Chapter Text
What is this odd feeling?
Bachira stirred from his sleep, wincing at the odd positioning of his shoulder on the cold, hard floor beneath him. The light hitting his eyelids was glaring—nothing like the warm, cozy lighting of his room at the FC Barcha club facility.
Where am I?
A scream sounded, causing Bachira to flinch. Although his eyes were closed, he could hear bits and pieces of unfamiliar voices flying around the room.
“Get away!”
“No, not me—him!”
“What the fuck? Stop following me!”
The sound of something hitting the wall reverberated across the room. Hesitantly, Bachira opened his right eye a sliver. Figures were running around wildly amidst the chaotic noise in the room. Somewhere between the patter of bare feet hitting the ground, Bachira spotted a soccer ball.
A sick feeling arose in Bachira’s stomach as he began to make sense of the situation unfolding before him. Was this a dream?
But everything felt too vivid. Too tangible. Too real.
Bachira had known almost immediately where he was the moment he opened his eyes. The sensation was all too familiar. There probably wasn’t a day where Bachira wouldn’t reminisce back on his first day at Blue Lock.
But where was Isagi? Who were all these strange people running around the room?
In fact, where were any of the Team Z members?
“Wait!” A short-statured player with a light blue buzzcut pointed a finger in what seemed to be Bachira’s direction. “Go for the dude who’s asleep—he’s easy!”
Bachira followed buzzcut guy’s gaze towards a taller man. Although this new guy had his back to Bachira, it was a no-brainer as to where the gears in his mind were turning. The guy with the buzzcut was right—Bachira was the easiest target right now. For some reason, Bachira figured he wouldn’t be so lucky to kick his way out of the inevitable as he had once done with Igaguri.
There was nothing much to deduce except that Bachira had the short end of the stick. There would be no time to react before the ball made its way over—he would have to place his bets on reacting after the ball hit him. Bachira immediately glanced towards the clock, reading the 34 seconds remaining and proceeding to calculate how long it would take for him to get up, orientate himself, and launch his counterattack.
The swoosh of the ball sounded on Bachira’s left and he braced himself for impact.
“Lukewarm.” A thud as the ball collided with something that wasn’t Bachira. “Going for someone who’s unconscious is the reason you guys will never be anything more than NPC’s.”
This voice…
Bachira was awake now. He scrambled to his feet, heart beating high inside his head. What was this guy doing here? He was supposed to be at Re Al—a convenient three hour train ride from Barcha. A train ride Bachira had learned to take advantage of at that.
“Rin-chan…” The addressment escaped from Bachira’s mouth absentmindedly. It was the first time he was saying the name in his current state—whatever that may be—but it was also a name that he had once voiced thousands of times over.
Rin’s body tensed up and he slowly turned to stare at Bachira. His teal eyes were cold, piercing into Bachira’s face menacingly. Never would Bachira have ever forgotten that pair of eyes, but they always managed to shock him every single time he saw them.
“What did you just call me?” Rin’s eyes had widened, but not in a pleasant way. He looked down at Bachira from his height as if daring the older boy to utter the nickname again.
Short, quick breaths flew out from Bachira’s mouth as he tried and failed to find his voice. Something wasn’t right. His golden eyes darted up and down the figure before him, searching for something he didn’t know he would ever find. This wasn’t the Rin that Bachira knew. The Rin that Bachira knew was playing with Re Al. The Rin that Bachira knew was much older. The Rin that Bachira knew would always put up a facade of unwillingness, but with a decent bit of convincing would surrender to picking Bachira up at the train station.
Bachira stared at the familiar stranger in front of him.
This wasn’t the Rin that Bachira knew, this was the Rin from four years ago that Bachira used to know.
Bachira could feel the corner of his vision vignetting as his attention to the details of the room swam in and out of focus. The broken logic of his predicament rendered this situation to most likely be a dream. And yet, somehow Bachira knew this wasn’t.
“Do they know each other?"
Bachira’s head turned towards the hushed voice. Light blue buzzcut guy shrank as Bachira’s gaze found him. Bachira shot him a pointed glare, then returned his attention back to Rin.
What had Bachira been doing again?
Isagi… Rin… Tag game…
With a gasp, Bachira’s eyes darted towards the timer once again. 19 seconds on the clock.
Almost on instinct, Bachira lunged forward and kicked the ball out from under Rin’s foot.
“Hey–!” Rin began to protest.
“Shut it!” Bachira hissed back. “Who’s the top ranker? We’ll get him out.”
The whole room had gone silent—a strange contrast to how it had been just a few minutes earlier.
“What do you mean ‘we’?” Rin scoffed.
Bachira ignored him, his head whipping around from left to right, reading the numbers wrapped around each player’s arm.
292… 298… 294…
Bachira stopped reading and had to abstain from kicking himself. He turned around, grabbing onto the arm of a very confused Rin. “It’s you, isn’t it? The top striker?”
“So?” Rin’s jaw was clenched. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Bachira released Rin’s arm. “Nothing.” He glanced down at the number printed onto his own arm. 290. Bachira smiled a little as he read the familiar number. Although he was in a different stratum, his second-place standing still held constant.
“Nothing?” Rin repeated.
“I changed my mind.” Bachira kicked the ball up with a grin. “I’m gonna take out the most annoying one here.”
His eyes moved like magnets, gluing themselves to the arm of the boy with the light blue buzzcut. The number on his arm read 289.
Perfect.
The guy seemed to realize what was going on as the other strikers in the room began to clamber away from him. “Wait.” His eyes grew wider as Bachira moved closer. “Wait, wait, wait…”
He looked so terrified that Bachira almost felt bad.
Almost.
Bachira bounced the ball on his right foot almost tauntingly, his lips stretching wider by the second. “So it was you who wanted to get me out while I was sleeping, huh?”
5…
Buzzcut boy made a desperate sprint to the left.
4…
Bachira would’ve laughed at how predictable his moves were, but for some reason it felt off to laugh.
3…
Bachira gave the ball a little lift before kicking it straight into the poor guy’s face. An arch of light blue made its way to the ground as the guy toppled over his feet, landing hard.
2…
Because unlike everyone else in the room, Bachira had already gone through the hell that was Blue Lock once over.
1…
If this wasn’t a dream…
0.
It looked like Bachira would have to go through that hell one more time.