Author's Note:This is a continuation of the long dead (may it rest in peace) Daybreak: Part I, by DigitalTart.
You can probably find the story on the site if you're reading this and I would hope you would read it before reading this. I am piggybacking off a story another author has written so you can you expect that you'll need to have read at least some of the 32 Chapter-long original.
I'm not writing a full-on Part II. The original was an honest-to-god novel and I don't think I have the stamina to tackle something that big. But what I can do, is continue the story through little vignettes, the first one doesn't even touch 2K words, so it should be pretty digestible. Expect installments around this size or slightly larger. I don't intend to half-ass the story, but I have limits. (So no doorstoppers)
The story picks up right around where Daybreak: Part 1 left off. Hope you enjoy.
Continuity Disclaimer: The Original Daybreak was written with canon pre-chapter 599 in mind. With that in mind, a number of plot decisions taking place in the previous installments of Daybreak (Written by DigitalTart) were made without that latter part of the manga so any contradictions to established canon are likely due to preexisting plot holes that I'm attempting to write around. This isn't going to be a large problem, but you've been warned. This fic is canon-compliant as I can possibly make it while staying in line with the original Daybreak.
.oO Sasori Oo.
Amegakure hadn't been much of a home for the man in his time in Akatsuki, until recently he hadn't needed for much in the way of pleasantries and even if he had most of his time was spent abroad on assignments anyway. Shinobi don't need for much, especially when outside the village for so long, but there was a certain level of comfort even they had to hold to, if not for their enjoyment then at least for their health.
For Sasori, the need for such luxuries had long past, but after recent events a number of deficiencies in the suna-nin's abode had been called into question.
Namely, could he even live in it.
The consequences of Chiyo's kinjutsu manifested themselves in almost all aspects of his life, breathing was a chore, the oiliness of his skin was a constant nuisance, combined with all the rest of his newfound physiological needs of sleeping and eating, the man very quickly regretted his second chance at mortality.
Were it not for all the other sensations of life, he'd probably go back to being a puppet in a heartbeat, no matter the pain of the process. Granny's sacrifice be damned, being human was uncomfortable and he was sure to make a point of remembering that fact.
Getting "home" only further proved that point.
Sasori's workshop was a cluttered mess of masterpieces, sketches, tools (most bent, charred or dripping with dark liquids), half-formed puppets and all of two books on what could only be the master puppeteer's workdesk. One copy of his own notes on the craft of puppet making on one side and those of Monzaemon Chikamatsu, the creator of the puppet technique on the other. However glorious it may have been to the initiated, was nothing short of a death trap.
The suite exuded a potent aura of death. From the reinforced windows, to the corroded "bathroom" to the scraps of sharp metal and decaying plant materials that littered the tile floor, the menagerie of puppets, cloths, foreign woods and chemical treatments that were spread haphazardly throughout the room to the various oils and polish removers, the entire place was soaked in an odeur de poisonne.
Every toxin in his arsenal came to blows with his eyes and nose and lips the instant he opened the door. For the first time in ages the poison master had tasted the fruits of his labor and it was far too much for him to handle. He took a short look at what had up till then been his place of work from the door before hastily slamming the door closed. Were it not for his own tolerance to the poisons of his art, he'd probably have been on the ground already.
It took him some time to catch his breath after stepping away from his hotel room
Ever since his body reverted back to flesh and bone it had been one inconvenience after the other, hours of his time gone, wasted on bathing and eating and sleeping. And now, he couldn't even get back to his work. In fact he wasn't sure if it was even possible for him to navigate through all of the assorted toxins that hung on the air of that unventilated room.
Skilled though he may be, he wasn't immune to everything in his arsenal. Most of his poisons were naturally occurring substances, yes, but enough was mineral-based, insidious cocktails that no amount of exposure could prepare you for. Until he could get access to one of those breathers the Ame-nin seemed to keep on hand, his room was off-limits.
He silently cursed at himself while looking over the ledge to the rain-soaked city, he'd always been careful to keep notes on his work; documenting which puppets held which poisons, what weapons did what, all the monotony that came along with the craft, but as evidenced by the hotel room full of miasma behind him, Sasori eventually stopped caring to thoroughly clean his workspace. In fact a lot of habits most poison masters accrue seemed to have died with Sasori's humanity.
There was no need to wash his hands unless he was dealing with an acid. Poison-soaked weapons, even if unused, only increased their battle potential if they could never backfire on him. As he saw it, surrounding himself in as much poison as possible could only help him, thus he soon quit disposing of all his toxins once he had no reason to. He still kept the antidotes around, but not much else. Poison was usually a double-edged sword if you nicked a finger or breathed in a little too deeply, but when one's body isn't even made of flesh anymore you soon forget these little lessons.
Of course, every bit of his neglect had now come to bite him in the ass.
Now, he was effectively homeless because he grew bored with the fundamentals.
That Granny had to find some charity in her twilight years was nothing short of a curse in disguise if his new lease on life was going to be so damned tiresome.
The rain was even thicker than usual that night and wind was blowing sideways in the way it always did in Amegakure, but for the first time since he arrived in the city over a decade ago, Sasori cared to notice. The sky-borne pellets were being slung from on high across the guard rail right into the sand-nin's face.
And he just stood there. In the rain, and for far longer than he should have. Maybe to savor the feeling, maybe out of defiance to his newfound frailty, but whatever the case he found himself more alone than he'd been in a long time. It was cold and without his work to keep his mind off the discomfort of the world, he felt it, right to the bone.
It'd have been violating if it wasn't so novel.
On the flight back from Wind Country he hadn't taken much time to take in the new sensations. Between cataloging what was left of his puppet army, helping himself to the scroll containing Chikamatsu's personal collection of puppets and getting the proper rhythm for breathing, Sasori hadn't really stopped to gather himself.
The first night with his body was confusing with all the compulsions he had once did away with all coming back to him. He'd vomited up more than he'd care to dwell on, becoming sky-sick as soon as his nerves settled down, from the battle and what he thought would be his last moments.
The intermittent bouts of sickness would have been funny to all those around him if not for his death glares between retching his guts out reminding them of how he got his nickname. Even if he wasn't even in shape enough to stand straight he'd never let them know he was vulnerable, for all the good it did him.
Suna would always be frigid at night, but it was always a dry cold, not humid like it was here in the Storm Country. Here the rains never stopped, the mist never parted and the chill couldn't be fought back with just wearing enough layers. He was drenched that first night Konan brought him to the city, just like he was now. Only then he wasn't so green as to be surprised by it, surprised by the atmosphere of isolation.
Sasori wasn't quite an old man, but he was set in his ways like most shinobi his age. Their lives were ones of habit, mechanical actions taken again and again. After a while most settle into their own routines and almost nothing can shake them out of it. But if anything could unsettle the red-haired man, it would be this newfound weakness, these strange connections budding around him and the lurking feeling that he was never going to get back to that place of contentment he had when he was a bundle of flesh stuffed in the chest of his masterpiece.
The sentimentality of the leaf-nin still grated on his ears, it was incessant how much they went on about comradery and friendship, but with the triumph at the fortress looming over him, the looks of absolute joy that the children had when they got to see their parents after the battle searn into his memory, it didn't seem all that bad given the alternative. He couldn't go back to the way things were for so long, physically he couldn't even make his way into his room without falling over and he doubted his mind could handle a reversal at this point.
What had his way of things gotten him?
Certainly not any happiness, satisfaction maybe, but not joy.
Maybe he could do with some compromise, do things a bit differently, now that he can longer walk path he worked for so long to build.
True art is permanent yes, but maybe that was left to the creations, the art itself and not the artist.
Maybe some change for himself wouldn't hurt so much.
It won't bite anymore than the rain does.
So there you go, first chapter in a series of undetermined length. I'm going to try and be at least semi-regular with the story but no promises. Not every chapter is going to be in the same vein as this opening chapter, but I thought this would be a nice way to re-introduce people to the series; it shows some of the consequences of one of the original's plot points and takes off from there.
Next chapter is up.