Characters: Kabuto, Sasori, Orochimaru (in spirit)
Summary: The only irony left is that the most feared puppeteer Suna has ever produced has the appearance of a delicate child. The rest is hollow and naught but dust.
Pairings: None
Author's Note: I had to wonder how Kabuto felt about resurrecting Sasori, given their past relationship. The impression one gets is that Kabuto didn't even like Sasori very much (showed no compunction about slashing up Yamato when he thought he was Sasori, too), so the big question is Why? Also, this will be my 500th story! Are you all rejoicing as much as I am? Finally, I know it's not very horror-ish, but it can be if you want it to be.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
The small voice in the back of his head that was the remnant of Orochimaru hissed some sadistic pleasure at this irony, but Kabuto shook it off and kept working. He couldn't say he didn't agree with Orochimaru but he was now ignoring him on principle, knowing he had to if he wanted to remain the one in the driver's seat in this body.
He was just working with the poisoned remnants of the heart now; a puppeteer from Sunagakure had made off with Sasori's puppet body. Once the residue of the poison was extracted, it was an easy thing to reanimate his old master.
"I have to admit," Kabuto murmured clinically, "that out of all the ways I expected you to appear underneath that shell, this was not one of them."
Hazy cinnamon, almost red eyes turned on him and that, Kabuto admitted, was the absolute only thing at all intimidating about Sasori's true appearance. Well, more disturbing than intimidating, that he had eyes that seemed as scarlet as his hair under certain lights, but it could work both ways. A pale face (how did a desert dweller remain so pallid) with vaguely feminine features scanned him up and down, eyes narrowing. "Hello, Kabuto." And Kabuto noted with detachment that the other thing that would have been intimidating about Sasori was his cool voice.
"I'm surprised you recognize me."
"I never forget the face of a servant. Even if you seem to have done something to yourself to drastically alter your appearance since we last met." Sasori's pale, slightly freckled, youthful face—he looked no older than fifteen, honestly—registered slight curiosity. He was incredibly detached, though; no real feeling in it at all. "May I ask exactly what you've done?"
"No, you may not," Kabuto cut him off, a little more brusquely than intended. The familiar hiss started up in the recesses of his mind but he pushed it down viciously; again, there would be no ground given to the last vestige of Orochimaru.
A sardonic smirk twisted over Sasori's lips in an ugly spasm; scarlet hair shook in silent laughter. "What's the matter, boy? You're usually so meticulously polite."
He certainly knew how to jab straight at the heart of the matter.
Kabuto smiled coolly at him, as Sasori slid down off of the table, pulling his shirt shut with a quick flick of the wrists. "Yes, I am. However, I see no need to be, considering you are no longer in control here."
"So I've gathered." Sasori's voice was just as dry and sterile as before. Clinical, scrutinizing, just like a scorpion before he struck and that, Kabuto realized, was the true danger of Sasori. That he was always ready to strike, and could do so without compunction or regret. "You must be very pleased with yourself, Kabuto. I never got the impression that your years as my servant were very pleasant."
No, they had not been.
Careful not to answer, Kabuto rummaged in the shadows, looking for an old scroll of Sasori's that he had sealed so the puppet master couldn't utilize it against him. "Here." He threw it to Sasori dismissively, who caught it in long, spidery fingers and eyed it with a sort of hunger that once might have made Kabuto flinch to see it. "You will need that."
Sasori tucked it away, wide eyes still narrowed and face keenly examining his own situation. "Interesting. I've never been a great lover of irony, but—" His smile was cast in his virulent poisons "—I can appreciate it here." Still, he seemed not at all concerned about the situation he found himself in, nonchalant and coolly composed. It would have unnerved someone else.
No, there was no irony here. Kabuto had expected to feel triumph at this reversal, but instead, the victory was utterly hollow and ashen. It had a great deal to do with Sasori's reaction—or rather, his lack of one.
The only irony left to the situation at hand was that the most feared puppeteer Suna had ever produced and the continent had ever seen bore the appearance of a delicate child; that irony, Kabuto could appreciate. The rest was naught but dust.
He didn't feel anything, when he should have felt everything.
Kabuto straightened and narrowed his eyes as he looked down at Sasori—he was so short; Kabuto wondered if he would have gotten any taller if he hadn't interrupted his own growth with wooden parts and gears and senbon—and smiled frigidly. "We'll have to leave soon. There's a great deal more work that needs to be done, before we can meet Madara."
"Oh?" Sasori raised a thin eyebrow, disappearing into his bangs. He seemed to relish this. "You'll be outplaying Uchiha Madara? I hope I'll be awake to see this, at least; the old man needs a good scare. I want to see the look in his arrogant eye when this happens; it will almost be worth being torn away from my dead loved ones."
Kabuto couldn't help but agree, but didn't show it. Also, the thought that Sasori had "loved ones" was so absurd to him that, bizarrely, he had to restrain a caustic laugh.
Sasori's face rearranged itself into the inscrutable enigma that, out of all the things Kabuto hadn't expected, had been the one thing he had expected out of the puppet master. "Don't get complacent, Kabuto," he murmured, looking him directly in the eye.
"And why should I be worried about this?"
His face remained perfectly mask-like, but the gleam in his eyes was positively vicious. "Because there will always be the one who strikes when you're not looking."
Kabuto nodded curtly. He'd have to keep an eye open, then.
And shelf whatever hollow regret he had, that he couldn't feel more at this reversal.