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Rachel Greenwood was born in Edgemont Medical Clinic, cleanly and swiftly delivered to her mere twenty year old mother in an exclusive private wing of the hospital.

Saeko is born on the dirty floor of a shack in the middle of absolute no where, delivered by a creepy old crone of a woman.

The comparison is important, at least for Saeko. Rachel Greenwood is a reminder and a goal, but also herself. Yeah, they're the same person.

Which is confusing, of course, because what isn't confusing about reincarnation? But that's not important. At least not to Saeko.

The important thing is that Rachel Greenwood lived in downtown Los Angeles, California and was a queen of all things fashion and fun, specifically if it involved generous amounts of money, which she owned. And Saeko is none of this.

Saeko is a peasant who doesn't even have a last name. Saeko's parents have jobs. Saeko sleeps on some weird mattress thing on the floor, and by the floor she means the ground. Saeko is expected to grow up and work on a farm.

Oh, and apparently, there's also weird inhuman people who can run super fast and breathe fire.

"But you don't need to worry about them," her mother coos when she's four and finally has a good grasp on Japanese. Saeko's already forgotten her new mother's name. "We live in a quiet town."

This is the wrong thing to say. Rachel Greenwood was LA born and raised. LA is not some quiet town. Already, Saeko has been filled with a rampant desire to leave this shit hole and go out and explore the city. The city being, well, probably just a bigger town, because this world has been crafted by plebeians, in her eyes.

Hell, she is a plebeian now.

And that's just not okay.

"You look terrified," Saeko's mother continues, and does this woman ever shut up? "Don't worry. Shinobi don't bother themselves with average people like us."

"I'm not average," Saeko says at once. "I'm gonna be amazing. Better than those weird people."

"You—you want to be a shinobi, Saeko-chan?"

She knows her mother is probably thinking of how she needs to bathe at least three times a day and refuses to step in mud. Her mother is clearly highly uneducated. Of course she doesn't want to be a shi-no-what's it.

Saeko looks at her mother's dress thing. It's bland and made from hemp. And that's just not okay as well.

This world doesn't need shinabo's or whatever they're called.

This world needs a fashion designer. No, not just that.

They need a revolution. A fashion revolution. A fashion revolution that can only be delivered by Rachel Greenwood—Saeko.

Unfortunately, getting out of a small country town is harder than it seems.

"You can't just leave, Saeko-chan," her father tells her.

Rachel Greenwood was called a sociopath once or twice in her old life, because she lacked empathy and didn't care about anyone but herself.

Saeko wonders if she, too, is a sociopath, because she's thirteen and doesn't remember her father's name. Or more, she doesn't care. Besides, that's allowed, right? She'll just have to call him dad until she leaves this stupid hick town, and then...

Well, she'll never see him again.

"Why not?" Saeko asks as she watches her father plant turnips. "I'm made for better things than this."

Her father frowns at her. "You can't read or write. You can't even plant turnips!"

"That's not the be-all or end-all of life, Dad! I know exactly who I am. And what I'm meant to be. And trust me, I'm gonna be rich. And famous! Is that a thing?"

"What?"

"Whatever. Anyway, the only reason why I can't read or write is because you haven't taught me yet. So that's you're fault, not mine!"

Her father shakes his head at her, which is a regular thing. He never approves of anything Saeko does. According to him — she has heard her father go on many rants about her before — she uses too much water, she doesn't know a thing about turnips and is an ungrateful, impudent brat.

Saeko's not too sure what impudent means, but she hopes it means beautiful, because sure, she may be ungrateful — who wouldn't be, living on a turnip farm? — and she may be a brat — once again, who wouldn't be, in her disgusting plebeian shoes? — but she's definitely beautiful.

At least, that's what Saeko tells herself as she attempts to apply her DIY mud mask while looking in a water basin in her room. Her room, as in, the only room of the house.

"Saeko-chan, what are you doing this time?" her mother asks as she enters the house.

Yeah, she definitely needs to leave. Any woman that doesn't know what a face mask is shouldn't be within twelve yards or miles or whatever of her.

Saeko's getaway comes in the form of a female merchant who constantly smirks and wears elegant kimonos. She's the light in Saeko's life. She's the light at the end of the tunnel, the sun, the moon, all the stupid metaphors Yates or Bates or whatever that romantic poetry writer uses.

She only comes by pure luck, because no one in Saeko's hick town is rich enough or smart enough to buy from a stylish merchant. The merchant arrives because the wheel of her cart or something-a-rather gets stuck in mud, and all the men in the town — all twelve of them — gather to try and get it out for the pretty lady.

Saeko sits to the side with the pretty merchant and her horse and waits it out.

"Your complexion is to die for," the merchant informs her.

"Did you just—" Saeko stops, because her head is beginning to feel faint. "I can't believe you. That is the best thing anyone has ever said to me in my entire sixteen years of being stuck in this place!"

The merchant smirks. Her lips are red. Saeko wants — no, needs — to interrogate this woman, and demand to know where and how she got her lipstick from.

"What's your name?" the merchant asks.

"Saeko."

"Ah. The name means serene child." The merchant pauses. "You don't seem very serene."

"Only idiots would be serene stuck in a place like this. What's your name?"

"Fumiko. It means child of treasured beauty."

"It suits you."

"Thank you."

The wheel of Fumiko's cart is still lodged in the mud. Not even twelve of the town's sweatiest and grossest men are making any progress.

"I have never seen such incompetence before," Fumiko says, shaking her head. "Did you arrive here by mistake?"

Saeko sighs with great exaggeration. "No, unfortunately I was born here."

Fumiko looks suitably outraged. "Born here? What—what do you do, exactly?"

"I've been working on a few things, you see. You noticed my complexion, right? Of course you did. It practically radiates from miles away! Well, anyway, I've been making face masks. Stuff you put on your face to make it softer, or less oily. I've made this perfect one using mud. It took so many tries. For a moment, my acne was disastrous! But I finally figured the formula out."

The longer Saeko speaks, the more she can see she is piquing Fumiko's interest.

"You are truly wasted here," Fumiko says, sighing.

"I know. I know, it's what I've been telling my parents for years but they just won't listen."

Fumiko nods. "Parents never listen. Mine told me it was incredibly unwise to travel such a world with no bodyguard, but what kind of idiotic man would kill a beautiful woman like me, anyway? And I've been fine, so far."

"Of course they wouldn't kill you. You're far too beautiful."

This causes Fumiko to smirk again, before it fades as she regards the village men attempting to remove her wheel from the mud once more.

"Perhaps I should have hired a bodyguard, if only to keep me out of ridiculous situations such as this," Fumiko says. "Although, then I wouldn't have met you."

The two women — though Saeko knows that in this world, she is a late bloomer, but still, she has her period for crying out loud — both share a smile.

"Do you think, maybe, Fumiko-san," Saeko begins, using an honorific when normally she never bothers, "that I could maybe accompany you? I wouldn't be a bother. And, well, I'd make you a face mask."

Fumiko's smirk widens. "I thought you'd never ask."

And so, after the three hours that the men of the hick village take to get Fumiko's cart back up and running, Saeko has packed her scant belongings, including her two hemp things — they are not clothes, something as ugly as them could not be considered clothes — and a shard of a mirror.

It is remarkably easy to sneak out of the house when you live in a hick village, there's no alcohol or drugs around and your parents are turnip farmers who never expect you to do any work.

Saeko doesn't say good bye to her parents. She doesn't recall their names and besides, they were holding her back from reaching her full potential.

Fumiko smirks as she helps Saeko up onto the horse behind her, the cart attached to the back of it.

"Tell me, Saeko-chan, are you ready to change the world?"

"Of course not," Saeko scoffs. "But I am ready to show the world what true fashion is."

And as Saeko watches her little hick town grow smaller and smaller, and the inevitable city draw closer and closer, she knows, just knows, that one day, every one in this entire weird shitty world will know her name.

She just needs time.

And a lot of silk.

A/N: alternatively titled what is this in my google docs. honestly this is for fun. I mean all of my writing is but this is for true, selfish pleasure. the genre is parody and comedy for a reason. don't take this seriously. please.

I'm also very caffeinated right now so I have no idea if uploading this is a good idea, but I mean, here we go...?

this will mostly be just short chapters whenever inspiration spikes and also when I'm really stressed and need to mindlessly write! fun times

I hope you enjoyed? Maybe? whatever I'm uploading this hahahaha

also it features Madara because I can't leave that man/boy/man child alone and yes, he is the leading man who will appear...soon

thanks!