A/N: Welcome to the first chapter of Mnemophobia! For those who don't know/wish not to use Google, Mnemophobia is a fear of memory-loss. It is actually something I myself have, although not to a debilitating degree. But I was reading a fiction that brought up Kabuto's past...and I actually got to thinking about it...and it freaked me out. So what else could I do but write a fic tackling the issue?

The main character is an SI/OC only loosely based on me, and the idea of this fic is to explore an SI who doesn't give two flying hoots about the plot. She wants to make a difference in the life of the people she immediately comes into contact with. Which, of course, does end up affecting the plot. Even if she's not there to see it. Updates shall be sporadic, but, without further ado, I give you; Mnemophobia.

"My name is a code, my glasses are a tool, I've been no-one from the start.
From the very start, I've had nothing."

~ Yakushi Kabuto ~

A great man once said, "the best way to find yourself, is to lose yourself in the service of others." Now, I am not ashamed to admit that I didn't truly understand this concept for the longest time. Partially, I now realize, because I wasn't searching for 'myself.' I knew who I was, where I was going, and what I stood for. What was there to question? What was there to find? But then, then the most life-changing thing happened…

I died.

...and woke up, a babe, in the arms of a stranger.

Well, I did say it was life-changing! But, yeah, my death was perhaps the most anticlimactic thing in existence...or maybe it was very dramatic? I don't really know...seeing as how it happened while I was asleep. Yup, one second I'm napping in the back of a friend's car, the next I'm screaming my lungs out as these giants pass me around, my whole world blurry.

Now, some people may have reacted differently than I. May have mourned the life they had, the friends, the family. Some may have thrown themselves completely into this new life. Eager to start a fresh. And some may have starred witlessly at a wall, waiting to wake up.

I did none of these things.

No, I didn't grieve, I didn't integrate, and I didn't deny...I panicked. Full out, hyperventilate, sweat-pouring-like-buckets, panicked. Partly because...I didn't know who I was.

Literally.

I don't know who gave birth to me, nor who sired me, but I do know that I never saw them after that first day. And I do know that they didn't even have the decency to name me. Didn't even have the decency to give me an identity.

Now, you'd think that'd be the reason I flipped. After all, I'm in an unknown place, with no connections, and I don't even have a name. You'd think that'd be what set me off. But, no, actually. I took that with grace. That's just the way life is...sometimes you were born into a loving family with three younger siblings and a bright future...and sometimes you're an unwanted, unnamed, orphan. C'est la vie, and all that.

No, what set me off was something much simpler.

Something much scarier.

I can't tell you what my exact age was at the time...my eyes had been developed enough to actually make out faces, so maybe four or five months old? All I know is that I was young, not even a year old, and that my 'caretakers' had decided that I'd wanted to see what I looked like. And, at the time, I was sort of curious about it too...was I a cute baby? Did I have little dimples when I smiled? What color where my eyes? Did I even have hair? I was pretty curious...

Except.

Except...when they showed me the mirror, I didn't recognize who was staring back at me. Except, when I searched my memories for what I should look like, what I should connect to, I found nothing.

Wh-what, who is this? Who is this person?

And not just my face; my mom, my dad, my sisters, my little brother, every friend I'd ever had, teachers...I couldn't recall anyone's face. The memories were still there, faded as they were...but the faces weren't, and the voices were distorted, the colors off. These memories, it couldn't be anymore clear, did not belong to this body.

I'd panicked, because, at the grand age of 5 months...I'd had an identity crisis.

One that persisted for the next 6 years.

Now, I know it seems stupid. Who cares, right? It's not like the memories are gone, not like they never happened! And, in a way, that's true. However, the problem with an overactive imagination is that it Just. Won't. Quit.

I would tell myself that none of this really mattered. I had a clean slate, I had time to figure out who I was. I could make new friends, make new memories. It was just like playing a video game over, right? Just because you hit "New Game" doesn't change what kind of player you are-err, were.

I could debate, dispute, and rationalize, until the cows came home...but that didn't stop the thoughts from creeping in, from whispering to me at night. From pointing out, that 'no' it was nothing like a video game. Nothing like re-reading a novel. Nothing like a do-over. Because I wasn't reliving my life, I was living someone else's.

The thing about being a baby, is...you're not meant to be cognizant. You're just not. Most experts agree that a child doesn't even really develop a concept of 'self' until around 2 years old and even then, an individual character doesn't really emerge until around age 4. (Depending on the child.)

So, for the first 4 years of a child's life, they're a sponge. Soaking up everything from language, to facial expressions, mannerisms, to manners. Mimicking everything, and everyone, trying and discarding concepts almost at a whim. Slowly building up what they like, how they think, in essence, who they are...until one day, they are a them.

But we don't remember this, we simply come to be, secure in the knowledge that we are 'ourselves'. There is no effort needed to respond to our name, for example. We don't question our reflection in the mirror. Or why our birthday is when it is, or even why we look the way we do. We just accept it. Our concept of 'self' in isolation is secure, and we are ready to build a concept of 'self' in a community.

I, however, was aware of my surroundings from the moment I was born...and was in discord for nearly as long.

This language didn't come easily to me, these manners were foreign, the mannerisms seemed too subtle, the clothes didn't fit right. My hands didn't listen to me, I didn't know who I saw in the mirror, I didn't even have a name to go by, and-gods-even the air felt off!

I didn't belong.

But I couldn't return. Couldn't even recall enough, to know to where I'd return.

How can you make your peace in society, if you can't even make peace in your own mind? How can you form bonds with others, if you can't even form a bond between 'body' and 'self'? How could you even begin to live...if you're not entirely convinced you're alive?

So, yeah, I panicked.

But I got over it...sort of...that is to say, I learned to ignore it. It still crept in from time-to-time, I didn't truly "conquer it" until I was six. Until then I learned to compartmentalize, to put my fears, and doubts, and insecurities in a nice little box, and shoveshoveshove it down to the deepest depths of my soul.

Where it would resurface in my dreams...but, hey, priorities, right?

My panic attacks did not go unnoticed by my caretakers...just undiagnosed. For the longest time they couldn't figure out what was setting me off. They could tell my body was flushed with adrenaline, could see me shivering and gasping...but couldn't pinpoint the cause.

I was just a child, after all, so it couldn't be psychological...which left some kind of physical stimulus. It didn't help that I also seemed to have a chronic cough, and insomnia. (I fell asleep just fine, but tended to jolt awake from my very many nightmares.) Nor that my caretaker fancied herself a doctor-which, okay, rude, she could've been a doctor for all I knew at the time-and liked to poke and prod me with The Sharp Things.

Ultimately, when I was old enough to string a few sentences together (a little shy of 2), they decided to just ask me about my symptoms. (It was quite a revolutionary thought.)

Now, yes, I could talk...but not well...certainly not well enough to explain myself. Although, at that point I would've gladly done so, if only to be given a therapist to help me work through everything (I had yet to learn why 'sharing' would be a Bad Idea.)

So, for all my trying, I could only get across that I coughed because the 'air was bad' and couldn't sleep because my 'dreams were bad' (I had an odd love for the negative form at that age.) I didn't even touch my panic attacks beyond to say they happened when I was 'scared'.

Which, of course, had them questioning what I was scared of...and me insisting there was no 'what' I was "just scared." I've learned, however, that adults will rationalize anything away, and so I was ultimately diagnosed with an extreme sensitivity to Yin Chakra.

Yes.

Chakra.

The fact that this pronouncement was followed with my caretaker placing a glowing green hand to my forehead while telling me to "rest," and some person whispering about the affects of using "iryo-ninjutsu" on a child, further cemented the idea. And as I drifted off, I was hit with but one thought.

I'd somehow been reborn into a manga.

Yeah, that didn't exactly help my issues...but at least I'd learned that Medical Ninjutsu could stave off my nightmares. Even if using it in such a way was just another unhealthy coping mechanism.

Now, the first question any decent character would ask themselves (and, yes, after the revelation I was in a manga hit me, I started referring to myself as a 'character'...it gave me a purpose, okay) is where and when in the manga they are...

I hadn't asked.

More than that, I'd covered my ears, spun in circles, and started chanting "nah, nah, nah, nah" several times.

I had not wanted to know.

I hadn't been in denial, I'd fully accepted that I was now a character in a children's story (let's just ignore how unhealthy my thoughts sounded, okay?) Fully accepted that the science I knew before ceased to make sense of the world. Fully accepted that my fate, my life (if I was even alive-no, I was a character, I was alive until I was killed off, right?) was in the hands of some omnipotent writer.

But that didn't mean I'd had to acknowledge this.

It was like global warming, yes it's there. It's happening. It's real. But, you know...if we just squint our eyes and look the other way...we can kind of pretend it has no bearing on our day-to-day life. I mean, it's just a "big picture" thing...doesn't need to affect the "here and now" after all.

Life, however, hated me...as, not even a year after my whole "chakra" revelation, I'd learned exactly when I was.

I'd already known where I was...no matter how much I tried to be oblivious, the term 'Konaha Orphanage' made it pretty obvious. But I had successfully avoided any talk of a When.

Ah, for this next part to make sense, I should probably tell you that I was given a name...at some point. To be honest I hadn't even realized it was my name at first. I'd thought it was just a title of sorts. Although, perhaps that's what it evolved from? Anyway, however it happened, I came to be called 'Shizuko' which was either "Quiet" or "Calm Child."

I'm pretty sure they meant 'Quiet'.

So there I was, three years old, trying to ignore the way the air liked to make me sneeze. When all of a sudden I was pulled into an argument...err, 'debate.'

"Shizuko, ne, Shizuko-chan! Tell Ritsu I didn't take her blocks!"

"Mou, Urushi, I watched you!"

"No! You watched me move them. I put them in the corner! I didn't take them!"

"Ano-" I tried, not particularly in the mood for their squabble.

"Then why aren't they there!" Ritsu screamed, face scrunched up in anger, "don't think I'm gonna let you keep them, you, you, stealer!"

"H-hey-" one more try, I told myself. Just one more, before-

"I Don't Have Them!" A foot-stomp, "I'm telling you, someone else must've taken them!"

"STOP INTERRUPTING!"-before I lost it. "Ritsu-san, your blocks are being cleaned by Caretaker-san, Urushi you knew that, why didn't you just tell her?"

"Oh."

"Oh, yeah!" A chuckle, "I forgot! Thanks Shizuko-chan! Ne…" Sigh, and here it comes. "You wanna come play outside with me and Ritsu?"

"Risu-san and I," I mumbled while looking away from the smiling kid in front of me, "and...maybe another time...I wanna take a nap."

Urushi was...there wasn't quite a way to describe him. He was a kind soul, the type of person who could make a family anywhere. You know, actually, I can describe him. He was Luffy. Someone who said "you're my family." And if you tried to turn him down he'd just "reject your rejection"...I may be speaking from experience.

He was probably the person I was closest to here, even though we weren't all that close to begin with. But, where as most kids left me alone after the first few socially awkward conversations we had (Japanese was hard in the beginning, okay! And I've always been an awkward penguin) he just kept coming back.

Kept talking to me.

Eventually he'd even gotten used to the way I talked, and I'd goten used to the way he...well...glowed? His presence? He and caretaker-san, were the only people to realize that I don't actually care much for honorifics. I just default to the most polite thing possible, until told otherwise. And even then I will only take it one step down. Unless you tell me specifically what you want me to say.

Which is why he is the only person I call sans honorifics, since he specifically told me to call him by just his name...he was also smart enough to flat out ask me, "is it okay to call you with -chan?" Which is why he gets that privilege.

I figured that if a person was willing to invest the time to figure out why I referred to people as I did...then they'd earned the right to refer to me as they pleased. (If he had asked to drop the honorific entirely I still would've agreed.)

Caretaker-san was interesting in that she'd let me speak as I pleased. She'd known that if she'd insisted I would've called her the same as everyone else. But I don't think she'd wanted to insist. I don't know why...maybe because the way I'd called her had been unique? I'd liked that Urushi had been the only one to call me by -chan, it helped make our relationship stand out...and, to tell you the truth, I'd liked being the only one who could call her 'caretaker-san'...it'd made me feel unique.

Different.

But in a good way.

Hmm, maybe she'd known more than she'd let on about my problems...but I digress. Point is, I'd been closest to Urushi...but that didn't actually mean we'd been close.

It wasn't that he'd just been a little kid-four to my three-or that he'd been loud, and abrasive, I could've gotten over that. It wasn't even that he'd been filled with boundless energy. I'd just have not played tag with him. No, my problem had been his innocence, he'd just been so happy, so certain.

He'd reminded me of what I'd used to be like, and because of this I'd understood him.

Understood that if we'd become close he would've never forsaken me. Understood, that if we'd become friends, we would've become siblings. I'd understood this, and it'd terrified me.

I'd known he'd believe in me.

And I hadn't wanted that...hadn't wanted someone to acknowledge me as worthy.

Because I didn't know if I was.

Who am I? Am I the type of person who ignores the dangers in the world? The type of person who smiles at the pain of others? The type of person who is always wandering, never laying roots or connecting to people? This body, this mind, what would they become? For all I'd known I could've had a predisposition to psychopathy. For all I'd known, I could've been a serial killer just waiting to happen.

I hadn't wanted him to believe in me. Because I hadn't wanted to believe in me. Not when I could've been proved wrong.

So, while we'd been close, we hadn't been close. Which was why, despite him asking every day, I'd never gone outside to play with him. Caretaker-san hadn't approved, but I think she'd figured we'd work it out somehow...and we would, as soon as he stopped asking.

Anyway, after my dismissal Urushi and Ritsu had decided to make good on their decision and go outside, while I'd decided to make good on my lie, and go nap. (Is a lie still a lie, if you make good on it?)

Which was lucky, because I wouldn't get any sleep that night.

Not when Urushi'd returned towing an injured, ash-haired child with him. Not when he'd so helpfully called, "look, Shizuko-chan! A new brother! One the same age as you!"

And not when Caretaker-san had introduced herself with; "my name is Nonou, but you may call me 'Mother'...and, where is your family?" And the little boy'd revealed that he'd had no memory.

I'd gotten no sleep that night, because, despite my most valiant attempts to the contrary, I'd now known exactly where I fell in the story. And there was nothing I could do to but accept it.

...I'd barely blinked, the next day, when Urushi'd named the kid, like a stray dog. Barely'd twitched when Caretaker-san had asked me to keep an eye out for him. Hadn't so much as sighed, when he'd turned to me with his big innocent eyes, and shakily introduced himself.

I wouldn't react.

I couldn't.

I…

"Nice to meet you, my name is Kabuto. Please take care of me."

Damn.

A/N: Well, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Mnemophobia which from henceforth I shall refer to as "Mnemo". Like I mentioned in the beginning, updates shall be sporadic. I have other fics which I owe my allegiance to first, and this fic actually freaks me out (I am sort of using it as a way to confront my fears at a comfortable pace.) That being said...I am desperately trying to distract myself from my upcoming BioChemistry Exam...which may result in a rather swift update.

Anyway, thanks to all who took the time to read this, hopefully you'll help fan my writer's flames with reviews! Speaking of, I read a fic recently where an author asked their audience a question per-chapter, and I really enjoyed it. So I think I'm gonna steal it. Don't feel obligated, but I'm kinda curious...

If you were reborn into any story/manga/show/movie, what would it be, and how would you react?