Ka-chan was fourteen, small, and annoyed about it. Behind her eyes, Kakashi tried not to overthink things.

There was, theoretically, no limit to what a henge could do, so long as you had the chakra and the skill. Kakashi had spent time as a houseplant — and it had been a thinking houseplant, despite the lack of room for any actual brain. He’d been able to turn back, even though he’d had no hands to shape chakra.

Henge was metaphysical. It frustrated the logical. It shouldn’t work, and yet it did, and even the most intelligent scholars couldn’t entirely explain why. As far as Konoha knew, someone very smart, a long time ago, had figured out a way to make themselves something else, and still keep their self intact.

Kakashi had a private notion that someone, a long time ago, had gotten very lucky. And luckier still, when they’d found a way to share the trick.

There were side-effects, beyond the risk of accidentally blowing yourself apart. Henge shaped a new vessel and poured you into it. In turn, the vessel shaped you.

Become a kunai, find your thoughts turning sharp and simple.

Become a tree, find your thoughts shaped to slow and serene, anchored to a lifetime that stretched far beyond a few decades.

Become a teenage girl...

Well. It didn’t take much effort to bounce and scamper and get needlessly excited over games and crowds and bright shining lights. His face was uncovered, his muscles were thin and untrained, his balance was all wrong. He was still himself, in the back of his own mind, but he was also realizing just how big the gap between fourteen and eighteen was. She wanted to have fun.

Ryouma, in his old-new body, seemed to have decided the same thing.

They’d flitted between food-stands, creating a loudly-debated list of things they wanted to try; stopped to admire a stand with jewelry and temple blessings for sale; looked over a half-dozen colorful game stalls, and ignored most of the frankly boring adults. Ryuu wanted to challenge the target game with slingshots and smooth river stones. Ka-chan eyed the prizes with interest. She had to turn her head to see them all; her left eye was blind.

The biggest prizes were carved wooden puzzle boxes. There were also fluffy tanuki plush-toys, each about the size of an adult’s hand, and little luck charms braided from dyed straw.

“Bet you can’t win a box,” she said, with a sharp little grin.

“Bet you I can too!” Ryuu threw back. He fished in his sleeve and came up with two coins. The vendor accepted them in ready exchange for a wooden slingshot and five heavy stones.

A rope staked into the dirt marked the firing line. Ryuu stood behind it and squinted at the targets: a collection of small hoops with paper skins stretched over them, dangling from red strings tied to a tree branch. They bounced in the light wind.

“Break one to get a small prize. Two gets you a medium. Three gets you your choice,” said the vendor.

Ryuu lifted his chin. “What does five get you?”

“Five more rocks,” said the vendor, tucking his hands amiably into his pockets. “Hasn’t happened yet.”

With dauntless confidence, Ryuu picked his targets, lined up his shots, and missed the first three.

“Oops,” Ka-chan said, helpfully.

Ryuu narrowed his eyes, picked a blue hoop set a little way off from its friends, and launched his fourth rock. This one connected. Ryuu clenched a victorious fist, but the little target spun on its string without breaking.

“Did you bring any more money?” Ka-chan asked.

Ryuu sank his teeth into his lower lip, stretched his last stone back in the slingshot’s worn leather cradle, and punched a neat hole right through the center target. Ka-chan, despite herself, gave a little whoop.

Ryuu flushed pink, but looked pleased all the same.