundrums.

As the prospect of an “a-few-holds-barred” competition grew more and more freeing, Shisui tried to temper his expectations. He shouldn’t expect much, certainly nothing on the level of tournament he was familiar with (*Couch* Chunnin Exams *Cough*). New world, new expectations. New rules, as well. New tournament rules he didn’t know, and should probably familiarize himself with before participating in the aforementioned competition. He turned to the Japanese Karate Federation rulebook that Kenshi had handed him near the start of the car ride. The little red book sat inoffensively on his lap, forgotten during his earlier flurry of gloom. Shisui would not believe the horrors it could contain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hawks was unfamiliar with the rhythms of public transportation. The streams of people were all crowding and rushing past him in every direction; the ebb and flow of the crowd as trains arrived and departed; the blinking lights; the screeching halt of the trains. Everyone around him clearly knew exactly where they were going and were very annoyed that he didn't.

His only experience with train stations was those cold nights with his mothe-Haha, nope. Not going there.

Leaning against the cold metal walls of the subway car, Hawks floundered with a small paper printout, attempting to trace the colored lines across the paper with his finger. Take this stop, and then this connection, and…

As the train lurched forward, a young boy behind him overbalanced and reached out in a panic for the nearest handhold. He gripped Hawks’ feathers fiercely to keep himself upright.

“Sorry,” the boy squeaked, realizing his convenient handholds were attached to Hawks.

“No problem,” said Hawks, attempting to exude an aura of cool carelessness he assumed other people his age would possess.

God, he wished he could fly instead.

“Professionalism is of the utmost importance. Restrictions like these are par for the course for Commission operatives,” Ishiguro had said, in his usual irritating tone, “You must employ a subtler mode of transportation.”

“I thought I was working with the police department. Is this not above ground?” Hawks had asked. “It’s just basic courtesy, Hawks. You don’t wanna step on anyone’s toes,” Ishiguro had said, tucking train tickets neatly into Hawks’ breast pocket, “-Or maybe ruffle some feathers is the better analogy, in this case.”
Ishiguro had laughed at his mediocre pun, his usual slimy and viscous laugh echoing across the conference room. His hair barely budged at the motion. It was slicked back with enough gel that Hawks thought it would make a dull thunk if he rapped his knuckles against it.

“Stupid, stupid Ishiguro,” Hawks muttered under his breath as he was further squished into a corner by a mass of fellow passengers. He decided he was not a fan of public transportation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So you’re telling me I’m not allowed to touch anyone?” Shisui said, looking up from the rulebook, slightly disorientated. He’d been trudging along at his usual frightening speed through the book's earlier sections, which were, bizarrely, written entirely in comic sans. He would have the exact dimensions of tatami set-up seared into his mind forever. However, when he reached the section regarding kumite (freestyle fighting), he stopped dead, dumbstruck, and asked the aforementioned question.

“Hmm.”

At Kenshi’s noncommittal hum, Shisui rolled his eyes. Glancing back at the rule book, he started again from the beginning. Surely, he must have misread. As he read, his brow furrowed, and he squinted at the small printed letters, flipping the pages back and forth as if looking for a missing section.

Not finding anything new, he closed the book with a huff.

“Is this, like, a practical joke?” he snarked, “If so, hilarious. You got me there. Now seriously, I need to know the rules before I compete in a tournament. Hand over the actual rulebook now,” he said, holding out the small red book to Kenshi. “This is a surprisingly high-effort prank, Kenshi-sensei. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Not a prank, unfortunately.” Kenshi gently pushed the book back towards Shisui, not looking away from the road.

Shisui’s sharp grin faded slightly, turning uneasy.

He cleared his throat and began to read a small excerpt, growing more incredulous as he went on, “For Cadet Competitors no contact to the head, face, or neck, is allowed with hand techniques…” Shisui looked up, expecting a response. Not receiving one, he continued reading, “Any contact, no matter how light, will be warned or penalized, as in paragraph II above, unless caused by the recipient (MUBOBI).” He stopped again, a trickle of urgency in his voice.

“That’s what rules say, Suihei-kun,” Kenshi said apologetically but clearly struggling to hold in laughter.

“I thought jiyu-kumite was free fighting?” He looked more confused than affronted. “How am I supposed to be free in my fighting when fighting is not free?”

Kenshi shrugged, an awkward smile on his face. “Eh…”

Shisui lightly punched Kenshi in the shoulder. “You’re telling me that this isn’t allowed?”

“Suihei-kun, I’m driving.” Kenshi turned on his blinker, “Don’t punch the driver. That could be dangerous. And yes, that would land you with either a warning or a disqualification if you look as giddy as you usually do when fighting,”

“It couldn’t even move your shoulder, let alone cause a traffic accident,” Shisui deadpanned, “Let alone be useful in a fight…Kenshi! Why did I sign up for this? Why was I not made aware of these ridiculous rules?”

“I didn’t tell you until now, because I very much expected this reaction. By the way, we’re here,” he said, backing into a parking space.

“Noo..” Shisui whined, slumping further into the seat. “I don’t want to go.”

Kenshi stepped out of the car and pointedly waited for Shisui to exit, making unimpressed eye contact through the open window. In retaliation, Shisui pressed down on the small switch on the door, watching with slight glee as the window whirred shut.

“Come on, Suihei-kun, we are on a schedule here. Open the door, please?”

“Can’t. Sorry,” Shisui smiled apologetically, “Child lock, you know.”

“I do not have child lock on, Suihei-kun.”

“My small, tiny fingers seem unable to fully grasp and unlock the large behemoth that is the passenger door, nonetheless.”

“I drive an N-box,” Kenshi said, but relented, opening the door and stepping aside, as a chauffeur would.

As Shisui remained firmly seated in the passenger seat of Kenshi’s Red Honda N-Box, Kenshi leaned over with a tinge of exasperation, unbuckled Shisui's seatbelt, and waited.

“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll have to…carry you!” Kenshi exclaimed in faux-horror, already extending his arms to pick up the small boy.

Ducking under Kenshi’s hold, Shisui weaseled his way out of the car, but stopped, firmly planting his feet on the cracked sidewalk, “I’m not going,” he intoned with finality.

“Suihei-kun…” Kenshi used his usual kicked-puppy look. It was remarkably effective, as usual, but Shisui would not waver on his principles.

“I’m. Not. Going.” Shisui had closed his eyes, scrunching up his face. He looked like the epitome of an elementary school tantrum.

“Suihei-kun, come on…We have to sign you up before it starts.” Kenshi lightly tugged at Shisui’s hand, “Registration closes soon…”

Kenshi received a death glare in response.

“I’m going to hoist you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes if we don’t get moving soon, Suihei-kun,” Kenshi said, amused.

“If you try, I will flop. I will flop like a fish. Onto the ground! I will squirm and yell. I will kick, and-” He stopped dramatically, pointing at Kenshi, and said gravely, “You will be publicly humiliated.”

Kenshi barked out a laugh, unimpressed.

“You’re a seven-year-old at a Karate competition. Your first Karate competition. People won’t even look twice at some loud kid. There’s hundreds of you.”

As if the universe were mocking Shisui, a loud shriek could be heard from across the parking lot. “My gi is itchy, sensei! I don’t wanna go!”

Kenshi raised an eyebrow, smug.

“Fine,” Shisui ground out, stomping behind Kenshi as they made their way toward the event, “I’ll go inside! But I will not compete!”

He was well aware that his token resistance was futile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hawks sprinted up the steps, deftly avoiding the commuters blocking his path. He needed to get out of this hellhole as quickly as possible. He was not meant to be underground.

As soon as the beautiful, blue sky was visible–Hawks’ light at the end of the tunnel, literally–he took off, uncaring of his earlier instructions. Even being held at gunpoint wouldn’t convince him to walk the two blocks to the police station.

He flitted between buildings, touching down in front of the police department in the blink of an eye. Admittedly, he landed a bit forcefully, a gust of wind blasting off him and rattling the glass panes.

When security startled and began rushing toward him, Hawks simply flashed his provisional license–Newly minted, he’d never needed one for the jobs the HPSC sent him on–and continued walking toward the door.

Crossing the threshold into the bullpen, Hawks flashed a crooked grin and leaned onto the reception desk. Act like you belong and everyone will believe it.

“Your boss wants to see me,” Hawks said, “Which way?”

The secretary was dumbfounded but pointed to the raised office to the right.

“Thank you…” Hawks quickly glanced at his nametag. “Mori-san.”

Hawks let his smile drop as he turned around, replacing it with a neutral expression—one that people have called intimidating. It was probably something about his eyes. They made people feel like prey.

He swung the door open and settled into his role; Skilled, but hopelessly naive; Nothing more than a hero student on an internship. Anything more would raise eyebrows. Captain Keishima better stick to this cover story.

The grin from earlier made a repeat appearance. Lights, Camera, Action!

It’s showtime.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Shisui and Kenshi arrived, the registration booth was nearly deserted, with only a few stragglers milling about.

“If you continue to try and convince me to participate in this absolute laughing stock of an event, there will be bloodshed-” Shisui whispered harshly, his voice resounding in the near silence.

Several suddenly alert heads swiveled toward the duo.

“-He doesn’t mean that,” Kenshi quickly interrupted, sheepish, “Kids these days, right?”

A few light chuckles and amused murmurs.

Turning to him with an imploring look, Kenshi managed to subdue Shisui. Frowning, but now quiet, Shisui sulked, walking with Kenshi as they made their way to the counter.

He didn’t appreciate how much sway the man had over him, especially for how short a time they’d known each other, but Kenshi smiled, thankful and relieved, and Shisui couldn’t help but let his mouth twitch upwards as well.

“Next,” a bored-sounding official said.

Only the top of her head, hair tied neatly into a bun with small horns peeking out from her bangs, was visible above large stacks of paperwork and an ancient computer, thrumming along.

They stepped forward, Kenshi’s hand gripping the collar of Shisui’s gi, preventing any last-minute sprint.

“We’re here to register one participant for the adult, elite, Kumite competition,” Kenshi said, stressing adult and elite.

“Alright, sir. May I have your name? I need to check your credentials to allow participation in elite tournaments,” The official recited her script, barely glancing away from her computer.

“The competitor’s name is Nakagawa Suihei, but mine is Mutou Kenshi. I filed an exception waiver a few months back.”

Exception waiver?

“Okay,” she said, now rifling through a slim stack of papers to her left. Finding the file, she placed it on the counter beside a pen. “If you and Nakagawa-san could come forward to sign the waiver, I can finish registration.”

“Thank you,” Kenshi said, the ball-point pen gliding roughly over the paper. It was nearly out of ink.

Shisui got on his tip-toes, barely reaching the top of the counter, and Kenshi slid the pen and documentation closer to him.

The official turned her gaze to where Shisui would be if he were roughly the size of an adult, and frowned, staring at empty space. Sitting up in her chair, she looked down and made eye contact with Shisui.

She cursed. Her eyes flitted towards Kenshi, now eyeing him suspiciously.

“Hey, little guy…how old are you?” She murmured as if speaking to a toddler.

“I’m seven,” Shisui answered, already dreading this interaction.

She faltered, maybe hoping Shisui only looked young and frail. She was closer to the truth than she would expect, given the reincarnation shenanigans involved.

Breaking eye contact, Shisui trained his eyes on the waiver and began signing it.

She snatched the waiver from him, a nasty line drawn down its middle from the interruption. Her eyes began furiously roaming the page.

“You must have thrown around a lot of weight to get this accepted,” she nearly sneered, angrily slapping at the paper, “This is insane!”

“I had to go all the way to the top of the federation. I think I used the last of my Olympic goodwill pestering the boss these past months,” Kenshi whispered to Shisui, while the official continued her tirade.

“He weighs twenty-five kilos,” she exclaimed, “He’s barely a paperweight! He should be in the cadet category with his fellow grade-schoolers!”

She gestured across the hall to a small grouping of young children, one of which turned to her, finger still in their nose.

Shisui bristled at the comparison. “I feel my competency is being severely questioned right now,” Shisui whispered back and Kenshi snorted in response.

“How did you even get this accepted?!” She yelled.

Kenshi answered the very clear rhetorical question, “I petitioned for months! It was hard to get the president of the JKA to believe me when I said my first student, who had only been training for a few weeks, was already skilled enough to participate in elite tournaments.” He paused for a second. “It was even harder when she found out he was seven years old! But…there was precedent, you know.”

“The Kendo case?” The official stopped to consider for a moment. “Hmm…I thought her parents were also insane for that one…You’re saying these two kids are of a similar level?”

“You could say that,” Kenshi conceded. Shisui snapped to attention. A kid with a similar skill level to him? One who was likely not the reincarnation of an alternate-universe Shinobi?

The official folded the waiver and filed it into one of the many bins filled to the brim behind her.

“Make your way to Tatami number 5; your first match will be there. Your opponent is waiting.” She looked down at Shisui, her glasses slipping further down her nose. Sighing heavily, she said, “Don’t make me regret this.”

Kenshi and Shisui sent simultaneous double thumbs-ups.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The man was still glaring at Shisui from across the reconfigured gymnasium. It had been over two hours since he had soundly annihilated the man, knocking him out of the tournament in the first round, but the man’s glower was unrelenting.

The man had been brash and overconfident, greatly overestimating his skills, and the match hadn’t been all that interesting. Shisui hadn't deigned to learn his name, as the man had not offered it in a weird display of attempted superiority.

The match played out as one would expect. Shisui spent the large majority of the first bout simply dodging his attacks (Which weren’t horrific, Shisui would admit, the man was trained in some fashion), trying to get used to the rhythm of sport karate. Shisui had refrained from attacking, slightly worried the ingrained muscle memory would take over and he’d knock the man out cold in the heat of the moment. Later matches would show that Shisui’s control was as precise as always, but it hadn’t hurt to be thorough. He would hate losing due to excessive contact.

The largely lackluster match had been slightly more memorable than others due to its humorous ending, however. Growing more frustrated as the match went on, the man eventually ended up swinging so wildly toward Shisui (A move that would have caused definite disqualification had it landed) that a gentle redirection of the man’s attack caused him to overbalance, fall flat on his face, and pass out.

Shisui hadn’t been able to hold in his laughter. Kenshi had been hysterical, as well as asked to leave the coach viewing area due to disruptive behavior.

Many successful matches later, Shisui sat quietly on the bleachers, mostly ignoring the aforementioned man’s gaze, slippered feet dangling above the cool metal surface.

Kenshi was making his way back, arms saddled with bottles of some generic sports drink and a small packet of Senbei. A reasonable haul given the bloodbath surrounding the sole snack vendor. One man for hordes of tired, sweaty, and hungry people ranging from the ages of five to well over fifty. People seemed more likely to come to blows over the final Pocky package than the actual martial arts tournament occurring beside it.

Kenshi flopped down beside Shisui, wordlessly handing over a bottle. Shisui downed the artificially flavored monstrosity in one go, while Kenshi sighed heavily, staring at the large wall-mounted clock, watching as the number ticked up.

Shisui only had one more match; the finals. The reigning champion, the aforementioned “Kendo case” kid, had a bye to the finals. All they had to do was defeat the final challenger and they would retain their title. As such, the other finalist was nowhere to be seen before the scheduled time for the match. This would’ve been fine had the previous matches been timely, but after his first match, Shisui had been quite quick in crushing his opponents beneath his heel –metaphorically, of course– and the entire tournament was now considerably ahead of schedule.

In their spot on the bleachers, the far-removed topmost corner, the plastic wrapping of the Senbei packet crinkled obnoxiously in the relative silence. Shisui leaned against Kenshi, nabbing one of the crackers in the process. They settled in for a wait, nibbling quietly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kendo Itsuka was taller than Shisui expected, towering over him by a few inches. Her hair was bright orange and tied into neat twin tails, which bounced as she bounded into the tatami area delineated as the finals’ location. Those same twin tails would later repeatedly slap him in the face and occasionally get in his mouth, as Kendo’s movements remained as exuberant during matches as outside of them.

Bowing to the referee and then doing the same to her, Shisui heard Kendo speak.

“It’ll be fun to finally pick on someone my size, Nakagawa-kun,” she said, a surprising amount of bite in her tone.

Shisui reeled back slightly, surprised. The girl’s kind smile took on a mean edge as she settled into a fighting stance.

Shisui followed suit, lowering his center of gravity and bending his knees.

The whistle blew, and Kendo stepped forward with unexpected speed, swiftly positioning herself for a sweep.

Shisui jumped back, narrowly avoiding her leg.

Shisui startled as the whistle blew again. “Jogai Keikoku! (Out-of-bounds caution),” yelled the referee. Shisui looked down and saw his left foot clearly outside of the borders.

Mentally chiding himself over such a stupid mistake, he returned to the middle of the arena. His usually stellar situational awareness was more geared toward noticing hazardous terrain and potential ambushes than red lines on the floor. He needed to turn it up a few sensitivity notches for this.

Crouched down, he reassessed. He’d been barely awake for the other matches, lazily going through the motions, but now he was caught in an awkward position - two more warnings away from disqualification and disappointing Kenshi. (Kenshi would not be disappointed at all, no matter what had happened in this tournament. He’d cheer and support him even if he lost in the first round. He was just the best kind of guy. Deep down Shisui knew this, but he continued projecting, anyhow.)

Shaking his head, Shisui decided he’d end this quickly. He let his lips quirk up into a smile, slightly feral. This time, Kendo recoiled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tsukauchi leafed through the same eye-witness report for what felt like the twentieth time that day. Sansa bounced a ball against the wall, absentmindedly glancing at his monitor for updates, while Toki dozed off on her desk.

They were making no progress on the Crow case; he continued to be a phantom, little more than an urban legend, if not for the unconscious annotated criminals.

Kazuo, on the other hand, was furiously typing away at his computer. He was following up on a QRQ lead, hopefully leading to a successful bust. Violent assaults by apparently quirkless assailants had been going up, and Kazuo had managed to triangulate all of the ones likely to be related to the QRQ to a specific area of Musutafu.

Coincidentally, there were reports of suspicious gatherings at a warehouse within range of all the quirk-related assaults.

The connection was tenuous at best, but it was something. They wouldn’t be able to get a warrant without something more substantial, but that would take a long time, regardless.

Saddled with two difficult, high-profile cases, the self-proclaimed vigilante task force was not expecting to be interrupted. All four of them straightened when they saw Captain Keishima enter the room, closely followed by a young teen.

“Officers, this is Hawks,” Captain Keishima gestured at the teen, who nodded to the police officers. “He’s a hero student and he’ll be hanging around you guys for a bit.”

“Please don’t mind me, officers.” Hawks said, “I’m here for my work-study program, and I hope I can be helpful to you guys.”

“Work-study?” Toki asked, “I thought hero students worked with pro heroes before graduating?”

“Well, usually,” Hawks admitted, “But we don’t have to! The police are an incredibly vital part of hero society. Without you guys, everything would fall apart,” Hawks said, scratching the back of his neck in minor embarrassment, “I thought it would be useful to see how things work behind the scenes. Not everything can be big-time villain takedowns, right?”

“Thank you, Hawks,” Captain Keishima cut in, “Do you mind grabbing some coffee from the breakroom?”

“I-” Hawks looked startled, “Yes, sir.”

As soon as he left, the Captain leaned toward the officers and whispered, “Please keep an eye on this one, ” and without waiting for confirmation, left the room.

“And now we have to babysit this kid,” Kazuo grumbled, “At this rate, we’ll never crack the QRQ case, let alone Crow.”

“He doesn’t seem so bad, Kazu-chan,” Sansa said, “He seems earnest. Let’s give him a chance.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the sounds of cheering and the referee's closing remarks, Shisui heard Kenshi’s gleeful yell, “And who’s the regional Shotokan champion?!”

“I am,” Shisui said, rather unenthused, ignoring the indignant glare Kendo sent his way.

“Oh, come on!” Kenshi cajoled, “After all that!”

“I am,” Shisui said, slightly louder but no less halfhearted, twirling his freshly acquired medal around his finger.

Kenshi laughed boisterously, rushing into the arena and hoisting Shisui up onto his shoulders.

Later, once the crowd had mostly dispersed, Shisui and Kenshi slowly climbed into the car. Before reversing out of the parking spot, Kenshi looked over to Shisui, hands on the wheel, and smiled softly, the manic energy and adrenaline long since dissipated, leaving behind something achingly genuine.

“I’m so proud of you, Suihei-kun,” Kenshi murmured, “I hope you know that.”

Shisui blushed, slumping further into the seat. “I know,” Shisui mumbled into the collar of his gi, eyes averted, “It means a lot.”

The soft static from the radio was a nice complement to the similarly fuzzy feelings making themselves at home in his chest.

They drove in silence until Shisui piped up, breaking the cozy silence of the car ride, awkwardly pointing out the window at the road signs rushing past him. “Wasn’t that our exit?”

“That it was, Suihei-kun,” Kenshi said, but stayed his course. A resolute captain.

“Is that not an issue, Kenshi-sensei?” Shisui said with false naivité, “Given the fact that I’d like to go home and shower?”

“It would be…if we were going home. But we’re not going home just yet, Suihei-kun!”

He reached over, clicked the glove box open, and let its contents fall onto Shisui’s lap.

Multiple rulebooks piled onto his lap, books that likely contained similar atrocities to the JKA rulebook.

Kenshi laughed at Shisui’s abject horror, “You didn’t think that would be all, did you?”

When Shisui didn’t reach out for any of the books, Kenshi grabbed one and shoved it into his hands with glee. “Isn’t it so convenient that many martial arts championships are over the same few days? Ones that happily coincide with school breaks?”

Kenshi's smile grew wider as he talked, “I have the ideal route to hit as many tournaments as possible this week. These regional tournaments have been running since my time around the block and my dad had this down to a fine science.”

One hand still on the steering wheel, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was crinkled and slightly discolored from age, but still entirely legible.

“Printed Itinerary~” Kenshi sing-songed, waving it around and startling a laugh out of Shisui, “It’s a family tradition: The Mutou Musutafu Mayhem Medley!”

“Also!” Kenshi continued, “I texted your mom, and she said you could stay over these next few days; It’ll make things much easier!”

At the mention of Hana, Shisui’s expression soured, barely registering Kenshi’s words, and Kenshi panicked. Quickly backtracking, “Not that you have to! I really should’ve asked you, but I wanted to surprise you, I guess,” he said sheepishly.

Shaking his head, Shisui eased up on the visible irritation, letting his delight shine through, “5 am sparring sessions for the next week? Sign me up!”

“Well, actually, young children need 9-12 hours of sleep a night for optimal development, and…5 am training sessions,” Kenshi relented at the first sign of a pout.

Shisui snatched the itinerary from Kenshi’s hand, scanning the page. A myriad of karate tournaments, ranging in styles, sizes, and importance, were printed along with penciled-in comments.

“How much paperwork did you have to do?” Shisui asked, “It must’ve been a nightmare convincing all these people to let me compete at the adult level.”

“It was a lot of paperwork, I’ll admit,” Kenshi said, “But it was worth it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Interlude: Mutou Musutafu Mayhem Medley

That year’s Mayhem Medley took Musutafu area karate tournaments by storm.

“And the regional champion is-“

“And the winner is-“

“Congratulations to our new champion-“

“-Suihei Nakagawa!”

Once again, Kenshi hoisted Shisui onto his shoulders, who at this point was completely draped in gold medals. Kendo Itsuka ground her teeth, squeezing the latest of an equal number of silver medals in her hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bell jingled when Shisui and Kenshi entered the dojo. Kenshi hauled in trophies and medals while Shisui balanced takeout boxes as they climbed the stairs to the living space on the second floor.

Sitting at the low table, the duo chattered meaninglessly when Shisui heard a knock from downstairs.

“Be right back,” Shisui said, “I’ll take a look.”

“Okay,” Kenshi mumbled through noodles, “Call me if you need me.”

Walking down the stairs, Shisui spotted Shimo Gouta poised to knock again. He walked quickly across the tatami, swinging open the door before Gouta could knock.

“We’re closed this weekend, Shimo-san,” Shisui stood with his arms crossed, wondering why the man was lurking by the dojo at nearly midnight. “It says so on the door.” Shisui pointed at a flyer gently fluttering in the wind.

“Look, I-I just wanted to…” Gouta trailed off.

“What? Spit it out. It’s late.” Shisui bit out; his noodles were probably cool by now.

“You and your sensei would be perfect for the QRQ! I know you said you weren’t interested, but I just wanted to tell you.” Gouta blurted out, zealotry gleaming in his eyes.

Shisui was about to respond with a sound dismissal, but Gouta continued talking, eyes darting around as if worried he would be overheard at midnight in a deserted street.

“The sQuad will be meeting two nights from now at night at this address.” He held out a small piece of paper. “You guys could check it out and learn more about our goals. If anyone gives you any trouble, just tell them I sent you and you’ll be let in.”

What was this…a multi-level marketing scheme?

A quick glance at the note and a memorized address later, Shisui pushed Gouta’s hands away with an embarrassed smile. Though he didn’t want to antagonize Gouta, he also didn’t want Kenshi or the dojo to get further embroiled in any tangible way, not one that could be traced back to them.

“Please don’t bother us outside of business hours, Shimo-san.” Shisui flashed a sharp smile.

Cowed, Gouta turned to leave and Shisui restrained the urge to capture his mind in a genjutsu. As a shinobi, having an enemy so close to home was extremely uncomfortable. A world ago, Shisui would’ve shattered a mind or slit a throat simply for getting so near to a loved one, let alone a civilian one.

Closing the door behind him, the bell jingling once again, Shisui went over the conversation in his mind.

He thought this would take significantly more effort. It wasn’t often that a mark would just spew useful intelligence. It usually required something from him.

When Shisui walked back up the stairs, Kenshi shot him a questioning look.

“It was nothing,” Shisui responded, sliding back into his spot by the low table.

“If you say so.” Kenshi shrugged.

Shisui knew what he was doing tomorrow night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“And for this year’s crowning jewel: Kyokushin Karate!” Kenshi gave a sly smile, parking his car. “It’s full contact.”

“Oh, hell yes!”

Walking into the gymnasium and signing in to the tournament, Shisui spotted a now familiar head of orange hair.

Kendo whirled around, seething. “YOU AGAIN!”

Shisui waved, leisurely strolling toward the tatami while Kendo stalked to the other side.

“I’m going to kick your teeth in, Nakagawa-kun,” she snarled, “This is my tournament.”

“I’d like to see you try, Kendo-san,” Shisui shot back with a large grin.

As soon as the whistle sounded, she leapt toward him, a strong punch aimed at his kidneys. He feinted to the right and twisted, landing a kick to the side of her head.

Sweet, sweet contact. This was what he’d been needing all week. He could almost cry.

Kendo wasn’t an amateur and moved with the kick, trying to disperse the concussive force by extending the contact.

Shisui backed out, avoiding a grapple counterattack, and watched as Kendo tried to continue the fight. She swayed for a split second, the surprising amount of rage in her eyes fading into an addled look. Then, she was out.

Shisui caught her falling form and gently lowered her to the ground. Waking with a start, she spat a glob of blood in his face and smiled.

“I’ll be seeing you around, won’t I?” she said, “I don’t mind…You’re pretty good.”

Shisui opened his mouth to respond when Kendo reared up in a headbutt, catching Shisui off guard—though she was down, the referee had not yet ended the match.

Shisui blinked away the sudden stars in his vision, but Kendo was completely unconscious, the second blow to the head finishing her off with certainty.

“That you will, Kendo-san,” Shisui agreed, returning the earlier smile, his own teeth similarly stained red.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tucking the surreptitiously acquired file under his arm—Hawks had managed to ingratiate himself with the officers and gain access to their files—he strolled out of the police station and to his temporary apartment.

It was a small thing; cramped and sterile. The sharp scent of cheap cleaning product wafted from the sheets and single gray pillow which barely creased when he sat on it–stiff from years of wash cycles and bleach. It was one of the small units the HPSC owned near the station, for quick, usually overnight stops.

Madam President hadn’t given him a mission estimate.

Hawks thought it was likely a punishment. He knew there had to be more spacious rooms available. The HPSC often housed foreign dignitaries or visiting heroes in this building.

Maneuvering around the western-style bed—corners at perfect shin-injury height—he sighed, sliding open the bathroom door. At least there was a bathtub.

He’d hate to do this in the sink—he’d done it before–but the increased maneuverability was infinitely less annoying.

Dumping all his feathers into the tub, he opened the faucet and dropped a small pellet into the water.

It burst open, thick black foam spreading across the feathers and being immediately absorbed.

Before the dye entirely disappeared, Hawks scooped a handful and ran his fingers through his hair. The dye didn’t stain his skin, but his hair was rendered a deep, natural-looking black.

Letting the water drain, Hawks suited up.

The suit provided to him was sturdier than usual; it was very obviously military-grade gear, with thick straps and plated in kevlar. Hawks guessed the commission was expecting some confrontation and not only espionage in this mission, which worked for him. Not that he had any say.

He slipped on a mask and out the window; black wings carving out a dark outline of starless sky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, it turned out a kunai could serve as a screwdriver in a pinch. Filing away his new discovery for the future, Shisui silently removed the vent cover, slipping out and grabbing the ledge above him.

He hoisted himself up and froze, Shinobi alarm bells ringing. There was somebody else on the roof with him.

This was the first sign of life he’d encountered in the warehouse.

He squinted at the darkest corner of the roof and spotted a slightly undulating shadow. It was someone trying very hard to disguise their breathing—sneaky bastard.

They were in the perfect position to monitor the exits. Shisui was glad he went the extra mile and used the skylights and vents instead of just strolling out in the open; This sentry would've been outside his default genjutsu range. Complacency kills, people.

Shisui wrenched a small piece of metal loose from the rooftop railing and chucked it at the shadowy figure. He let out an appreciative whistle as a razor-sharp blade flew past his cheek in retaliation.

Shisui rushed in, jumping over an air conditioning unit, and twisting, hoping to bring his foot down on the mystery person’s head. One and done.

The whack of shoes against cement came as a shock. He was barely expecting a reaction, let alone a successful dodge.

He spun around, kicking up dust, and lunged toward his opponent just in time to avoid another blade. The lunge was a bit messy, it’d taken longer than usual to get a read on the blade’s trajectory. Odd…

He reared up his arm for a punch, closing in, but the large mass of what he quickly understood to be feathers moving to block his fist necessitated some reassessments.

No, it turned out, that this mystery person wasn’t a part of the QRQ. Large wings did not usually indicate membership in a quirkist terrorist group. Even the “less radical” quirkists of the CRC would’ve turned up their noses at this guy. Great situational awareness there, Shisui. Didn’t even think to check on combatant status before engaging. The EXTREMELY LARGE APPENDAGES would’ve been a nice hint to avoid this interaction altogether. He could picture his ANBU colleagues shaking their heads in disappointment.

The one-and-done approach was scrapped. Shisui needed to drag this out a little longer; get some sort of information out of this person. A fellow vigilante? What was their stake in this?

He jumped back to avoid a swipe of a feather blade and took an appraising look.

Mystery person updated to mystery man due to a quick glance at his, most likely, male frame.

Update number two: Probably not an independent vigilante; He was kitted out. Maybe military grade. Shisui’s hoodie felt very flimsy in comparison.

Number 3: He had large black wings, with something odd going on there. Shisui swore he saw one of his feathers change course mid-air. Still odd, but pretty cool if Shisui’s intuition was right and it was telekinesis. He’d need to keep a closer eye on any projectiles.

Finally, Shisui couldn’t gather much more information with his opponent’s mask in the way. It was a stark, reflective thing; completely opaque from the outside but likely clear from the inside.

Shisui suddenly dropped, crouching down and going for a sweep. The man managed to respond, jumping over it.

Shisui smiled; he’d fallen for his feint. Shisui sprang up, now within his enemy’s guard. He hooked his kunai under the edge of the mask and yanked.

The mask skidded away, but Shisui was focused only on the boy’s face. Boy, not man, he had discovered.

The winged boy was expecting retaliation and twisted out of range, putting some distance between them. He covered his face with his feathers, but Shisui was rooted to the spot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the slight lull of the battle, Hawks took the opportunity to take off, continuing to cover his face with some larger feathers. He was still somewhat disguised; his face was only visible for a split second, and his wings were dyed, but he couldn’t let an unknown actor look too closely at him, lest someone make connections to the Musutafu’s police department’s newest intern—wings were quite distinctive, regardless of coloring.

Before fleeing, Hawks made sure to stealthily hide a feather on the person to keep tabs on him.

Hawks was a highly trained operative, and this mystery combatant was clearly an amateur, given their attire and exceptionally poor disguise. A medical mask, really?

It was fortunate that they’d crossed paths. He could've ended up seriously injured without Hawks; the organization they were looking into had the potential to be very dangerous.

As he got farther away from the warehouse, Hawks felt a slight pinch in his long-range perception. He hadn’t...Of course, he had…Hawks whipped his head around just in time to see the man jump off the roof and watch as the halves of his feather drifted away harmlessly in the wind.

Reassessing: He was going to get himself killed.

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The boy took off in a flurry of feathers, a harsh flap sending out a strong gust of wind that slammed shut windows and caused a nearby pole to creak ominously. Shisui delighted as it rustled his hair. Artfully windswept. Just the way he liked it.

Shisui thought to grab the boy’s foot, drag him down, and continue their scuffle, but chose instead to watch as he became a speck in the horizon—they weren’t currently enemies. Just unknown combatants. Lots of variables are still in the air. pfft—still in the air; Pun! Their little skirmish had put him in a great mood.

Shisui went over the short encounter. Blows traded blisteringly quick, eye-watering movement, a furious and elegant dance but no dice. No contact. Not one hit landed from either of them. The closest he had gotten was with the mask. It was, without a doubt, the most thrill he’d had in this life.

The winged boy was fast. Delightfully so. Deliciously even. Shisui could continue naming more and more vaguely disturbing adjectives for a long time. He acknowledged that he was a bit out of it.

He felt a bit punch-drunk, actually; A little giddy. Shisui shivered slightly, heart still pounding. His breaths were coming in quick gasps, chest stuttering and fingers twitching near imperceptibly. Embarrassed, Shisui could tell the exhilaration was pouring off him in waves.

This mysterious boy could keep up with him. Someone could keep up with him. At least somewhat; Shisui hadn’t gone full speed, he hadn’t really used the Sharingan, or genjutsu, or his myriad of other tricks, but oh! Oh, it didn’t matter at all! Shisui would bet his Uchina honor that the boy also had his own tricks hidden among those feathers.

Speaking of feathers, the boy was talented. Very talented. His feathers were remarkably nimble, versatile, and surprisingly discreet. Shisui removed the feather hidden amongst the folds of his clothing. It was clearly meant to be used as some sort of tracking device. Tracking device, Goodbye present, who cared! Shisui held the feather against his chest, clutching it as a lovesick teenager would treasure a gifted rose. It was so underhanded. It was lovely.

Shisui snapped it cleanly in half.

The tracking device was a good idea, but the boy was still an amateur compared to him. An amateur with potential, but one nonetheless. One who should not be poking his nose into Shinobi business–Automatically considered as such due to Shisui’s involvement—lest bad things happen. Shisui had a feeling he wasn’t going to back down, no matter how nicely Shisui asked.

Looking out at the sky in the direction the boy had flown away, Shisui could see the ruddy beginnings of dawn emerging, but the boy himself was long gone. Shisui could still picture his eyes—Crystal clear, thanks to a quick Sharingan activation—but could not make himself focus on his actual features, only the brief expression he managed to capture: The furrowed brows, attempting to give off an air of concentration, but creased in subtle vulnerability. Pupils blown in panic and adrenaline. Shisui could fill in the rest of the blanks himself: A slightly slack jaw. Flared nostrils. Mouth twisted in the beginnings of a grimace. The complex mixture of shock, fear, and tellingly: irritation. At both Shisui and himself. A classic Shinobi expression. The Shit! I’ve been caught off guard. I’m better than this! (Most often seen in foolhardy Genin, an especially common appearance in the Chunnin exams. It was trained out of you by the time you were a Chunnin worth your salt, god-forbid Tokubetsu or Jounin.)

Shisui’s heart ached. The familiarity hit like the punch the fight had promised. Looking at that kid’s face was like looking at a mirror. He saw a younger version of himself, of Itachi, Genma, Raidou, and Kakashi reflected in those eyes. The tangled knot of emotions, sharp brambles overgrown past the possibility of pruning. The feeling that all young war-era Shinobi understand: Loneliness.

Empty houses, empty graves, empty-platitude memorials. Hearts emptied out at far too young an age.

The boy was young. But not strikingly so, as he, Itachi, and Kakashi had been in their starts. He was older than this body, certainly. But considering this world, that didn't say much.

He was younger than Shisui had been when he died. Maybe by a year or two. That was enough for Shisui’s overactive heart to protest. He’s too young to be on his own! Too young to be, on what was clearly a mission, alone.

Shisui knew two things:

One: That boy was lonely.

Two: He was going to get himself killed.

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