Inject
"You're stupid."
The words come blank, and a small smile is on his lips, trademark of him (-a scalpel with candy hearts glued on, or something of the like, Kabuto has always been that way, and he is well aware so many people he meets hate him for such a reason.) The rim of his glasses rests on his nose, and he eyes her form with something of a smirk, the mass of red staining something dramatic and outlandish against his white sheets. (The only doctor in Otogakure, the only one needed. Everyone in the village is used by Orochimaru, and in the back of Kabuto's mind, he is well aware that all of them, including himself, are dispensable, if needed.) Even Sasuke. (Orochimaru always has a Plan B. Always.)
The needle punctures the rubber that contains a medicine that needs constant sterilization until usage, and he pulls the cap of the syringe forward, letting the colorless liquid fill the glass before he releases the tool from the jar and sets it on the metal tray laden with instruments and vials of medicines and morphine. (Though rarely does he use them. If a person is stupid enough to take this much damage, they deserve the pain, but in this case, she will go into cardiac arrest it he doesn't uses it. She's already hooked to four different machines.) Connecting the syringe into one of the many tubes in her veins, he presses it forward, watching it reach where it imbeds into her discolored flesh and grinning a little as the medication slips into her system. (In such a discreet of manners, as well. He wonders if she'll live or not. He doesn't really have a preference. Kabuto does not attach to those who do not matter.)
She doesn't reply. (The respirator over her mouth and nose forces her to breath, and the web of wires and tubes that keeps her heart beating makes her look unreal, a puppet with a million strings all so very controlled by the most perfect of puppeteers.) But Kabuto is not that. He is a doctor. (Doctor; (n.) A person whose job it is to challenge god.) He pushes his glasses lazily to his forehead and moves to her abdomen, resting his palms against her skin and flowing chakra in a slow, steady release, and he waits with a certain passivity for her insides to steadily repair in his life energy, because just as humans create life in the beginning, they restore life in the end. (Defying god. He'd grown to be so very good at it.)
"Very stupid."
He laughs a little.
She doesn't reply.
Two weeks later, Tayuya opens her eyes, and when she does she can feel absolutely nothing. Numb is such a strange feeling. She had always wondered how someone could feel numb, but when she blinks up at the fluorescent lighting and can see the sea of clear tubes around her, she cannot feel anything. Not the bed beneath her nor the weakness from massive blood loss, nor the foreign chakra flowing in her body or the drugs so loosely applied to her veins. (And yet, it is never careless. Precise, lazily, in a strange sort of way she cannot connect with.) It is not pleasant to feel numb. Nothing bliss, nothing easy, it's disconnected, yet forcibly bound to her damaged body. (Sad, in that form. She feels synthetic.)
She lays in her bed for a few hours, and she never feels hungry, nor can find no boredom in counting the ridges in the ceiling, and she is somewhere near the ten thousands when the door opens, and she knows it's the drugs that give her no paranoia nor energy to attack the person who intends to enter the room, and in the dramatic contrary, she only closes her eyes and pretends she never had to open them. (And hopes that she'll be able to open them again, because her own ignorance will not lead to her death.
When Tayuya dies, it will be beautiful, and in the same sense, it will be grotesque and ugly. Suiting.)
His footsteps crack against the tile of the floor, and he sets the metal tray with a quiet clink against the table, the number of tools set upon it clattering upon impact, and the hints of irritation in the way he lazily lets it drop. Piercing a vial with a syringe and hooking it into one of the many hanging bags of medications, she listens to the soft sound of it hooking into a tube and the slow pressure of the pad of Kabuto's thump pressing the metal to force the drug out of the syringe and into her system.
"Kabuto!"
(She cracks open an eye and eyes his back, from where he sets down the syringe and paces towards the door, irritation in his stance and a voice she barely recognized speaking the words in slow motion. He disappears through the doorway and she opens her eyes again, glancing at the tray of tools adjacent to her right. Fifteen or so vials, neatly folded gauze, bandage tape, several syringes, and six or seven different sizes of scalpel. A soft smirk and she closes her eyes again, wiping her lips of the expression.)
"Your arrogance will be your death, Kimimaro-kun, and even you know this."
"Perhaps so, but my arrogance cannot be any worse than hers."
Her teeth grind together.
"Her arrogance serves a purpose. Yours does not. You only continually defy what you are here for by attacking your comrades and beckoning them to attack and heavily damage yourself. He is not pleased."
"Tch."
The carrying of footsteps is lighter than Kabuto's, and the sound of Kimimaro's leave relaxes the clenching of her jaw, and she keeps her eyes closed, waiting with an irate patience for him to return to her. The sound of something being removed from the table is a quiet clink of metal to metal, and she feel him hovering above her, the waves of his negative chakra making her head ache. She feels his fingers touch somewhere at her stomach, and the horizontal brush of a blade, ready to slit. Tayuya's eyes snap open.
(The moment is fast, and almost predicted by the both of them, where she sits up far too fast and the scalpel she had grabbed from the tray cuts through the air with a fast, clean noise, and she the curse she'd meant to yell never comes out, only a startled yelp as needles rip out of her body, and the sound of Kabuto raising his blade before she drove it into his jugular is a loud, erratic crack.) The sound of his glasses breaking is unheard in hasty breathing.
"You're stupid."
With a hard jerk of his wrist both of the blades sling somewhere across the room, loud against the tile and crashing into a corner, and his free hand closes around her throat, forcing her back into a recline without further damaging her throat, which begins to bleed as the tubes in her jugular rip off.
"Very stupid."