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From a young age, Nagi rarely grew angry. Before Mukuro-sama, she never had a reason to, whether it was for herself or for her nonexistent friends.
She lived with her parents, but she was alone. The most they handed her were a couple thousand yen bills and a curt wave to buy food for herself.
Once, tired of nothing but the same convenience store and restaurant food every day, she took the bills and bought as many groceries as she could. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for her to experiment, to try making food that she wanted to eat. She still loved candy the most, but she wanted the enticing recipes she could never buy.
Her parents didn’t care as long as she cleaned up after herself. So she saved and bought and learned, and that was, at the time, the most she could do.
Chrome wakes in an unfamiliar room, and immediately creates an illusion. They are second nature to her at this point, an instinct tuned finely by Mukuro-sama and the Mist Arcobaleno.
Her illusion sleeps soundly in bed while she carefully crawls out, checking her surroundings for tricks and traps. The room is small but not bare: a cat tree and other toys take up the entire wall across from her, and boxes of food occupy another corner. Stuffed animals line the bed, alongside a purring cat tucked affectionately into her illusion’s side.
It is nothing like the room she last fell asleep in— the one she has at the Vongola mansion, with embellished wooden walls and a fancy canopy bed— nor is it like the cozy and sunny room she has at Mukuro-sama’s place, with its picturesque view of the Italian countryside.
She can’t feel any other illusions here. Even the tiny adjoining kitchen and bathroom are normal, and she trusts her senses enough to realize that this situation is real. There are no Flames in place.
So where is she?
Chrome dispels her illusion. The cat, a dark gray tabby, jumps at the loss of imaginary warmth, yowling loudly for its owner back. It circles its spot and tilts its head when it sees her. It squints. Apparently, it decides clawing at her will not be worth the trouble, because it sniffs and walks over to its food bowl, once again meowing for her attention.
She… isn’t sure what to do.
She wanted a cat, and asked Boss for one, but the Family had children with pet allergies in the mansion. Ken had never liked cats either, so she didn’t ask Mukuro-sama if she could keep one when she stayed with him.
Now, as she searches the room for anything that looks remotely like cat food, she wonders if she should ask Boss for her own apartment instead. Hibari has his own house, and she’s sure Mukuro-sama wouldn’t mind if he had an extra couch to crash on.
The cat’s hungry meows blend with the notifications of a phone on the bedside table, and Chrome forces herself to focus on opening cans of cat food before checking.
This phone does not look like hers. Hers is heavy and black, covered with colorful gifted stickers from Kyouko and Haru. Boss had suggested a durable case for everyone, considering their daily lifestyle, and she had not objected, but Kyouko and Haru had rallied against how ugly the new case was. They encouraged her to decorate it, hence the stickers.
This one is plain and light. The case is light blue, soft like silicone. There are no stickers.
It chimes again, and this time, the screen lights up. There are two missed calls and several messages from someone named “Shelter volunteer.”
Hirai.
Answer please.
Your shift’s already started. Are you coming in?
Where are you?
The name Hirai nags at her. It reminds her of the unpleasant times before she met Mukuro-sama, and though she has long since stopped letting the memories bother her, she does not appreciate the association. Leaving her old city for Boss and Mukuro-sama had been a boon.
Still, Hirai is not a particularly rare surname. This is still a stranger’s phone and a stranger’s apartment. She doesn’t want to intrude any more than she already has, so she sets the phone face down and resolves to ignore it. With the cat’s noisy chewing in the background, Chrome drifts to the bathroom. Maybe cold water will clear her head.
But when she looks in the mirror, her own face stares back in shock.
No, not her face. Her face is missing an eye, and though she’s grown out her hair in the past years, it has never been this long and neat.
This face does not belong to Chrome Dokuro. It belongs to Hirai Nagi.
There is an incessant buzzing in the back of her head. She blocks it out.
Hirai’s— Chrome refuses to use her old name— phone is locked and useless, so she leaves it behind and heads to Namimori first. If anyone knows what’s going on, it’ll be Hibari. She knows he left for Namimori last week, and tends to stay for much longer. He can contact Boss.
On the way, she takes stock of her Flames. They are weak and untrained, but still there, which sends a wave of relief through her. They are also, she notes, untouched; with all her organs intact, Hirai’s body has no need for them.
The feeling is strange. For once, she’s energetic, more well-rested than normal after a grueling mission. Part of her Flames have always gone toward her organs, and she had accepted never working at full capacity. She put a limiter on herself because she knew she needed it.
She had accepted her strict diet and poor depth perception, had found ways to work around it. But now, there is no phantom ache in her abdomen and back. When she touches her face, her uncalloused hand glides over her eye, uninterrupted by cloth over her eye.
It is a grim reminder that this is not her. This is not her life, and all she wants is to return to her family. To Boss, to Kyouko and Haru, to Ken and Chikusa, to Mukuro-sama.
The train’s rumbling sedates her, but her thoughts refuse to float away. They follow her throughout her trip, as she passes by TakeSushi and up the steps of Namimori Shrine.
She’s not like Mukuro-sama. She can’t take bodies however she wants, and she’s certainly never wanted to. So why is she here, wearing a stranger’s body? Who is in her body, wearing her face and Flames?
What will they do?
When she reaches the shrine at the top of the steps, she is out of breath. Chrome had never realized how much exercise she got in the mafia, but the answer is apparently much more than Nagi.
Her lightheadedness invites the buzzing back, annoyingly persistent against her skull. Foreign and insistent, it demands her attention, knocking on her mental walls. Come, it seems to say. Come.
The intrusion reminds her of Daemon.
She sharpens her Flames into heavy spikes. Go away, she thinks. Go away. I won’t let anyone use us like that again. Not even Mukuro-sama.
And Mukuro-sama had understood, like she knew he would. They were the same, they were separate, he saw her proudly as her own person, he saw her as himself. She gave herself to him, she took herself back. That was how their relationship worked.
She would not let anyone trample on that, taking away her will like Daemon had. The memory of her time on Shimon Island is old and worn, but always brings a fresh wave of determination to her.
She will not be used, and she will let Mukuro-sama be used. Chrome will not let anyone else inside her head.
With a burst of anger, she blocks out the buzzing, sending Flames at it as she does. It dodges her attacks and retreats as fast as it came.
She stumbles into a tree. Her head pounds, this time with a headache rather than an intruder. The pain is welcome— it tells her she is here, grounded in reality instead of an illusion.
But she doesn’t give herself more than a few minutes to rest before straightening. She needs to find Hibari. She needs answers.
The Mist shroud is still in place over the base entrance. It’s easy to sense, like a pinprick on her limb, and clearly visible— thin, wavy Flames coat the entrance like a wave of heat simmering above asphalt roads.
She takes a step toward it.
And abruptly whirls around, trident materializing in her hand. The points reach for a neck, tanned and defenseless as the man’s hands lift in a placating gesture.
Yamamoto Takeshi stands before her, dressed casually and laughing like she had played a prank instead of nearly stabbing him. He ignores her trident and looks toward the base. “I wouldn’t go there if I were you,” he says, his friendly smile ever present.
Chrome relaxes in his presence. Yamamoto is fine. Despite the years they’ve worked together, she doesn’t know him well, but she does know that he’s kind and loyal to Boss. That should be enough.
“I need to see Hibari,” she says, letting her weapon fade from existence. “And Boss.”
“I don’t know about your boss, but Hibari’s not here right now.”
“Not here?”
Yamamoto’s smile widens. “Why did you need him? I can take a message for you.”
Chrome realizes then: she is in Hirai’s body. Of course he wouldn’t recognize her. He had gotten better differentiating illusions from reality over the years, but this is no illusion.
“I’m Chrome,” she decides to tell him. “I— I don’t know what happened, but I woke up like this. And Boss always said to come to him, so…”
For an agonizingly long time, Yamamoto stares blankly at her.
“Chrome?” he finally asks. “Who’s that?”
Who—? They may not be close, but they know each other. They’ve gone to events together, taken occasional missions together. He learned her diet when he was fifteen, always offered food catered to her even when customers lined his restaurant’s entrance. Why would he ask who she is?
“Chrome Dokuro,” she repeats. “Boss’s… Vongola’s Mist Guardian.”
Yamamoto’s smile sharpens into something confused and slightly dangerous.
“Tsuna doesn’t have a Mist Guardian.”
Despite his clear misgivings, Yamamoto invites Chrome to TakeSushi. He’s always been outgoing like that, social and friendly to strangers even when they try to kill him. It’s only when they pose a threat to his friends and family that Yamamoto’s more threatening side comes out— though in this case, she thinks his curiosity outweighs his caution.
Chrome hadn’t decided what to think when she first woke up. Maybe she had been stuck in an eerie doppelgänger, or this was all an elaborate nightmare of her own making. Maybe she had been hit by some weird side effect of the Ten Year Bazooka, despite never encountering it the night before she woke up. All she knew was that Boss must be able to help, since he was always easier to find than Mukuro-sama. But—
Tsuna doesn’t have a Mist Guardian.
She and Yamamoto sit side by side on the customer side of the counter, torsos tilted to speak more easily. When Chrome asks about Mukuro-sama, Yamamoto has to think about it.
“He was part of the Estraneo Family, a long time ago,” she says at his pondering look, already doubting her own information. If Boss doesn’t have a Mist Guardian, then where is Mukuro-sama?
Yamamoto’s eyes light up. “Ah, that story. I’ve never met him in person, but last I heard, he’s still in Vindice’s prison.” He taps his fingers on the wooden counter, hand itching toward the metal baseball bat nearby. “That’s public knowledge, unlike the shrine.”
Chrome stiffens.
She must seem suspicious to him. A civilian stranger, spouting nonsense about being Vongola’s Mist Guardian and carrying classified knowledge about Vongola’s bases.
“I…”
Will he believe her? He doesn't know her, Mukuro-sama has never been released from prison, and Chrome Dokuro doesn't exist. What does she have here?
Here, in this empty restaurant, sitting at a familiar counter without its head chef. It’s smooth and lightly scratched on the chefs' side, but rough and worn on the customers', with a jagged cross hidden in the corner.
Chrome remembers when Gokudera and Sasagawa had fallen into another yelling match at one of Boss’s celebrations— good-naturedly, with none of the harsh tones that made her flinch. The cut had been an accident with a knife, and Yamamoto had finally put a stop to the argument when he realized the counter had been damaged.
Reborn had remarked later that the cut looked like an ‘X.’ It looks the same here, on this other TakeSushi’s counter, and Chrome wonders if the same event occurred here. Yamamoto, too, has the same scar on his chin, and a reassuring presence.
She takes a gamble.
“I don’t know where I am,” Chrome admits.
“A sushi restaurant?” Yamamoto says questioningly. “I brought you here.”
Chrome shakes her head. “No.” Then, “Yes, but not— that’s not what I mean. Some things are the same, but everything else is different. I woke up in this body but it’s not mine, and I don’t know where else to go.”
“And you think Tsuna can help you?”
“Boss is reliable.”
At that, Yamamoto throws his head back. Laughter echoes throughout the store, leaking through the wooden walls. It would be infectious, if she were anyone else.
“That’s true,” Yamamoto says, when his voice finally clears. He’s more relaxed now, as if her remark had put him at ease.
“Can you help?” Chrome asks. “You’re Boss’s Rain Guardian.”
A grimace overtakes his face. “Guess your info isn’t completely up to date, huh?”
“Then what are you?”
Yamamoto shrugs. “Just a regular baseball player.”
A regular—
“Why?”
She is Boss’s Mist, and Yamamoto is Boss’s Rain. Those have always been two immutable facts. She can’t fathom a world where he doesn’t choose the mafia, with Hibari and Squalo and Gokudera and Tsuna around him. She can’t imagine it— who she could have been without Mukuro-sama’s interference.
Dead, likely. Or living as Hirai Nagi. She doesn’t know which is worse.
This Yamamoto, a civilian, apparently, says, “I like baseball,” with a fond tone, like it’s the simplest fact in the world.
“What about Boss?”
“What about him? We’re still friends, I help out occasionally, but I chose baseball. Even the kid and Squalo couldn’t talk me out of it.”
Chrome shakes her head in disbelief. “I don’t get it.”
“Haha, you too? Everyone else said the same.” Yamamoto’s head turns to the side, where a blue cloth separates the rest of the kitchen and the other side of the counter. He sighs, not unhappily. “But you know, there’s more to life than just baseball and mafia. I didn't realize that until...”
Yamamoto pauses, stands. "Maybe it's better if I just show you," he says.
There's nothing to show me, she doesn’t say. Instead, she sits quietly, watching as Yamamoto weaves himself around and about the counter.
Where they previously sat next to each other, Yamamoto now stands across from her, and Chrome finds the countertop a suitable gap between them— between her and baseball player Yamamoto, the one who chose to stay away.
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with ingredients, grabs a knife to deftly clean and cut the parts he needs. His movements are practiced and precise, as if he’s helped out a million times before.
Eventually, he carefully places everything on a plate and hands it to her.
Fatty fish rests on it, and Chrome almost rejects it out of habit. But she feels the wooden counter against her unscathed arms, the soft but cheap clothes she wears, the surprising grumble from her existent stomach.
Hesitantly, she picks up a piece and takes a bite.
“How is it?”
“It’s good,” Chrome admits, savoring the refreshing taste. It melts in her mouth, and is even better than her Yamamoto’s, who makes it with the same willing hands but with far less skill.
“Right? Pops is better, but I’ve had some time to learn too.” Yamamoto grins. “He taught me a lot after I decided to stay in Japan.”
He must be close, maybe even closer, with his father. A Rain Guardian is awfully far and busy, after all, compared to a baseball player, who is only busy. He’s always had other people around him— in both the mafia and civilian circles, fellow assassins or recreational baseball teammates.
She doesn’t realize how hard she’s gripping her chopsticks until they crack, tiny splinters sinking into her too-soft hands.
“Are you done?”
Chrome snaps out of her thoughts. Yamamoto has gently taken the broken chopsticks from her and replaced them with a new pair, sat primly next to her. She looks down at her unfinished plate, the imprint of her first piece still faintly in its place.
Her hand stings. It’s familiar, and keeps her grounded as she finishes.
“Did you like anything in particular?” he asks, after he takes her plate. He wipes the counter and drops a first aid kit in front of her, no questions asked.
They all tasted delicious, but, “No,” she says. She’s had better in the mansion, sitting next to the people she loves, and better in Kyouko’s old home, when they had cooked a simple recipe that came out a bit too salty. “But… it reminds me of”— of her Yamamoto’s busy hands, asking for her and Gokudera’s help in preparing a platter for Tsuna, who felt homesick in Vongola's large, foreign mansion— “home.”
Yamamoto smiles wistfully. “Tsuna—” he starts, then catches himself.
Boss would have said the same thing. He grew up in a peaceful home and often invited her over to eat the exorbitant amount of food his mother made: she recalls, fondly, accepting bowl after bowl of rice, unsure of when she should decline; of sharing her own dishes with the children, who whined about seconds and thirds and fourths; Boss, scolding but laughing, always welcoming, and saying he was glad she accepted his invitations, because his mother always wanted her over. Always excited to see her, always reassuring her that she was never a burden.
“Boss is happy if you’re happy,” she says resolutely.
“That does sound like something he’d say,” Yamamoto acquiesces. He leans over the counter, closer to her. “Are you really the new Mist Guardian? Tsuna didn't mention anything.”
“No.” No, she’s not new. No, she’s probably not his Tsuna’s Guardian. But she is a Guardian, part of his Family, and so is Yamamoto, even if he says otherwise. She owes him a proper explanation.
Chrome starts from the beginning.