An Artist's World

Summary: People say that the best assassins are the ones who can touch your heart before their dagger stops it. They can blend in with any crowd, become any face and live any life. And Sakura was one of them. To save a life she must destroy her own, and slake any heart that stands in her way.

Author's Note: Well, Aiko and I are happy to say that we have reposted this story. A lot of people have asked about this story and wanted to see it up again, so here it is! We've decided to change it around a bit; the original story had the characters in high school and there were a lot of OCs; we decided it was best to get rid of the OCs since they were unnecessary and we switched the school from high school to a secondary school resting between high school and 4-year college. It's sort of like a transitioning school for students who aren't quite ready to commit to something in college, or who don't exactly like the traditional methods of a university. Because of this, the characters are older. For example:

Sakura: 21 instead of 16

Sasuke: 22 instead of 17

Naruto 21 instead of 16

Deidara: 23 instead of 18

Sasori: 24 instead of 19

Hopefully you guys like this story just as much, if not more than, the old version. So without further ado, here is the new and improved An Artist's World.

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Rating: Mature

Characters/Pairing: Sasori, Sakura, Deidara

Categories: Drama, Adventure, Romance

Warnings: Violence/murder, theft, sexual content, language

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Prologue

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There are things that exist in darkness. They're in the most ordinary towns, with the most ordinary jobs. You just don't realize that they're there.

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Today, like any other day, it was warm and sunny. There were little wisps of cotton-cords marbling across the sky; the trees swayed timidly against the gentle music of Mother Nature's breath; and the voids between the blurring, white wings shone a brilliant sort of azure. And the streets were bustling with bleary-eyed faces and purrs of incomprehensible chatter.

For a while, he'd been gazing out at the metropolitan backdrop with his cerulean eyes glazed over in desire. He'd fallen into a reverie of adventure and excitement, and allowed images of ninjas and serpents to play about his mind's theatre; and every annoyance of his everyday routine seemed to melt away.

The high-pitched ring of the desktop bell alerted him of a new presence, and the blonde slowly ambled back towards the front desk. He didn't bother to glance at the approaching guest—he'd been conditioned to greet and type. So he forced himself to smile despite the overpowering tide of fatigue. "Good afternoon, sir! How can I help you today?"

"I have a reservation. The name is Yasu Hanabusa."

The name spoken made the receptionist's fingers pause from their insistent dance across the keyboard, and the sting of realization clawed at the back of his spine almost painfully. Stunned, the blonde looked up at the man.

The man before him bore an odd appearance. He had silvery hair worn in a lazy fashion, yet wore a suit tailored to his lean body. And his posture was one of lethargy, as if indifference cursed him—but his most unusual trait had to be the scar falling across his left eye.

Kakashi

The name was unbearably familiar on his tongue, and his cheeks all but burned with his grin. Without a moment of hesitation, the blonde handed him a red keycard. "Do you need a bellhop?"

"No thank you," Kakashi replied, "I'll only be a night."

"Have a good day."

Without much more than a low hum, the silver haired guest meandered towards the glass elevators further towards the back of the room. Only once he was out of earshot did the receptionist press his finger against the silver clasp of his wrist-cuff.

"Kakashi is on his way up. Awaiting further instructions; over."

"Copy that, Naruto. Stand by."

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We hunt who we're told; kill without question—the mission is the only priority.

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The light above the card slot glew with his entrance and his arrival was announced with a low toll. Kakashi stepped inside the room with a bored sort of expression, and he slowly shrugged off his jacket.

"You're late Kakashi-sensei."

He glanced at the woman seated at the table and smiled. She was average height, with short hair an alluring shade of pink and eyes resembling the purest emeralds; and as she brushed out a negative-schemed wig, she seemed absolutely unamused at his act of lethargy. Her name was Sakura, exactly like the flower—a name befitting if not appallingly cliché and conflicting. Though he supposed it was her previous mentor's teaching that was to blame rather than her father's lack of creativity.

"Old habits die hard, I guess," Kakashi replied as he picked up a headset. "I take it Sasuke is here, too?"

"I am."

Kakashi turned to look at the man emerging from the bedroom quarters. He was rather tall with hair darker than the night's void and eyes to match its depravity. But handsome as he was, Sasuke bore an expression of seemingly permanent displeasure. He was holding a pistol, most likely having just disassembled and reconstructed the glimmering piece for the tenth time in the day—just as he had in his youth.

A smile split across the older man's face as memories of blue-bruised egos and unversed antics played across his imagination. The last time his eyes fell across the faces of the trio of mavericks had been years ago, before he departed for Kusa, and seeing them again made Kakashi's heart clench with his excitement.

"Guys, the target just entered the premises."

Kakashi clapped his hands together in mock-anticipation then slipped the presented headset onto his person before he said, "Let's get this show on the road. Shall we?"

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Our target's name was Yasu Hanabusa. He was 38 years old; bald with sharp, gray eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. And today, he would die.

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The doors of the elevator began to close on him, and Yasu carefully eased himself against the wall furthest from the doors. A sense of paranoia flittered over him as his eyes fell across each corner of the elevator, and only once he was sure the couple giving their sweet nothings was harmless did he dare relax.

They were a young duo—both bearing a red and white crest on their clothing—and they seemed to glow with their excitement. Marriage was the apparent cause of their delight, as they had offered him a cigar before falling into their display of hugs and kisses; but as happy for them as he was, it did little to slake the eerie sensation of scrutiny.

He was being watched.

The low hum of the winch was an uneasy noise in his ears. And he was sure the sound of his heart tattooing against his chest could be heard over the quiet tones playing from the overhead speakers.

How torturous!

When the doors opened, Yasu slipped out of the elevator. The couple glanced at him oddly, their frustration apparent with the way their noses scrunched up; Yasu's impatience nearly knocked them over, and the desire to follow made their fingers twitch.

But as Yasu turned the corner, the male pressed his fingers against his ear and said, "Target has just left the elevator."

"Copy that; see you soon."

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People say that the best assassins are the ones who could get close to you before you realize they're there.

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His eyes fell across the wandering shadows of his suite almost skeptically, his body rigid and his flesh pink; and he circumspectly crossed the room.

The floors were carpeted in a soft, tope covering; the full windows were bare, exposing the beautiful cityscape to his steely eyes. A sense of urban serenity caressed his wandering psyche, lulling him towards relaxation and Yasu sat himself atop his bed.

He felt no need to worry anymore—not with such open spaces.

A low growl caught his attention then, soon accompanied by the acute stab of famine; time had all but lost its meaning, for the incandescence of the evening had been overlooked. The desire for sustenance badgered all other thoughts until he finally forced himself to order room service.

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When summoned, we take on new names and new appearances. We get up close and personal—to insure success.

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Piles of garlic and cilantro rested in neat piles around her posting, just waiting to feel her confident touch. Tendrils of smoke clouded her vision and heated her breaths but the blade she held sliced apart the meaty flesh of cow with little hesitance. And the heat of the fire stroked at her flesh, taunted her with its disobedience.

When the broth she boiled grew murky in color, she poured it into the crimped china provided, soon followed by the meat and the garlic and the cilantro—embellished with a crimson vial labeled "Cherry Sauce". The simmering concoction gave off an aroma of absolute succulence, making her own stomach coil slightly in the midst of desire, but she forced herself to turn away.

Her smile enlightened the confused attendants of the hotel, and they brushed aside her existence with little more than a sheepish grin or a heavy blush.

They disregarded her so easily.

Sakura didn't bother complaining or nitpicking; not even when Yasu brushed her off. He had led her inside so easily, to watch her prepare his meal and look up her skirt—but he still fell to her charm.

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And when we go home, our flesh washed of blood and our clothes cleaned, we return to our simple lives.

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The spoon dropped from his lips with the first sip, the poison quick to paralyze him; and he soon after fell out of his chair. His eyes were terror stricken, full of desolation, and he could only watch and whimper as she went through his suitcases.

His veins burned with her venom, oh so terribly.

Sakura snatched everything of potential value, completely disregarding the gurgling mess of a man curled at her feet with a face of complete apathy. There was no regret. There was no sorrow—for what reason should she feel guilty?

When he finally stopped whimpering and convulsing, Sakura poured the rest of the soup down the bathroom sink and left the room.

"Mission accomplished," she said as she meandered through the halls.

"Good job, you three. Let's call it a night."

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My name is Sakura Haruno, and I am an assassin.

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