"And turning myself in so my own village can do it again before they execute me will make up the debt, right?" Ryouma straightened, shoving clenched fists into his jeans pockets, and kept his distance. "Sorry, but I'm no samurai. I'm a gutter-rat--a bastard, thanks for the reminder--and we don't do honorable. We survive. I thought ninja were supposed to do that, too."

Kakashi made an abrupt, jerky movement, like a strangled urge to pace. "Survive for what, Ryouma?"

"For everything!" Ryouma half-yelled. "The next mission! The next team! Doing it right the next time! I saved your ass on my first mission after I got back, and I didn't even get scratched on the A-rank I took after that. I'm not gonna fall apart just 'cause I messed up once. I'm a hell of a good ninja and I can go on being a hell of a good ninja--or you can pretend that minute mattered, even when it didn't, and see me dead 'cause your rules say so, screw the waste."

How many more teammates could Hatake Sakumo have saved, if the village's censure and his own shame hadn't combined to sink that knife into his belly? What sort of difference could Konoha's White Fang have made in the war, in Kakashi's life, in Konoha's future? The sheer sickening waste of it caught in Ryouma's throat.

He'd never planned for a future, but he didn't want to lose it like this.

He shoved his cold hands deeper into his pockets, crumpling a ramen receipt around a handful of change. "Either way, I'll pay my debt. It's your choice whether I do it alive and fighting or not. I can't see how my death'll serve Konoha more'n my hands and muscles and jutsu will, but you're the genius." His aching jaw set. "Call it."