“You don’t use the needle?” Kakashi said, startled.

“What, this?” she said, turning to show the silver needle jammed through her braids, which had been gathered into a loose knot. “It’s a hair-stick.”

“Oh.”

Nanami turned back, hooked a rolling stool over with one foot, and sat on it by his shoulder. “In case you were wondering, this is really going to hurt,” she said, comfortingly. “Most rookies like to reflect on their oath while we do this.”

“Or you could curse,” Katsuko said, equally helpful. “Bonus points if you're extra creative.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Kakashi said.

Nanami smiled and, without any ceremony, laid his skin open. The sharp-metal sting dulled in a wash of warmth down Kakashi’s arm, as blood flowed—which did not seem conducive to applying ink, but perhaps that was where the jutsu came in. Lots of rituals required blood. His muscles twitched. He breathed out silently, holding himself still as Nanami carved the outline of the distinctive spiral free-hand into his arm. The pain wasn’t bad, but the sitting was difficult.

The scalpel was set aside, and a green-glowing hand swept down Kakashi’s arm, staunching the blood. A wet cloth followed, bathing the open cuts in something astringent-smelling. Nanami rolled her stool down towards the end of the table, collected a bowl of dark crimson ink, and rolled back to Kakashi.

“Holding up?” she asked.

“I get stabbed for a living,” he said dryly.

“Still nice to ask,” she said. “That’s the easy bit over with.”

She dipped her gloved fingertips into the ink, lifted a red-dripping hand, and retraced the scalpel’s path, pressing the ink hard into the wounds. It burned like red ants crawling beneath his skin, and he realized there was chakra already embedded in the ink, unshaped and formless, ready to soak up a jutsu.

“Take a deep breath,” Nanami said, stripping the gloves off and lacing her fingers together.

The Sharingan was already open behind the mask. Kakashi flicked Sagara’s seal and was gratified when the protective mesh instantly crumbled to nearly invisible dust, freeing his vision. The world tilted sideways into a field of shifting blue fatelines. Nanami’s hands moved blurringly fast as they went through sixteen separate seals, but he caught the pattern. She set her left hand to his shoulder and her right to his elbow, and released the jutsu.

Really hurt was a slight understatement.

The ink blazed white-hot beneath his skin and spilled through the design, filling in the blank stretches of skin between the carved lines. The open wounds healed, sealing smooth like melting plastic. Only a faint ridge remained, slightly darker red than the rest. The chakra arced deep into his arm, connecting to the branching pathways of his own energy lines, twining around meridian points. It blistered like fire the whole way, and the chair creaked as Kakashi’s fingers dug deeply into the leather-padded arms. A dull crack sounded as he broke something doubtlessly important.

Oaths and swearing—now he understood why people reached for both. But he’d wanted this for years, and he refused to do anything but stand it.

He felt the moment when the jutsu closed and connected, completing a full circuit. Three new awarenesses blossomed in the back of his mind, faint but persistent—Genma, Raidou, and Katsuko. Or, more specifically, their tattoos. He could feel them.

“Gotcha,” said Raidou, sounding pleased.