Himself
The lamp above him flickered again, its rusty chain creaking with each lazy sway.
He glared at it.
Menacingly.
"Cunt."
It had been about ten minutes since he woke up. Ten minutes spent on relentlessly goading an inanimate object, hoping it would fall and knock him out of this fever dream. A senseless endeavor, "Much like most of my life" but at least it gave him something to focus on besides the festering feeling of dread at the back of his mind.
Why is he here?
Where ishe?
A sharp beep cut through his thoughts. His scowl shifted to the pulsing monitor beside him, its steady rhythm mocking his attempts to to simply fucking cease to exist.
"Fuck you too." He spat at the machine. It responded with unimpressed beep.
Where was resistentialism when he needed it the most?
With a sigh, he slumped back against the stiff mattress, letting his gaze wander. The room was suffocatingly small, its air thick with dust particles drifting in the dim, sickly light. No windows. No sign of natural light, just the damn lamp, flickering in its own erratic rhythm.
A metal table stood against the wall, flanked by two stools. Nearby, in the corner, sat a shitter; no door, no partition.
'…Comfy.'
A dry snicker left his lips.
'Where's the paper though?'
On the opposite wall stood an even older sink, its surface encrusted with layers of grime. Above it hung a tall mirror, oddly pristine in contrast. It, along with the medical equipment tethering him to this strange place, looked suspiciously new. Too new, as if they had been moved in recently.
The room, in simple terms, resembled a cell designed for someone of questionable mental stability. 'Check.' The thick metal door at the entrance only reinforced that impression.
With a shaky breath, he pushed himself up from the bed, gripping the mobile IV pole for support. His legs trembled beneath him, the little strength he had quickly draining with each tentative step forward. Each movement felt wrong; his body foreign, his limbs sluggish, his balance uncertain. The further he moved, the smaller he felt, as if shrinking beneath the weight of something unfathomable.
Still, he pressed on.
Towards it.
The mirror.
He stopped just before the sink, fingers clutching its edge like a lifeline. His breathing was shallow, uneven. His gut twisted with a dreadful foreboding.
With one final, bracing breath, he lifted his gaze.
'H-huh?'
Staring back at him was a child; no older than six years old.
It's hair cascading freely all the way to the waist, raven black of color. Its face could be described as boring, if not for the cacophony of negative emotions plastered upon its face. Slightly angular, perhaps more scrawny than sharp with straight nose and thin lips twitching in fear and disbelief.
'This…' His grip on the sink tightened, knuckles going white. 'This isn't me. This isn't mine!'
Yet, when he moved, so did the reflection. It followed his every command, however sluggish, however unnatural it felt; like walking through water, like seeing the world through mismatched lenses, his vision distorted and hazy.
Two dark, almond-shaped eyes met his own. They were reminiscent of abyss, deep and empty, starkly at odds with the turmoil that twisted the rest of its face. But as he let himself get lost in those inky eyes, looking past the emptiness; there was something else.
A deep yearning.
As if waiting for someone.
Someone who could be a hand, that writes a meaning into that void.
A sharp burst of anger flared in his chest.
"As if I fucking need that!"
With a snarl, he swung his fist at the mirror, the motion fueled by desperation rather than thought. A jolt of sharp pain shot up his wrist as it struck the cold surface.
The mirror did not shatter.
It remained unscathed, perfectly intact; just to mock him.
A dry, humorless chuckle slipped from his lips, thin and pitiful.
"That's what I get for fucking with inanimate objects…"
The laugh quickly unraveled into quiet, shuddering sobs as he slumped against the wall.
"Why…? How? I-I…"
A young adult, reduced to nothing but a child.
'No… p-please…'
The rage bled from him as quickly as it came, leaving a hollow ache in its place, while grief rushed in to fill the rest of the void.
All the very little he had, was now ultimately gone.
Family. Friends. How could he show up before them and proclaim he's himself, while looking like a child?!
Even his memories felt fractured, incomplete. Shards of a past that refused to piece together. His life hadn't been perfect, hell, one could call it miserable, but at least it had belonged to him.
Now, all he had were teasing glimpses of what once was, fragments of a past he could no longer reminisce about, without losing his already fractured sanity in the process.
Who even was he, besiade a failure?
What was his name?
How he looked like?
He couldn't even remember his parents' faces.
They were there; in the fog, but faceless. Blank. Stripped of all defining features, devoid of the warmth, the love, the pain, anything that should have made them real.
There was nothing.
Nothing at all.
"Oh." His gaze lifted to the mirror once more as a memory flickered through his mind. Focusing on it, his hands moved, grasping the silky black strands, gathering them behind his head, fingers looping them into a low ponytail. The motion felt instinctive, like muscle memory guiding him through something long-forgotten yet deeply ingrained. The ponytail now rested against the right side of his chest. Albeit a small, almost meaningless change; it was all he could do to mirror what little remained of his former self.
But as he stared at his reflection, he couldn't tell whether the familiarity soothed him or only deepened the ache of longing.
"You sure do take your time." came an irritated mutter from behind him, the voice cutting through the uneasy silence. His head snapped toward the door frame, dread tightening in his chest, only to dissolve just as quickly.
Glaring at him was a child slightly taller from the one he was shoved into, draped in an oversized poncho with sleeves that dragged along the ground. Snake-patterned pants peeked out from beneath the fabric. A thick scarf wrapped around his neck, a straw raincoat, far too large for his frame, hung awkwardly from his back, completing the bizarre ensemble. The sight was so absurd he nearly laughed; whether out of relief or amusement, he couldn't tell.
Still, anything was better than that thing from earlier.
"Follow me," the child ordered curtly, before tilting his head and adding with a frown, "...and stop breathing so loud. It's annoying."
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode off, grumbling under his breath. For a moment, he remained frozen in place, caught between bewilderment and hesitation. Then, shaking off the remnants of his confusion, he hurried after the peculiar child.
…
From the confines of his dreary cell, he was led through an endless maze of equally bleak hallways, each separated by a heavy metal door and devoid of any windows. No light crept through the cracks in the walls, if there were any at all, leaving the corridors bathed solely in the stark, artificial glow of scattered lamps overhead. Their harsh white glow did little to dispel the suffocating atmosphere.
Trailing his fingers along the damp stone walls, he tried to commit each turn to memory, but no matter how he looked at it, everything seemed identical; an unchanging expanse of cold, lifeless corridors.
They walked in silence, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the long, desolate halls, accompanied only by the low, monotonous hum of the lamps. Every so often, he could swear he heard something; a faint shuffle behind a few of the many locked doors, the kind he had just left behind.
At last, they arrived at what appeared to be an exit, from what he could only assume was a dormitory section. Above this particular door, a faded green plaque bore the words "Main Hall, Lower Level" in chipped black letters.
It was then that he grew too anxious of the eerie silence.
"Where are we going?"
The boy shot him a side-eyed glare, the kind that carried an unspoken "shut up," before pressing his palm against a flat, green screen. A sharp beep followed.
"Labs." The boy grunted, tilting his head as he absentmindedly picked at his ear.
Not a second later, the heavy door groaned open, revealing yet another corridor. Unlike the dim, lifeless hallways they had trudged through before, this one stretched forward in a singular path, a harsh brightness waiting at the end like an unspoken invitation.
Or a warning.
He hesitated, then asked again, this time quieter. "Where… are we?"
"In the compound under the protection of Orochimaru-sama." The boy's response came louder, clearer. A practiced answer, perhaps.
He hummed in acknowledgment, but the name settled in his mind like a stone dropped into still water. Orochimaru. Was that the one responsible for this? The one who had forced him into this body? That… foul thing?
Whoever he was, it was clear the name carried weight. The boy beside him, for all his prior slouched state, straightened ever so slightly at the mention.
That was enough of a reason to keep his thoughts to himself.
Soon, they stepped into a vast hall with a high ceiling, filled wall to wall with cafeteria tables. Children of various ages clustered together, their hushed conversations punctuated by the occasional clatter of utensils against metal trays.
He did his best to ignore the stares; some curious, others filled with obvious disdain, keeping his focus solely on the peculiar boy leading the way.
"Why are we going to the labs?"
"Orochimaru-sama wants to see you." The boy's tone was flat, as if the answer should have been obvious.
Still, upon noticing his confusion, the boy let out a soft sigh.
As they passed through the hall, he pressed his palm against another glowing screen. The door before them slid open without a sound, revealing a passage swallowed in darkness.
Without hesitation, the boy stepped inside, his figure vanishing swiftly into the void.
He took a look at the unlit passage, before hesitantly following his young guide, cautiously watching each step he took. He tried his best to ignore the uneasy feeling that grew in his gut as he descended the stairs, into the depths of the compound.
…
Maybe he should've stayed upstairs.
He watched the pale figure of a strange man ahead, his every movement deliberate and predatory, as though the man were a serpent weaving through tall grass. The dim lights above flickered, casting warped shadows that seemed to cover every possible route of escape.
He was alone, caged with a ruthless predator in a single room.
"You must have a lot of questions."
He hesitated before speaking, voice shaky but edged with defiance. "Where am I?"
The man's thin lips curved into a calculated smirk. "We are currently at the western border of the Land of Fire, deep within my personal compound. A sanctuary for my research into chakra, the human body, and the nurturing of extraordinary talent in the arts of shinobi."
He could feel himself grow more and more confused with each sentence, the peculiar man uttered. The already surreal situation becoming even more abstract as he tried to process what in seven fucks was happening around him. Just where the hell was he? Did he somehow end up in some alternate Sengoku period Japan?
"Shinobi." He stated dumbly.
"An individual highly trained and disciplined in guerilla warfare, espionage, assassination and many more." He explained patiently, picking through dozens of various-sized needles before finally settling on the longest one. "Though their most distinguishable quality is the usage of chakra."
Chakra… He grasped at his fragmented memories. The term bringed forth a concept of a spiritual energy centers in the body, meditation, yoga and balance. But none of it aligned with the oppressively tangible force he felt radiating from Orochimaru earlier.
The image of the man in front of him, stretching his pale ass in various yoga positions felt so contradictory that it made the already bizarre situation even more… ridiculous.
It almost made him release a chuckle.
"And you are?"
"Orochimaru of the Sannin. A snake sage." His lips quivered into a sly smile. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
He gulped, as he took notice of yet another gap in his memories.
"I… I don't remember my name."
Orochimaru hummed, while he watched without an ounce of discomfort, as the pale man for the third time since he got here pierced totally not his vein with a needle and extracted a sample of totally not his blood.
Strangely, this time he didn't even feel the pain, just a feeling of numbness that slowly began to spread from the arm through the whole body.
…Hadn't he had a fear of needles?
The sannin turned his attention to him again. "The process of forced reincarnation turned out to be too much of a strain for your soul to handle, thus leaving it damaged. For now you might find yourself short of some memories. However with some time your soul will slowly repair itself to its former shape, though how much it will take is unknown even to me." He answered dismissively, as if talking about the weather.
The revelation hit like a blow to the chest. His hands clenched at his sides as a storm of emotions swirled within. Relief that his disorientation wasn't unfounded, anger at being violated in such a grotesque manner, and despair at the notion of being trapped in a body that wasn't his.
Orochimaru leaned closer, his serpent-like tongue flickering out briefly. "But does it truly matter?" he purred, his voice low and enticing. "You have been given a second chance. A new canvas to paint your life upon; a life unburdened by past mistakes. A rare and precious gift, wouldn't you agree?"
'It sounds like a dream come true.' He thought wryly. To start again and redo his life while avoiding all of his mistakes. Alas as always when presented with a pact with the devil; there was a catch.
No, this was no fresh start. His life had been stolen, his identity ripped apart, shat upon and stitched together like some grotesque experiment. He was left bare and broken only for a new skin to be sewn into the blank parts, thus forming a mismatched abomination. All of that at the whim of the sick figure that decided to play a god. Truly, a Frankenstein and monster retold.
He wasn't living again; he was a spectator in someone else's body, and whatever command he has over this reanimated corpse; will be soon taken away from him. He was there simply to watch. It was clear to see that this body won't ever be by his property.
'Though it's not like I want it either.' He looked down at his small hands, fists trembling. This wasn't his body, and it never would be.
Oblivious to his internal struggle, Orochimaru put the sample away and slowly stood up.
"Come." The man purred, bringing forth his hand in not so amicable manner. A long serpentine tongue crawled out of his mouth. It flicked against the lips, giving him a look of predator watching its prey. "It's time for your true first steps in this world. Isn't that right, Kentarō-kun~?
Strangely, at the sight of the same dreadful smile displayed when he was brought here; he didn't feel scared. In fact it felt absurd, for a man to have a smile stretched so wide, tongue so long, just like a snake. It felt unreal, fake and fatuous, nevermind his words and the way he played with them.
And as the body moved after its creator, he could feel his true, broken and old self fall behind, like yet another figure in this room, just observing. The flashing lights became brighter in color and his vision seemed to blur and narrow as he watched the man walk away, while holding the child by the shoulder, both of them talking in now muffled voices.
A role of observer would fit him. It always did, as it was not the first time he felt like one. Like he wasn't participating, just watching.
As if he was watching some poorly made movie.
AN: Here you go. That's my first time actually releasing anything so I hope for some constructive criticism coming from you guys. I'm a slow writer, but I will try posting at least once a week. See ya