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Formative Effects
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
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The blood red sun dies over the horizon, leaving behind a ghastly field of corpses, dozens strong, though it seems like hundreds in the gathering shadows.
The crimson sun fading beneath the tops of the mountains forcibly reminds Kabuto of Sasori.
Sasori, it always seemed, was soaked in blood, though whether it was someone else's or his own Kabuto could never be sure.
He had only been under Sasori's jutsu for a few months and after that was entirely free in his mind whenever he met with Sasori, but Kabuto's time under the puppet master had taught him a few things.
Sasori had taught him cruelty, what true cruelty was like, as the corpse at Kabuto's feet had figured out, to his cost. Kabuto learned from Sasori that cruelty could not be achieved without enjoying what one's done to the other; if emotions were blocked out during battle, death would be administered far too mercifully, and far too swiftly. He taught him how to torture someone to the point that the victim would be reduced to a quivering mass of flesh at their shoes, without ever laying a blow.
Sasori taught Kabuto how to be a good spy. That hunchbacked body that Kabuto more than half-suspected was in itself a puppet (he had seen arms, but where were the feet?), had more subtlety in it than anyone could have ever guessed. Sasori taught Kabuto how to lie, to the point that even Kabuto can't tell fact from fiction anymore, and it's all he can do not to let on; even Orochimaru doesn't have the full measure of his subordinate.
Sasori showed Kabuto what true fear was, how to use it, and how to endure it.
"What do you fear, Kabuto?" Sasori rasps menacingly.
Kabuto doesn't answer; he instead continues fighting to free himself from the coils of Sasori's scorpion tail.
The coils tighten, and Kabuto grits his teeth to keep from crying out. "Answer me, boy!"
"Control," Kabuto gasps, struggling for breath. His lungs are being pressed upon so badly, he can hardly breathe, let alone speak. "Losing control."
Sasori's beady eyes narrow. "Over what?"
At this point, Kabuto isn't thinking about resistance any more. He just wants Sasori to let go. "Anything," he chokes. "Everything."
"An interesting response. For God's sake, boy," Sasori snaps disgustedly as he releases Kabuto from the stranglehold of his tail and the young boy falls gasping to the floor. "Control your breathing."
Sasori took a normal boy and warped and broke him, broke him so thoroughly that Kabuto thinks he did it to himself, and actually enjoys it.
Silence falls over the killing field, a familiar, taut silence. Kabuto continues to root for survivors among his own people.
If Kabuto stares into the gathering shadows too long, the face and voice of his father comes back, and the conscience he's been trying to get rid of for so long starts to tug at him again.
Kabuto remembers his father all too well. Dark, graying hair, eyes the color of granite, twinkling with a wry, almost sad humor.
The only time Kabuto's mask of competent spy ever fell was for something so stupid, so pointless, so human that Kabuto can't comprehend how it even happened.
The Hyuuga girl was in bad shape; anyone could see that. She might have died if she went on the way she was, untreated.
It was pure instinct what Kabuto did. He might say that he had a reason, that it was just convenient, but in truth, Kabuto has no idea why he healed the Hyuuga girl. Or if he does, it's just a concept he's not willing to accept.
He just pressed a wave of healing chakra to her chest, before he had time to think, and after that it all became pure med nin instinct. No outside thought intruded.
And the worst of it is, is that he wasn't supposed to do that. The ANBU never get involved in such situations; they're trained to ignore it. Kabuto counts himself lucky that no one who bore witness to the scene knew, counts himself that none of the real ANBU noticed. He's good, but he's not quite good enough to talk himself out of a confrontation with several suspicious ANBU in a public area.
In the darkness, Kabuto starts to remember, starts to wonder. Wonders about his father, and starts to feel things that he knows he can not afford to feel.
In those situations, Kabuto presses his hand to his erratic heart to remind himself that he's still alive, and prays for the dawn.
And he still exercises mercy. It's something that no amount of association with Sasori or Orochimaru has ever been able to completely eradicate.
A dying man will have his throat slashed quickly; one who can be saved will find Kabuto doing everything he can and then some. Not everyone would call that mercy, but he does, and like scrubbing away a stain from white clothing, he tries to get rid of it, with everything else he can't afford to feel. And fails.
Kabuto has trained himself to be nothing more than a mask, with the person under the façade doing all the talking, manipulating himself and others like a Sunagakure puppeteer, with a glib smile and loyalty to one and one only.
But when he stares into the eyes of a dying man and for reasons he can't comprehend finds himself holding the man's hand and senselessly promising him that everything will be alright, everything threatens to fall to pieces.
He thinks and wonders and dreams, about what could have been, what might have been…
"Kabuto, come."
Then the voice of the one who taught Kabuto calculated madness beckons him on, and he forgets everything but the mould he was twisted and warped to fit into.