Life is fickle.

Sometimes one lives a long, fulfilling life. Other times that long life is unfulfilling, and other times life is very short. And sometimes one's life expands beyond one plane of existence – though usually not without that existence fading away in one plane before moving on to the next. What one does with their life though – that's up to them.

.x.X.x.

Into the Mist

Introduction

.x.X.x.

There was a certain feeling that came with dying and then subsequently being reborn, and it was bittersweet. On one hand you got a new life, a new chance – on the other, it mean you had died. It was almost like a less malicious, unintentional version of 'The Invasion of the Body Snatchers'. There was also an impossible to ignore thought of 'Whose body did I snatch?' to go along with the theme. Because it sure as hell wasn't meant to house my cheating-ass spirit.

Or maybe it was, but without past memories intact.

Because I was certain I could do without those – it was hard enough being dead, it was harder remembering why and what I had left behind.

I was fifteen and an athlete before I had died. To say I was a bit of a bitch would be true as well – it came with being awkward and having a bit of a temper, really. I had a bad filter when it came to my mouth, both in the sense that I tended to over-share and in the sense that I said things I probably shouldn't – especially when I was angry. And it was my mouth that had ultimately gotten me shot.

There had been a boy at my school – rather annoying, a bit of a loser – and not many people liked the poor guy. In the end I had tried to not be purposefully mean to the kid, but he had decided that, somehow, that meant we had a chance of getting together. He kept asking and asking and I had snapped, something along the lines of –

"Why the hell would I ever date you? You're annoying, not that good looking, and I am not interested and never will be, you freak."

Apparently enough had happened that week that he just couldn't stand it anymore, so he took his dad's handgun and went after not only me but at least two others (from what he had said, and from what I had caught in my fear-stunned state). It was painful, to say the least, and I was absolutely sure that I wanted nothing to do with guns ever again – it wouldn't be easy to be face to face with one after that, I was sure.

And another thing was for sure – reincarnation was not easy. You started of incoherent, vaguely aware but yet not aware – it was an overload of information that a small body and immature mind couldn't handle without pushing back the older conscience at least a bit. Plus, the language thing was not easy to grasp when the only language one knows is English and very broken high school Spanish and the language one was set to learn was Japanese.

Suffice it to say that as a toddler, my Japanese was not where it really should be for my age and my pronunciations were off (I was quite proud of myself, my mother on the other hand was not). The fact was that while one might think being mature in mind and more aware would be a good thing – it most certainly was not; it was actually a hindrance. My native tongue that I remembered (and could speak but didn't – because, oh, what a can of worms that would open) was English and learning a second language was hard. A child had it easy with learning a language compared to an adult; they grew up around it, with it being the only language spoken and only one they knew. Adults already knew a whole language and depending on the person had either an easier or harder time learning a new one, no matter how much they might want to learn it.

It was something that frustrated me, but it seemed to frustrate my mother more.

"Is sending that child to school even viable?" My mother pursed her brightly painted lips. "Nobuo, it would make us look bad – her pitiful speech."

Nobuo, my step-father that replaced the father I had only vague memories of, as he had died when I was barely three. A man that was nice enough – not mean, but not friendly either – to me, which was more than could be said for my dear, dear mother. A man that mother had wasted no time in getting married to barely a year after her first husband's death.

He let out a long, suffering sigh, a hand running through his dark hair. "Get her a home tutor until her speech gets better, then."

"There is no other choice, really." The gaze of her deep, amethyst eyes felt almost cutting as I made a show of innocently knocking some blocks around. "Tutors can be so expensive though – really, Nagi, what a burden you've turned out to be. I do hope you are at least intelligent."

Yeah, well, fuck you too, mother dearest.

.x.X.x.

Having a tutor turned out to not be such a bad thing in the long run – I'd gotten off lucky with a really nice one, instead one the horror story tutors who were rude and much too stern. Matsuoka Yuki was kind to a fault – and sometimes overly oblivious, if I was being honest – and had been an immense help in terms of my vocabulary in the last two years (my pronunciations were slower going). Though even she couldn't do anything about my horrible calligraphy – I just wasn't suited for the Japanese writing style after a life time of the English writing system.

"Ara, you've been doing so well, Nagi-chan!" Matsu-sensei smoothed out some of the completed worksheets. "I'm sure you'll be joining the other kids at school soon!"

"Neh, but Nagi-chan will miss Matsu-sensei." What I didn't say was that mother probably wasn't too keen on the idea of having me 'go public' with my pronunciation still not its best. It was an odd sort of accent, with a lot of 'y' sounds and over annunciations.

Not like I'd ever been surprised by the fact – I hadn't learned any foreign languages before, bar two years of high-school Spanish.

"Oh, my cute little darling, Matsu-sensei will miss you too!" Her messily painted nails (courtesy of me) patted the seat next to her. "But I want Nagi-chan to get the chance to make friends."

I blinked up at her with my obnoxiously large eyes. "But Matsu-sensei is Nagi-chan's friend."

The brunette woman practically melted, and I felt both pleased and a little disgruntled with my ability to make most adults melt like butter. My eyes were large and round and a deep amethyst that just glistened; they were the perfect complement to my more rounded face – and the combination made me look so innocent. This was both a positive and negative in my book – on one hand, I could get away with almost anything so long as the person in charge wasn't my mother; on the other it made me look so… so not me. Purple eyes, no matter how pretty, weren't normal.

"Friends your age, Nagi-chan."

"They'll just make fun of me!" And I'd beam them, but, you know.

She waggled a finger. "And why would they do that?"

"Because of my talkin' and my hair."

"Nagi-chan shouldn't be so scared." I wasn't, really – well, not all that much. "Your hair is very pretty – I'm sure there will be many a jealous girl."

Which was usually not a good thing – kids could be mean, and little girls could be vicious. Though it really didn't matter much to me, because I could defend myself just fine (and I wasn't sensitive about my hair; it was pretty – a nice shade of deep purple, like my eyes. And, again, not normal). It was the whole 'dealing with kids as a kid when I'm really not a kid' thing that made me not want to go to school until I was older. Even then teenagers could be little bitches – I should know, I was one before I became Nagi.

"I really think you'll be okay, Nagi-chan. I really do. You're a strong little girl – the strongest seven year old I know."

I halfheartedly scribbled down answers on my worksheet, pouting as I did. "Whatever you say, Matsu-sensei."

.x.X.x.

Starting at a public school for the first time (in this life) when one is eight-going-on-nine years old isn't very fun. Especially when it's the middle of the year. It's the age at which kids really start trying to be the so-called 'top dogs' and where girls start to get just a bit more petty. Add into that my natural disposition of a faint blush and baby-doll eyes and you get kids who think I'm easy pickings because I 'look scared'.

"Nagi-chan," Kaori was an audacious little girl with very cutesy clothes and a will with the strength of iron bars. "I'm still hungry, so give me your snack."

I blinked. "Uh. No."

Kaori puffed up, her eyes crinkling. "If you don't I'll say you hit me."

Oh, bitch, please.

"Alright." My tiny chair squeaked as I stood up and Kaori made a show of getting her eyes to water. "If you wanna tell on me for something, then I should do what you tell on me for, right?"

And as she wailed, my tiny hand smacked her clear across the face. Said action stunned her for a moment, and everyone in the room seemed to just stop – and then, as Kaori lunged for me everything moved almost as if in fast-forward. Hair was pulled, arms were bitten, and other kids were yelling. But there was no way I was letting some little brat beat me or bully me. Besides, it was worth it to have the other kids clear a nice radius around me and for me to not be a target for misfortune anymore despite my wide-eyed look (because there were few doubts in my mind that they were scared of me now, at least a little bit). Regardless, I regretted nothing.

Even if it resulted in them calling my mother.

"Inoue Nagi!" Said woman stood, her face clearly angry and her manicured hands perched irately on her hips. "What a disgraceful way to act. Hurry and apologize for your behavior."

"Not until she apologizes." Screw being an adult in mind – it was too hard to control the strong emotions of a child, and I had always been confrontational before. "She started it."

Mother clicked her tongue. "Oh, I doubt that."

"I apologize for this child's behavior." Mother's bracelet jangled loudly on her wrist. "I assure you I do not condone this sort of behavior."

"Yes, well, Kaori-chan will be properly punished as well." Kaori's mother had a kind smile. "She knows better. Children do make mistakes though."

A noncommittal hum was mother's only response – but I knew it well enough to know she was all but brushing the other woman off. If something or someone didn't meet her standards, mother wasn't inclined to be kind or generous about it, even if that someone was her daughter and a mere child. And for some odd reason, I felt as if I was missing something regarding her and myself.

.x.X.x.

Proper punishment in mother's opinion – for the earlier incident involving my fight at school – was to be locked in my room with no dinner and none of my toys. Not that I had any of those aside from my toddler toys – some letter blocks, a few Barbies, and several stuffed animals. All in all it was the lack of food that was the worst part of it – but I knew I'd do the exact same thing again despite knowing I'd end up dinner-less.

"Look at me." I flopped back on my bed, my hair splaying out and frizzing with a bit of static. "Beatin' up little kids. But…she was a bully."

Did that even my actions out? Was standing up to bullies the way I was going to try and make amends for the times I had bullied – but intentionally and unintentionally?

My eyelids fluttered, too heavy to stay open much longer. A nap really didn't seem like a very bad idea right now either – not like I could do much else anyways. The lethargy numbed my limbs and my nose twitched before my consciousness faded away –

Echoing, eerie footsteps – flashes of a dank hallway.

A boy – angry, scared blue eyes.

A table, like from the Frankenstein movies.

Then, sCReAMinG–

I choked, before heaving a dry breath, strands of hair plastered to my face and neck only making the cold feeling of sweat on my skin more pronounced. It took me a moment to realize my fingers were tightly wound into my bedsheets, leaving an awkward, rough feeling against my fingertips.

"W-what kind of dream…" I relaxed my hands and fell back, my breathing still loud, but not rushed. "T-that boy though…"

My eyes squeezed shut, my brown furrowed. My memory of that dream – no, nightmare? Maybe? – blurry and faded. I could remember his eyes though – blue, very angry and very scared. His hair, it had been blue too, but a different shade, a blue-violet. A slim face and for some reason I could see him with a sly smile –

'Kufufu.'

It was a cool, slick sort of feeling that left me feeling a bit drained. That sound – that laugh – left me feeling even more so. And when I opened my eyes I felt like I had been slapped in the face. Because he was standing there, not speaking nor blinking – just a solid image of a boy with blue eyes and blue hair with an odd, spiked crown. One blue eye blurred, coming back into focus red, red, red -

"Not real." My voice was weak and breathy, my hands hovering uncertainly in the air in front of me. "He's not really here."

And he wasn't – he faded, first into mist, and then into nothing. But even if he wasn't here – he was here, in this world. He was here and I was a dumbass because I hadn't noticed who exactly I was once in these last almost-nine years. This wasn't just Japan – this was the Japan from the world of Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

And that boy wasn't just a boy.

He was Rokudo Mukuro.

And I wasn't just some girl.

I was Nagi.

And I wasn't just Nagi.

I was Dokuro Chrome.

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Many a person often wonders "Who am I?" at some point in their life. And despite what others say, the only person who can really answer that question is the person who asked it.

.x.X.x.

"Once upon a time, an angel lay dying in the mist.

And a devil knelt over him and smiled."
―Laini Taylor,Daughter of Smoke & Bone