City of the Dead

By Insomniac Owl

A/N: This collection, in kind translation by Hono Cho, was entered in a Russian fandom battle in late 2011. It won first place in the 'drabble' category.

Konoha is a place which, having seen, one does not easily forget. There is history here, and blood, and death and betrayal and sadness and it's an aura in the air, something perfectly invisible at first glance, but it's there. It's there.

Coming home, it's something Kakashi can't ignore.

Something has been happening to him lately, and though it's not serious, it's distracting. He'll wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, gather his weapons and gear and step outside, and there things begin, once he steps across the threshold of his door. Sometimes he makes it all the way down the street before he sees the first one, but never any farther than that.

He'll be walking slowly, hiding his cringes, grateful for his mask, but even the mask doesn't hide his shock when he looks up and there, in the face of a boy running past, is Obito. The clothes are different, and he's younger than Kakashi ever saw him, but it's him. The first time this happened Kakashi… well, he freaked out. Grabbed the kid by the collar, jerked him backward, dragged him into the air and demanded his name.

After a brief, useless struggle, the boy spat "Genji."

Pretending coolness, pretending he's actually in control of himself and his mind, Kakashi let him go.

It's this war, he supposes. It brings back memories. But he should have expected that; this shouldn't be affecting him the way it does. He has more important things to focus on, like the fact that his team is racing all over the continent, putting their lives on the line for someone Kakashi gave up on a long time ago. Like the fact that Konoha is only half rebuilt, and still vulnerable to attack. He can't afford to let his attention wander, not now, not when he's needed most.

Nonetheless, he dwells on it. At night, he figures it must be the effect of so many battles. It's only logical. Kill too many people and eventually they crawl out of your nightmares and invade your waking life too. It's just that it's such a damn inopportune time for it to happen.

Never once does it cross his mind that it could be anything more than that, because he doesn't have the time to entertain more fantastic notions. He's too busy rebuilding houses and organizing patrols. He's too busy trying not to collapse from exhaustion. He's too busy trying as hard as he can not to notice Rin selling dumplings from a cart downtown. He buys one from her, to test himself, and is shaken when he sees the name tag pinned to her chest because it says Mariko, not Rin, the way it should, the way it should, the way it...

That afternoon he helps rebuild the hospital with a man who looks just like Zabuza, but no one else notices.

There is an orderly at the medical center, whose tag says Kaori but whose face says Chiyo.

In the evenings, he passes a ramen stand operated by Asuma.

There comes a time in every man's life when the number of dead men he knows outnumbers the living. For Kakashi, this time seems to have come particularly early. And late one night, when it's just him in the room and he can't see anyone, he thinks he might have it figured out. It's a simple, scientific, impossible answer: his mind is refusing to accept more faces, more expressions, and instead attaches to the living the faces of the dead, seeing a familiar nose and transforming the entire face to match.

And perhaps, he thinks, suddenly feeling exposed in the middle of his bed with the sheets all tangled around him, perhaps, for each of them, he too resembles a dead friend or relative, or stranger assassinated in the middle of the street one sunny afternoon. Perhaps his face, too, is one that causes people to stop while walking, unfamiliar names flying to their lips before they can apologize. Sorry, I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else.

It's this city, he thinks, closing his eyes. It's just this city. Too much history, too much death. He felt the weight of it when he came back, hanging over the half-constructed buildings like a shroud. With this war going on, of course it's more noticeable than it usually is; it's hanging over everyone, creeping into their bodies and warping their vision. It's just an effect of the tension, the paranoia, the desperation that so often comes with war.

Perhaps it's a genjutsu; perhaps they're stressed; perhaps they're dreaming.

Perhaps they're all dying, and in the process finding people they've known.

end