[Itagaki Mitsumi]

This should have been the easiest technique in the world for her. A technique to adopt another's form, to become something that she wasn't, was compelling. She could take the form of someone she idolized. Imagine herself whole. Become someone other than Itagaki Mitsumi. Just for a little while.

She made the three hand seals, slowly and deliberately. Mitsumi imagined her target, trying to recall the entirety of them. Their face. Their voice. Clothing. Size. Gait. Mannerisms. It was supposed to be the most complex of the academy techniques, but still relatively simple by greater standards. The chakra flow, she understood. Mitsumi had gotten pretty good at directing the flow of chakra, if nothing else. And yet, here she was. Behind the restaurant, practicing. Again. She clutched her hands before her.
"Henge!” A puff of smoke surrounded her, and began to clear.

Mitsumi glanced at her hands. They were larger, more masculine. The way she stood had shifted. Her hair didn't obscure her vision. Hope bloomed in her. She looked towards her judge and training partner, who looked up from the paper he was doodling on.

"How… How is it, Shou?” Mitsumi asked furtively, but she already knew the answer, based on her voice. It was wrong. Utterly wrong. A mixture of her target’s, her own, and… and a raspy croak.

[Itagaki Mitsumi]

Mitsumi nervously awaited Shou’s judgment. Her five year-old brother looked up, then frowned, tapping a colored pencil against his chin in an exaggerated gesture of thought.
"Sorry, Mitsu-nee. It's still…” He waved a hand in a vague gesture. "It's like you put dad's face in the toaster.” The harsh critique didn't sting. Not much, anyway. Mitsumi knew there was no malice in the words. "Clothes are better this time, though! No black bits.”

Mitsumi heaved a sigh, and released the transformation. She could maintain concentration. Manage the flow of chakra. The problem was foundational.

Every time she built the form, something about her twisted it. She really needed to just place herself in front of a mirror, but… scrutinizing her own face, even a false face, and looking for faults… the notion filled her with dread.

"Why do you make them all super weird?” Mitsumi tugged at her hair, pulling the fringe over her face and eye. A poor mask, but a mask nonetheless. Shou’s eyes brimmed with innocent curiosity, and Mitsumi struggled to meet that gaze. "You don't look like that.” If it had been literally anyone else, even her parents, she would have scoffed. Rejected it as a meaningless platitude. But Shou didn't mince words. He asked questions. Stared. Touched.

He had never known her any other way. It was the only relationship she had unmarred by change, or prejudice. It was blunt, it was difficult, but it was always, always honest.

[Itagaki Mitsumi]

The words caught her off guard, and she needed a break. She sighed, and strode over to sit next to Shou.
"Can… can you show me?” Mitsumi’s mind raced, and Shou grinned, turning over to a new page. His face scrunched up in concentration as he drew.

The shapes were rough, the composition difficult to parse. But a triangle and a circle became her with the addition of long lines of purple and a small smile. Shou glanced up at her, then switched to a darker shade of brown than he had used to outline her face.

Ever since he had started drawing actual people, and not blobs of scribbled color, he had been drawing her. They had spent virtually every waking hour together for a few formative years, and that proximity was only just starting to come to an end. It made sense. And whenever he drew her, there were always the scars.

It was a way to differentiate her from their mother, she supposed. They did look rather alike, minus the scarring. A light but always present cross-hatch of brown, peeking out from slashes of purple.

Shou then switched to a blockier structure. Their father, who she had tried to emulate. She recognized the broad shoulders, the slight roundness of the face, the stubble. Then Shou switched to black and scribbled over half of the right side of his face.

[Itagaki Mitsumi]

Mitsumi started. That's how she had looked? Why?
"Yeah, Mitsu-nee’s got ones like these,” He tapped at his masterpiece for emphasis. Then tapped at the mangled father. "But your transforms always look burned.” Shou understood ‘burnt’ as a culinary term. Their family did run a restaurant, after all.

Mitsumi's mind whirled. Is this… She reached down, tracing the mass of black with a scarred finger. The colors didn't match at all. Is this how I see myself? In Shou's drawing, the scarring was definitely visible. Definitely present. But it wasn't all-consuming. A blemish on the face. Not…

Just how horrifying were the images she had been showing her brother?

"Am I overcompensating with too much chakra? Am I subconsciously ruining the image I form in my mind’s eye? The scarring’s not bad enough to inhibit chakra flow, but maybe…” Mitsumi muttered, casting her mind back to the lessons and study.

"Mitsu-nee's talking weird again,” Shou complained, jolting Mitsumi out of her reverie. She smiled apologetically, and stood up.
"Sorry, Sho-Sho. Come on, lunch rush will be over soon.” Shou was too young to properly help with the restaurant, and Mitsumi was walking a different path. So it was better for them to get out from underfoot, and get their lunch in the lull between lunch and dinner.

Maybe things would have been different if Ryū were still here. He had clearly loved cooking-

Mitsumi staggered, a hand coming up to her face as vertigo washed over her. Shou peered up at his sister, concern written on his face.
"Mitsu-nee…? Do you need to sit down again?” That… actually hurt. Not the offer. Not the kindness born of innocent and simple fraternal love.

It was the fact that Shou was already used to this.

[Itagaki Mitsumi]

Thankfully, it was a fleeting feeling, and she managed a wan smile, forcing her hand down. She wanted to ruffle his hair, but couldn't.
"Thank you, Shou-kun. But I'll be fine. You must be starving, right? Let's see what the Itagaki leftover special is today.” Intrusive thoughts and unwanted memories simmered below the surface. They could wait. They always could.

After a lunch of fried rice and fish head, Mitsumi was in her room, leaving Shou to play on his own in the living room. She still had practice to do, and no time to waste. She was already far too far behind.

The room was small. When their home had been repaired and renovated, Mitsumi’s room had been made separate. A quiet, secure place she could retreat to. Cozy, rather than cramped, with many books, cushions, and stuffed animals. Items and decorations to soothe and distract a troubled mind. It often felt like a prison, but it was also a safe place. A place where the only things that could harm her came from within.

And speaking of things that could harm her… Mitsumi looked to her tiny and neglected vanity. There was a mirror on it, covered by a cloth. The only things on or in it that she really used were combs and hairbrushes. But today she would have to brave her reflection. It felt stupid, how much courage it took to sit on that passed stool before the vanity. Her heart thudded noisily in her chest, and she slowly, hesitantly reached out a scarred hand to remove the cloth.

She yanked it off, and her body tensed up, her eyes squeezing shut. Mitsumi didn’t want to look. She never wanted to look. There was a reason why there were basically no photos openly displayed. But it wasn’t like she didn’t know what her face looked like. Or… maybe that was the problem. Why her transformation mutated so much.

[Itagaki Mitsumi]

Her eyes slowly opened, and locked onto her reflection’s. She brushed the hair obscuring her face behind her ear, and she immediately wanted to hide again. The discolored skin was tight, pulling muscle and skin taut in ugly ways. She could remember the bandages. The pitying look of her father when those bandages were removed.

A choked sob escaped her as her hand flinched away from the hot doorknob. She coughed again. The air was getting thick with smoke. Fear and panic became her world. Then everything became red, and orange, and pain. Fire consumed the boards beneath her, and caught on her clothing. She screamed, flailing and desperately trying to pat out the flames. They spread higher. Her leg. Her side. Her arm. Her face. Pain. Terror. Pain. Solitude. Pain. Fear. Pain. Why wouldn’t anyone save her? Why was this happening?

Mitsumi jolted back to the present, aware that she was hyperventilating. Cold sweat beaded on her skin, and she touched her thumbs to her fingertips in turn, eyes darting around as she counted blue objects. The sky outside the window. The ribbon on a stuffed bear. A jacket hanging from a rack. One of Shou’s drawings, pinned to a wall. A simple grounding exercise. To bring her back out of the past.

The flashbacks weren’t as frequent, and she could usually bring herself out of them now. But they were still harrowing. She wanted to stop, to give up, but… she forced herself to look at her reflection again. The face she saw in it looked haunted, now. Slicked with sweat, and she could see fear in those eyes.

[Itagaki Mitsumi]

The burns… while they were bad, and ugly, and disfiguring, they weren’t this consuming monster her mind had made them out to be. The angry red had faded to dull scar tissue. Her skin wasn’t charcoal, and she was not burning.

She regulated her breathing, forcing out intrusive thoughts by bringing her awareness inwards, focusing on the flow of chakra within her body. Deep breaths as she quelled the storm inside of her, at least for a time. Forcing her terrified eyes to stare at her face all the while. To sear that image into her head.

Her heart rate finally slowed, and the memories faded to a background hum. She brought her hands up before her in a simple seal.

She imagined her target. How he looked, his clothing, his voice. She saw him every day, and so she knew that well. That was not the issue. The issue was that she saw herself as hideous and deformed. Or, she guessed that was the issue. Too afraid to look at a mirror, and thus forcing Shou to be her mirror. She couldn’t do that forever. Couldn’t lean on others when the enemy she had to face was only within. ”Henge.”

She saw what Shou had described with her own eyes. The transformation was fine, until she looked at the right side. The skin twisted into ugly shapes, the skin discolored, even blackened. Making a grotesque mockery of her father’s face. The kind smile twisting into a grimace.

She released the transformation, then stared at her face again. ”Henge.” It was twisted again. Wrong. She released it. ”Henge.”

[Itagaki Mitsumi]

Hours later, and exhaustion had long since set in. She could feel her reserves of chakra running thin, even though she was stretching it as thin as she possibly could. She was getting closer. Every repetition did not dispel the notion that she was ugly, but it did help to dispel that notion of monstrosity. Forcing herself to repeat this until she felt tired to the point of nausea, to stare at her own reflection had confirmed the truth. It was subtle, but the flow of chakra to her right side was being fouled. Whether that was from the scarring, or some kind of subconscious block, she couldn’t say. Didn’t want to delve deep enough into her mind to find out.

But she was getting closer. Making a workaround whatever blockage she was encountering. Getting closer with each repetition. The last jutsu she needed to grasp before she could consider herself eligible for graduating beyond a mere student.

She needed power. More power. But this was a necessary step. Even if she never used it again once she left the Academy.

”One more.” Any more than that, and she’d risk passing out. But she felt so close to a breakthrough. She had to do this, while her focus and courage were still intact.

Her hands ached from holding the seal for so long, but she tightened her grip regardless. ”Henge!”

[Itagaki Mitsumi]

Mitsumi braced herself for disappointment, gaze instinctively flicking to the floor. She examined her illusory clothing, and her suddenly masculine frame. The clothes looked fine, and her hands… the backs were hairy, and the palms callused. But the only scars there were the familiar remnants from slipped knives, not the burns. She lifted her gaze back to the mirror, and saw her father, making a fearful expression she’d only seen a few times in her life.

The small, shy smile that blossomed on it looked out of place, and so did the giggling laughter that soon bubbled out of her. It looked so strange, so wrong. But it was her father’s face, wearing her expressions. The same scruffy sort-of beard, the same lazy haircut, the same beer belly.

The same lack of twisted scars.

Exhaustion overtook her, and the transformation faded. She had done it. It was late, it was slow, and it had taken far too much work. If she spent this long on every technique, she’d never make any progress towards becoming chūnin. But she had done it. Inch by painful inch.

With her senses and fundamentals expanding, she only lacked one thing needed to be a competent genin. Power.

Her elated smile didn’t diminish, even as determination swelled within her. She raised a hand to place the cloth back over the mirror, but hesitated.

It wouldn’t be easy, but she couldn’t keep running from herself forever. But still…

With some regret, she placed the cloth back over the mirror. Resolving to use it when she brushed her hair, at least. One step at a time. One foot in front of the other.