CHAPTER ONE: REINCARNATION IS SUCH A DRAG

The first thing Shikamaru Nara became aware of was the dull, relentless pounding in his skull.

It wasn’t the sharp sting of a kunai wound, nor the dull ache of chakra exhaustion—this was something entirely more mundane. A hangover? Had he been out drinking with Choji? He couldn’t remember.

Groaning, he rolled onto his side, his hand brushing against something unfamiliar—cold, smooth, and flat. Paper. Stacks of it.

His eyes snapped open.

The room was small, cramped. The kind of space someone might rent to keep out of sight, if they even bothered to care. A cheap desk, overwhelmed with files. A mug stamped with the letters, PRT, the acrid smell of stale coffee clinging to the air.

“What the hell?”

Ignoring his voice, too rough and raw, he sat up too quickly, the world spinning beneath him. Fragmented memories flickered—Konoha, the Fourth Great Ninja War, his rather uneventful death—only to be swiftly replaced by a flood of new ones. A new name. A new life. A new job.

Shikamaru Nara. Age 24. PRT Threat Assessment Division, Brockton Bay East-North-East.  

A slow exhale. His fingers pressed into his temples, massaging the ache that persisted there.

“Reincarnation,” he muttered under his breath. “Of course. Because my last life wasn’t troublesome enough.”

. . . . .

PRT Headquarters

The elevator ride was a study in misery. The faint whir of the lift did little to drown out the murmurs of frustration and resignation that surrounded him. He overheard snippets of conversations—paperwork, budget cuts, “ABB causing trouble again”—but none of it made sense in his sluggish brain. His new memories were starting to fit together like pieces of a puzzle, but there were still gaps.

Superpowered gangs, Endbringers, a world teetering on collapse… His new memories supplied the basics.

“No chakra. No shadow techniques. Just… this.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. This wasn’t the life he had imagined after death.

His supervisor, a balding man named Reynolds, barely glanced up when Shikamaru slouched into the bullpen.  

"You’re late."  

"By two minutes," Shikamaru wanted to say. Instead, he shrugged. "Traffic."  

Reynolds snorted, then pushed a file in front of him. “ABB activity reports. Cross-reference with last month’s E88 sightings. Flag anything that looks like territory disputes.”

Shikamaru flipped it open. "So. I’m a glorified clerk."

For a moment, he considered doing the bare minimum—just enough to skate by. Then his eyes caught a pattern in the reports. Small skirmishes, shifting borders. The ABB was gearing up for something.

"Huh."

But figuring out what the something was seemed like more hassle than it was, so he marked the relevant pages, tossed the file into the ‘processed’ bin, and leaned back in his chair. His arms were folded behind his head.

Across the room, two analysts talked over their coffee.  

"—heard the Undersiders just hit a casino—"  

"—Armsmaster’s on his way—"  

Shikamaru closed his eyes, letting the sound of their chatter wash over him.

No ninja. No wars. Just gangs, paperwork, and a city rotting from the inside out.

For a brief moment he was almost tempted to conclude this wouldn't be so bad.

Then, as if on cue, the city chose that moment to answer him—it shuddered with the distant yet unmistakable sound of an explosion.