The Joker (Kuroko no Basket insert)

The first thing he noticed was that everything felt wrong.

A deep, gnawing ache clawed at his chest, his arms, his legs—hell, even his fingers felt like they'd been squeezed through a vice. His breathing came heavy and shallow, each inhale dragging against his ribs, each exhale burning his throat. The weight of exhaustion pressed against him like a lead blanket, smothering every attempt to move.

He lay still for a moment, letting the pain settle into a dull throb. The silence around him was unnerving. It wasn't the gentle hum of electronics or the occasional creak of his old bed. It was a foreign stillness, broken only by his labored breaths.

Another thought pushed its way through the fog of his mind.

Where am I?

This wasn't his room.

The air was too fresh, tinged with a faint citrusy scent, and there was an unfamiliar crispness to the sheets beneath him. He cracked his eyes open and flinched as sunlight poured in through thin curtains, painting the unfamiliar room in pale gold. It was small, cramped even, with plain white walls and a battered desk covered in papers. A basketball poster hung crookedly over the bed, the corners peeling as if it had been slapped there without much thought.

This wasn't his bed either. The mattress groaned ominously beneath his weight, the springs digging into his back like they were trying to shove him off. The pillow smelled faintly of detergent, but the fabric was rough, cheap.

And his body…

His chest heaved as he sat up, sluggish and awkward, the mattress letting out another long creak beneath him. He glanced down, his stomach twisting. His arms were thick, covered in soft fat that bunched up at the elbows. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his chest and stomach, the fabric stretched taut like it was fighting to hold everything in.

"What the hell…"

The sound of his own voice startled him. It was deeper, gravelly, almost unrecognizable. He pushed himself up, wincing as pain flared in his knees. The sudden shift in perspective made his head spin. He was tall. Taller than he'd ever been. But even that didn't feel right. His limbs were too long, his center of gravity off, like he wasn't quite sure how to move in this body.

He shuffled to the mirror on the back of the closet door, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. The reflection staring back at him stopped him cold.

It was round, with cheeks that seemed permanently puffed out, and bright orange hair sticking up in wild, uneven spikes, messy from sleep. His orange eyes were wide, rimmed with faint dark circles that made him look perpetually exhausted. But it wasn't his face that truly made his stomach lurch—it was everything below it.

The reflection was almost comical in its size. His thick neck folded softly into sloping shoulders, but his bare torso stole all the attention. His stomach jutted out prominently, round and heavy, its pale skin faintly creased from where it had pressed against the bed during the night. It hung slightly over the waistband of his underwear, which struggled to sit properly against the bulk of his hips. His chest, rounded and soft, moved faintly with each shallow breath he took.

He stared, unblinking, at the sheer size of himself.

This wasn't his body.

His breath hitched, and he stumbled back, his knees wobbling as if they might give out beneath him. The world around him tilted sharply, spinning out of control, as memories crashed into his mind.

Taro Sugimoto. Fifteen years old. A first-year student at Ōnita High.

He loved basketball but had never made it past the bench. His memories of junior high were vivid and humiliating—watching from the sidelines as his team was annihilated by Teikō's legendary Generation of Miracles. He hadn't been short enough to pass as quick or fast enough to compensate. He'd been fat. Just fat.

Over the summer, though, he'd grown 20 centimeters, his body surging upward in a way that felt unnatural. His height was a gift, but the rest of him hadn't caught up. He was still clumsy, still carrying the weight that had made him a punchline for most of his life.

But those weren't the only memories clawing at him.

There was more—flashes of a life that wasn't his.

Late nights spent bingeing anime. Debates over Discord about whether Kagami could really dunk from the free-throw line in high school. A familiar laugh ringing through the air as a 23-year-old college student—that other him—ranted about how ridiculous Kuroko no Basket was.

"No way."

He staggered back to the bed, the springs groaning as he sat heavily. His mind raced, trying to make sense of it all.

This wasn't just a different room or a different life.

This was a different world.

The clatter of pans and the rich, buttery smell of breakfast pulled Taro from his spiraling thoughts.

Each step down the stairs sent a dull creak through the house, the kind of sound he was growing uncomfortably familiar with. The smells grew stronger as he approached the kitchen—pancakes, bacon, and eggs wafting through the air like a warm, edible hug.

"Taro!"

His mother's voice rang out, sharp but full of affection, a call that demanded immediate attention. Sofija Sugimoto was a force of nature in the kitchen. She stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with a flourish, her orange hair tied into a loose braid that swayed as she moved. Her sharp, angular features were softened by the ever-present warmth in her expression, though her movements were brisk, decisive, and efficient.

"There's my baby!" Sofija exclaimed when she caught sight of him. "Sit, sit! Big day today—first day of high school! You'll need energy."

Taro shuffled to the table, easing himself into a chair with practiced care. Sofija swept over and set a plate in front of him with the pride of someone presenting a masterpiece. A tower of pancakes, a pile of scrambled eggs, and more bacon than anyone should reasonably eat formed a veritable mountain on the plate.

"Mama, this is…" Taro paused, gesturing vaguely at the plate. "This is a lot."

Sofija laughed, a rich, melodious sound. "Bah! Big boys need big meals. You're growing, Taro—twenty centimeters in one summer! You're just like my brother when he was your age."

Her tone softened at the mention of her brother, her hand pausing mid-reach for the milk carton. Her gaze lingered on the stove, almost as if lost in memory.

"He was big like you," she said, almost wistful. "Strong, too. Always looking out for the family."

Taro tilted his head. "What did he do?" he asked, swallowing a mouthful of pancake. "Was he into sports?"

"Sports?" Sofija laughed again, shaking her head. "No, no. He worked as a bodyguard. A very good one."

Her voice carried a note of pride, but there was a finality to her words, like a door being firmly closed.

"A bodyguard?" Taro frowned.

"Don't ask so many questions!" Sofija scolded lightly, ruffling his bright orange hair. "Just eat. You'll need your strength."

The soft rustle of a newspaper interrupted the conversation.

"Are you seriously going to keep eating like that?"

Taro flinched at the familiar, low voice of his father, Akio Sugimoto. Neatly dressed in a pressed suit and tie, Akio sat at the far end of the table, his attention flicking from the paper to his son with the precision of a laser beam.

"Akio," Sofija said sharply, turning back toward the stove.

Akio ignored her, folding the newspaper with deliberate care. His lean frame was a stark contrast to Taro's bulk, and his sharp eyes carried the same cool, calculating air that made him so successful as a realtor.

"Taro," Akio said, his voice calm but firm. "You're already twice the size of most boys your age. Do you think that's sustainable?"

"Akio," Sofija warned, her tone icy now.

"You're starting high school today," Akio continued, as though she hadn't spoken. "And high school isn't junior high. If you're serious about basketball, you need to take yourself seriously first."

"I know," Taro mumbled, shoveling another bite of pancake into his mouth.

Akio's sharp gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, his eyes sweeping over Taro's broad shoulders before settling on the heavy curve of his stomach. "You've got the height," he said, his tone clipped. "But height won't matter if you can't move fast enough to use it. You're too fat, Taro. Start training, or you'll never step foot on a court, let alone win anything."

"He's fine!" Sofija snapped, whirling around with the spatula still in her hand. "Leave him alone. He's growing, Akio—he needs food!"

Akio sighed, his expression hardening as he folded the newspaper with deliberate precision. "You keep stuffing him like this, and all that food's just going to sit there, turning into more weight he can't carry. It's not helping him—it's holding him back."

"Enough," Sofija said, her voice a low growl. "Eat your breakfast, Taro. Ignore him."

Taro nodded, though the food in front of him felt heavier now, like it might turn to lead in his stomach. The argument simmered down into uneasy silence, broken only by the faint clink of silverware against the plate.

Ōnita High's courtyard was alive with energy.

The morning sun painted everything in golden light, casting long shadows over the bustling booths and tables that lined the walkways. Students darted between them like birds in a feeding frenzy, their voices rising and falling in waves of chaotic excitement. Upperclassmen called out to passing first-years, their pitches blending into a loud, disjointed chorus.

"Join the drama club!"

"Kendo club sign-ups here!"

"Photography auditions this week!"

Taro trudged through the crowd, his shoulders hunched and his gaze locked straight ahead. The faint sheen of sweat on his forehead glinted in the sunlight, his uniform clinging to his body. His sheer size made him impossible to miss.

It didn't take long for the whispers to start.

"Is he a sumo wrestler?"

"He's huge!"

"No way he's a first-year."

Taro's jaw tightened. His fists curled at his sides, his knuckles turning white. He'd heard it all before—the jokes, the laughter, the comments spoken just loud enough to be overheard. But knowing what was coming didn't dull the sting.

A burst of laughter from his left caught his attention, the sound unmistakably directed at him. He turned his head sharply, his orange eyes narrowing on a cluster of boys huddled near the baseball booth with their phones out.

One of them caught his glare first.

The boy froze mid-laugh, his face paling as he elbowed the friend beside him. Soon, the entire group went silent, their gazes darting to the ground, their phones, anywhere but Taro's face.

Satisfied, he huffed and turned back toward his path. Small victories. They weren't much, but they were better than nothing.

Taro scanned the booths as he walked. The sheer variety of clubs was overwhelming, and their members seemed desperate to snatch up first-years before they could escape.

"Hey! Big guy!"

A voice stopped him in his tracks.

Taro turned, meeting the gaze of a grinning senior with broad shoulders and a wrestler's build.

The boy waved him over to a booth decorated with bold red lettering: Ōnita Wrestling Club.

"You'd be perfect for our team!" the boy said, his grin widening. "We've got a lot of talent this year, but someone your size could really bring the heat. What do you think?"

Taro hesitated. The boy's tone was enthusiastic and genuine, but the idea of throwing his weight around on a wrestling mat didn't sit right with him.

"Uh… no thanks," Taro said, shaking his head. "I'm not really into wrestling."

The senior blinked, clearly surprised. "You sure? With your build, you'd be a beast out there."

"I'm sure," Taro said firmly, already turning away.

"Suit yourself," the boy called after him, shrugging.

Taro sighed as he continued on his way. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to recruit him based on his size alone. To most people, he was a giant, a mass of potential just waiting to be shaped. They didn't see the boy underneath—the one who loved basketball, no matter how far he'd always been from the court.

Rin Tohsaka POV

Rin Tohsaka leaned against the basketball booth, her sharp blue eyes scanning the crowd.

The first-year students swarmed the courtyard like disorganized ants, darting between booths as upperclassmen shouted over one another in a chaotic battle for attention. Rin didn't join the shouting. She didn't need to. Her presence alone was commanding enough, and the bold "Basketball" sign above her booth made her purpose clear.

Her gaze swept across the courtyard with calm precision, betraying none of her inner tension. Being here, surrounded by so much noise and chaos, wasn't her choice. It was an obligation—just another responsibility inherited from the Tohsaka name.

The Tohsaka estate loomed large in her life, its expectations weighing on her like a crown made of lead. She wasn't just the heir to a legacy; she was the Tohsaka heir, expected to carry the family's prestige into everything she did. That prestige didn't just mean excelling academically or socially; it meant participating. Taking the lead. Making her presence felt.

So when the student council approached her during the summer with a pointed reminder that students were required to join a club, Rin made her decision swiftly.

Every other prestigious club—debate, archery, even the kendo team—already had enough big personalities vying for control. Rin wanted no part of that. If she was going to dedicate her time to a club, it needed to be one where her influence could shape its future from the ground up. The basketball team was the perfect choice: they didn't have a manager. In fact, their infrastructure was laughable. Nobody was interested in the role, which made it hers for the taking.

Why basketball?

That decision, at least, had nothing to do with her family's legacy. Rin was competitive to her core. She wasn't interested in sports for the sake of health or camaraderie. She wanted to win. When she picked up her new responsibilities as manager, she'd spent the entire summer studying the sport from the ground up, pouring over game footage and reading analysis papers until she could see the strategies forming like clockwork in her mind.

Her studies naturally brought her attention to Teikō's Generation of Miracles—the most talked-about phenomenon in Japanese high school basketball. Watching old footage of their games had felt like witnessing gods descend to the court. Players who dominated the scoreboard, controlled the flow of the game, and shattered even the best opponents' confidence.

She couldn't get them out of her head. Their names haunted her notes, their stats burned into her memory: Midorima, the sniper with a perfect shooting range. Aomine, wild and untouchable, moving like an unleashed animal. Akashi, a terrifying tactician who controlled his team with unshakable precision. Murasakibara, a towering giant who dominated both ends of the court with raw power, and Kise, capable of mimicking and mastering any technique he encountered.

They weren't just great players—they were forces of nature. Together, the Generation of Miracles had transformed Teikō into an unstoppable dynasty, and even now, scattered across different schools, they continued to warp the basketball landscape.

She'd imagined for a moment—just a moment—what it would be like to have a player of that caliber on her team.

But that wasn't reality. The reality was Ōnita High, a respectable team that had placed fourth in the Interhigh last year after being defeated by Rakuzan. It was a good result, but Rin didn't care about being "good." Fourth place was meaningless when the teams at the top played basketball like art.

And as talented as their star point guard Kobayashi was, she knew better than to hope for miracles.

Kobayashi was the best player on their team, no question about it. Quick on his feet, with sharp reflexes and a level of athleticism that could leave opponents floundering. He was in the top five nationally, a player with a reputation that could intimidate most other teams before the game even started.

But he wasn't them.

No matter how hard Kobayashi pushed himself, he didn't have the unrelenting, otherworldly brilliance that defined the Generation of Miracles. He was predictable. Solid, but predictable. And predictability was a death sentence in high-stakes games.

Rin didn't hold it against him—Kobayashi was still their best chance at winning—but she couldn't stop her mind from wandering to the what-ifs. What if they had a player who could match the Miracles? What if Ōnita High could do more than scrape by, what if they could dominate?

These thoughts gnawed at her even now as she leaned against the booth, her clipboard in hand. The new recruits didn't inspire confidence. She'd seen enough first-years wander over, their wide-eyed enthusiasm already dimming when they realized just how intense the team's schedule was. She didn't need players who would fade under pressure.

There has to be someone, she thought. Someone worth my time.

Her eyes flicked to the crowd again, scanning for anything—anyone—that might stand out. Then she saw him.

He moved through the courtyard like a ship cutting through rough seas, his towering frame impossible to miss.

Rin's eyebrows lifted slightly as she took him in. He wasn't just tall—though at what had to be well over 180 centimeters, his height was striking on its own. He was big. His broad shoulders and wide chest gave him a commanding presence, but the sheer size of his stomach dominated his silhouette. His uniform shirt strained against it, the fabric pulled tight across his middle, emphasizing his weight rather than hiding it.

Yet it wasn't just his size that caught her attention—it was his face. His features hinted at something foreign, with angular cheekbones and a sharper jawline than most students around him, though the softness of his round cheeks muted those details. His bright orange hair stood out like a beacon, messy and untamed, the wild color drawing attention to the fact that he clearly didn't look fully Japanese. His amber eyes, wide and intense, carried a strange mix of defiance and weariness, as though he were accustomed to scrutiny but never quite comfortable with it.

Mixed heritage, Rin thought. It was a logical conclusion. His European features clashed with the conventional looks of the students around him, making him stand out in ways he likely couldn't control. But his appearance wasn't polished—it was awkward, unfinished. His weight overshadowed his sharper features, leaving him with an unbalanced look that didn't yet translate to anything strikingly handsome. Instead, he came across as someone in transition, a diamond still buried deep in the rough.

His movements matched that impression. His long limbs seemed unsure of themselves, his steps slightly unsteady, like he wasn't used to being this tall—or this heavy. The faint sheen of sweat glinting on his brow added to the image of someone struggling to find balance in their own body.

Then came the glare.

A group of boys near one of the other booths was laughing too loudly, their mocking words carrying over the general noise of the courtyard. Rin caught snatches of it—*"sumo wrestler," "giant," "he's gotta be a third-year"—*and watched as the boy's shoulders stiffened.

He turned sharply, his amber eyes locking onto the group like a predator singling out prey. The laughter stopped instantly, replaced by uneasy shuffling as the boys found reasons to look anywhere but at him.

Rin's lips quirked into a faint smirk.

Well, at least he's got presence.

For all his awkwardness, there was something commanding about him. His sheer size made people notice, and that glare of his—a mixture of frustration and authority—had silenced a group of older students with nothing more than a look. It wasn't a polished sort of charisma, but it was there, raw and unshaped.

His European features, combined with his size and the bold orange hair, made him look almost like a caricature of someone larger-than-life—a character from a comic book or a giant out of Nordic folklore. But his body, soft and unwieldy, robbed him of the sharper edge that could make those traits work for him.

The boy was approached by another club, one of the senior members of the wrestling team, judging by his broad frame and confident grin. Rin watched as the senior waved him over, gesturing enthusiastically toward their booth. The interaction was brief—the senior spoke, his pitch animated, but the boy shook his head, curt and firm, and walked away without hesitation.

Rin's interest deepened.

He's not just aimless. He knows what he doesn't want.

She straightened as the boy approached her booth, her clipboard held loosely in one hand. For the first time that day, she felt a flicker of anticipation stir in her chest. He didn't hesitate, grabbing the pen from the table and scrawling his name onto the clipboard with more force than necessary.

"You're tall," Rin said, her tone smooth but blunt.

"I know," he replied flatly, setting the pen down.

Her sharp blue eyes swept over him, taking in every detail. Up close, his size was even more striking. His height alone made him tower over most first-years, and his broad shoulders and thick arms gave him a presence that couldn't be ignored. But the rest of him was unpolished. His uniform strained across his middle, the buttons pulling slightly at the seams, and his face—round and soft with lingering baby fat—gave him an awkward, unfinished look.

Most people would've dismissed him outright. They'd see the fat, the sweat, the awkwardness in his movements, and write him off as another unfit giant with no endurance and no finesse. But Rin wasn't most people.

She wasn't looking for perfection; she was looking for potential.

"Do you play basketball?" she asked, her tone still cool and measured.

"I will" he said, his voice steady and firm.

That answer caught her off guard. Most first-years stammered or made excuses when questioned, their insecurities bubbling to the surface. But not him. His response wasn't defensive or uncertain—it was straightforward, almost like a declaration.

"You've got height," Rin said, narrowing her gaze. "But you're carrying too much weight. Basketball isn't just about size. Can you even make it up and down the court without gasping for air?"

"I'll fix it," he said, meeting her eyes with unflinching resolve.

Rin blinked. Most people bristled when she pointed out their weaknesses. They'd stammer, make excuses, or try to change the subject. But not him. He didn't flinch, didn't try to argue or explain himself. His answer wasn't a boast; it was a promise.

Her lips curved into a faint smirk.

"We'll see," she said. "Tryouts are next week. Don't waste my time."

"I won't."

As he turned and walked away, Rin watched him closely. His steps were uneven, his gait still unsure, but there was something undeniable about him. His sheer size and presence were enough to make heads turn, but it was the determination in his eyes that held her attention.

He was rough. Unpolished. But he had potential.

Ōnita might not have landed a Miracle, but miracles weren't the only way to win. Rin Tohsaka didn't believe in settling for what was easy. She'd shape him into something that could rival even the best players from Teikō. She'd take this team to the top, no matter how much work it took.

He's rough now, she thought, her smirk widening. But there's something there. Something I can use