I, uh... this kind of got out of hand. There's gonna be a couple of more parts but they will have to wait until next weekend, I have three exams this coming week.
On a side note, I know Kakashi's age doesn't comply with the canon age, I've just chosen to ignore it. Also, this might be a bit more Kakashi-centric than I thought. It will still be KakaNaru, just not as much.
They carried on walking for a day and a half, Kakashi quietly assessing their surroundings. There were rivers, stagnant hills, forests devoid of life. The couple discussed future plans, plants that were to be added to their garden. Having paused before a small bridge, they had a petite lunch. Kakashi ate his spring rolls in silence. He swatted a mosquito that preyed on his cheek through the thin fabric.
As if awoken by the clap, the woman looked up. "I met a man like you once. He was from Konoha too."
Kakashi looked up from his hand with the blood-stain on it, his expression vacant.
A man that swatted insects? A bodyguard?
"He had hair just like yours."
His stomach dropped at her remark. Out there in the world, there were endless memories of Hatake the older. It was as if his death had only been a mere inconvenience, not enough to actually put an end to things. Memories of Sakumo moved around, crossing the earth. It would have been simpler if any recollection of him had died when he did.
"Probably a coincidence," Kakashi remarked.
"He spent a lot of time in the desolate villages, rounding up people. He's the reason we had a coup. The country's still in parts, all squabbling with each other."
The ANBU was silent. Orders were orders, soldiers were soldiers. Stories like these were not uncommon. A state needed a shift in power, a more agreeable spokesperson, one less forgetful of his roots. People were coralled into packs, made to turn on each other. For the greater good. His father had done his share of missions, certainly. He'd caused confusion and betrayal.
Sakumo's shadow was ever-present. It was the worst kind of rememberance, either they looked away from Kakashi like his gutted father was contagious, or they talked about the illustrious Hatake -san with awe, a poorly hidden contempt for his abilities and strengths. What he'd heard, either to his face or behind his back, told him little. Avoiding to ask, because he felt filthy when he did, as if remembering his dad like something else than the rogue, backstabbing, country-betraying scum he apparently had been, if he thought about the good things, it would be smearing the survivor's memories. His squad lived when Sakumo died.
People tried to tell him the reduced story, the one with Sakumo having to make an awful choice and somehow picking the worse of the two, but it didn't tell him much. Kakashi was torn between wanting to think of his father as a good man, and a quiet resignation at all the evidence of the opposite. His father wasn't a good man. He'd come to terms with his suicide. There was only so much a person could put up with, and there had to be a line somewhere. Having the whole community turn on you, pulling out the rug from under his feet. During those terms, it was almost understandable. Almost. He still hadn't forgiven Sakumo for leaving. For choosing to leave his son. Shouldn't a parent protect their children? Wasn't that what they did? And if he didn't want a son, why did he raise one?
Kakashi had never met his mother. There had been pictures of her in the hallway, on the nightstand in his father's bedroom. Long brown hair, pointy shoulders, a freckled nose. On all the photographs she looked straight into the camera. Coming from a higher standing than his father, she wore nice clothes, kimonos with embellished details. Her drawers were filled with soft fabrics, carefully folded. It had ached to see them being sold to rough hands that would shrug them off, leaving them in a pile on a dirty floor. He'd seen countless artifacts changing hands, family keepsakes that had been stored atop the big wood cabinet that he'd barely been able to see over.
After his father's death he'd gone into foster care for a brief moment, he had to be contained, like a spill of something toxic. Several escapes later, over hazardous rooftops and past outstretched arms, he was finally left alone. He already had a home, had had a family. You couldn't exchange one for the sake of the other. He was eleven when he got his apartment, fourteen when he enlisted. Too young, but the system wanted him. It took him.
As they approached the village the elderly lady hurried along, her crooked legs wanton of respite. Kakashi stayed behind with her husband, a potato-nosed man with watery eyes and an arched back that made him look as if he'd topple over.
"Don't listen to her," he squeaked. "She is still upset over the riots." The crumpled man blinked, tapping the road with his cane, "We lost our oldest son in the... in the fighting."
"I'm sorry."
Carefully stepping over a scraggly root, he forgave him. "It was a long time ago."
They went on, the birds chirping in the trees above them.
The stone stood in a little meadow, away from the rest. Kakashi felt an old annoyance flow past him, an anger that had nowhere to go. His mother's stone was among the other memorials, but Sakumo's was at the edge of the field, a final constant sneer.
Having put the flowers on the grave, he stood in front of it, briefly. His father hadn't grown old. The letters were caving in from the thin, green vegetation that had begun to take over. They needed nothing else than air and sun to thrive.
"You may have done a bad job raising me."
Back at the main building he made his way to the archive, an unpleasant brick-wall cellar. He signed his name in the roster, jotting down "case file #19A" as his reason to visit, having pulled it straight out of thin air. The woman behind the desk popped a round pink bubble with her lips and then read him his rights. "You may not bring anything hazardous or flammable to the main archives. You may not bring anything with you out. If you need to-"
He held a hand up. "I know, I know, don't set the files on fire."
The receptionist nodded, chewing rapidly on her gum, twirling a strand of commercial red hair between her fingers, "Good."
It rapidly got cooler as he took the elevator down. The metal box rattled and groaned as it stopped on the other floor. With a lazy ping the long industrial lights came on, displaying one of many gray, anonymous shelves. The elevator jangled back upstairs. Only the buzz from the lamps was heard. That, and his quick steps over the floor. Hurrying over to the first cabinet, labeled Land of Snow. He moved on.
Yukigakure. Kazahana Dotou. Land of spring.
He changed row, going to the other side of the room, quickly sweeping past the tiny labels. He glanced at the elevator door, then went to the far edge of the room.
Aburami – Adachi.
He thought for a second, nodding, then continuing to look, now faster, skipping large chunks of cabinets and labels. Two rows down he crouched, looking at the names from the bottom up.
Hattori - Hatake.
He pulled out the drawer, flipping through the folders, Hattori Hayashi, Hatake Yui, Hatake Sakumo. Ripping out the last one, he put it on the cabinet, hastily flicking through it.
Hatake Sakumo. Date of birth and of death. His father's father, his father's mother. He'd enlisted by the age of eighteen, done 38 S-ranks. Nothing stood out. He'd shown great talent early on, steadily going on more difficult missions. Kakashi turned the pages, skimming through the various reports and documents. Successful missions, one after the other, his first S-rank, the records grew sparse.
There was a copy of an official recommendation for leave, dated September 15th.
The next post was dated the third of November.
"Colleagues (UK, IG, ST, et al.) report HS seeming 'tired', 'thoughtful'. IG demand a request to be put in to remove HS from command, on the grounds that '[HS] is not up to it.' Clearance for duty: pending."
Next page.
January 22nd . "HS reports feeling better, and wishes to get back to work."
There was an ominous rattle coming from above.
Kakashi hurried up, going to the last page.
June 6th. "Following a long-term depressive state, HS was found deceased at home. Autopsy report confirm death by own hand (sep.). Remaining relatives: HK (son), age 9."
Before that was a list of journal entries made by doctors.
It hissed as the elevator stopped.
Going backwards from the first page, the last official entry was dated February 23rd.
"Following the refusal of orders during operation-"
The name was blacked out.
"HS is hereby relieved of all command; his position at-"
Blacked out.
"along with any additional contact with the bureau will, as of today, immediately cease."
There were steps coming down the isle.
He crammed the folder back into the drawer and followed the suspicious administrator back up.