| | Sasori of the Red Sand| |
I m p e r f e c t ~ p u p p e t
.❀.❀.
o1.
"Where are you?"
It's a very hard thing to explain.
I can't feel, but the best way to describe it to those who can, I believe, is to say it was almost like a fog being lifted; the piece of wool covering your eyes slowly being unraveled string by string. For the longest time, my thoughts were scattered sentence fragments, so faint they were barely there.
All that seemed to keep my attention there was the blinding, surreal circle of yellow light.
After a while, of being suspended in limbo, a scraping sound floated to my ears. Just as gradually as the sound drifted to me, in the same way I started to almost feel my extensions, or rather, the branches of myself become more present.
And I could focus.
Thereafter, I hungrily searched for what was going on, and tried to identify that yellow, permanent fixation in my life. Since the bright light didn't hurt, I could focus on it and make out a band of white outside the yellow circle, and the near-invisible wire inside of the light bulb. Then I could see the wood and dusty stone behind that.
The names of these previously-unidentifiable objects just came to me the more the scraping sound lingered. I didn't know when I realized it and how I managed to incorporate the new terms, since everything started to melt together as ignorance faded away.
Scrape, scrape, and scrape… the ever-so-soft sound occurred periodically, seeming to keep lifting the fog. Then, I was blind. But the scraping continued. Later, my vision reappeared as a steady knife created my features, and I could clearly see the shaving curls fall to the floor behind the blade.
I could move my head slightly once my neck became more defined, and I always saw glimpses of the knife and the pale hand that guided it flawlessly. But I never saw the man behind the masterpiece—me.
Or, so he called me. He rarely spoke to himself, but every time my maker carved me little by little, this clearly-hummed lullaby coincided with the scarping of the knife.
"Steady the knife, carve out the details.
Steady the hand, the wood bend perfectly.
Steady the focus, create my perfect masterpiece."
And then my wooden body jerked, and I jolted creakily up like live wire, wooden and metal hinges protesting softly against sudden movement. And before I fell back, frozen once again, I saw brilliant red hair, with eyes as brown as the bark of the wood I was originated from.
My eyes silently opened to stare at the ceiling; it had a hanging lamp much like the one from my memory. My fingers were hanging, relaxed, on top of the woolen blanket. The surface of the wood was smooth and dry, but I didn't let that fool me. I shifted my gaze to the window, confirming the passing of Suna's cold morning, afternoon sunlight fighting past the blinds and the windowpane.
I couldn't sigh like so many other people, how I instinctually wanted to, so I just shrugged my shoulders like I'd seen others do to prepare for the day.
I still was not sure as to how I could move my wooden frame; I suppose that was the compromise for not being able to move well at the start of every day. I slowly creaked upright, (my body not allowing anything quicker) stiff as a board, until I was levered into a sitting position.
I poked a foot out from under the blanket, my leg rigidly straight. I made an effort to move the joint in my knee, and it jerked down to a right angle with a loud crack. The other leg followed. I grabbed the edge of the bed to steady myself, and I tottered out of the dim, simple room.
I needed to get out into Suna's sun, away from the room, still damp and humid from the coolness of the desert nights. A regular, dry temperature enabled me to be able to move well. The tree I was carved from came from Suna's deserts; as an adaptation, it had learned to absorb whatever amount of water it could find to survive. Of course, once the wood soaks it up, it expands slightly. But that slightness is just enough to stiffen my hinges and joints.
That was why I needed to get out when I got up—not just to satiate my dimming curiosity.
The sturdy railing helped me down the stairs, and my extremities were already starting to give better to my commands. I went to the kitchen, which was as dim and old-fashioned as the entire shack of a house. The old man sitting in a rigid wooden chair was also quite old, slowly sipping his tea and staring at the ceiling.
When he heard my heavy wooden feet hit the floor, he turned to me and his eyes crinkled and shone. He smiled at me, just like any morning.
I wish my pallid, solemn expression could crack a smile back. But I could not, and I knew not why he was always to happy to see me. So I simply took off the steaming and screaming kettle and filled up his cup again.
"You woke up later than normal," he mused, his voice slow.
"Sorry, Elder Ebizo," I murmured thickly. I did not know why my heavy wooden tongue could cooperate with my mouth to form words, either; the compromise to that was definitely a lacking of eloquence and a voice normal to the standards of humans.
"No, I'm not scolding. Were your joints bothering you again?"
I nodded.
He sighed. "I would like to help with that; I did know your maker, so I somewhat know how he thinks. But… If I was to make the smallest mistake… well, let's just say that such a repair would be exclusive to your actual creator who knows your mechanisms thoroughly, and would know exactly how to do such a thing."
"The wood would still expand, however. If my limbs were slimmed, hinges adjusted anymore, I might break. It's fine. At least I can move."
Elder frowned, like he had something on his mind, but he refrained from speaking again, deep in thought. He took a direct sip form the steaming cup, not flinching at its temperature.
"Elder Ebizo? You said you've know my creator. What was he like? I can barely remember anything… please tell me. You've avoided the question before." I stared solemnly on him, but I guess it had no effect, for every expression I have is identical.
He sighed, and set down the cup on the table with a soft clank. He stared off into space, his eyes practically lost behind his eyebrows, and his Sunagakure headdress casting shadows on his pale, spotted face.
"Your maker's name is Akasuna no Sasori. He was a young genius… but the poor child was without his parents. He often spent so much time with his puppets to compensate for his loneliness. He found so much joy creating a walking puppet… he even made puppets identical to his late parents."
"And didn't he found the Puppet Corps?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, surprised. "How did you know?"
I shrugged. "I heard of that name, and saw the symbol of a scorpion on some of the puppets belonging to the corps. "Sasori" means "scorpion", does it not? So his name was really Sasori? Or is it a sort of pseudonym?"
"Yes, it's his real name…" he opened his mouth, and then closed it. Then he looked shocked, recalling some of my previous words. "How did you get to the storage for the Corps?"
I just stared, not able to smile, but still dully pleased with myself. I knew it was wrong to steal out, especially into a private space belonging to the government, but what could they do? Kill a half-living puppet that cannot feel pain? That was my reasoning for sating my curiosity.
"I know it is tantamount to painting a bull's eye on my body, but I wanted to get out. I needed to explore something new. And if I was stoned to pieces, I could not feel it. If I was thrown from a cliff, I wouldn't feel the shatter."
"And don't you feel emotionally hurt at all?"
I stayed quiet. I had not liked this fault of actually having more emotions than I probably wanted, and have been trying to get rid of it.
"It's not like I chose to become a freak—or 'astounding happening.' Why should I feel hurt?" I asked out loud, but it was not necessarily for Elder Ebizo. "I don't really have too many feelings.... if I do they are sporadic."
"Perhaps if you knew others like you… but I do care for you. Please don't forget that."
I tried to smile a bit, but the carved lines of my lips would not curve upwards, try as I might.
Then, a low groan ghosted through the room. My frame rattled, vibrations from the shaking ground and ceiling creating a current through my legs, throwing me around like a doll. Elder Ebizo jumped up, but I could not move so quickly.
Motion was easier for me if I was already going. It was like inertia—it is hard for me to start or stop, and I am good once I'm already going, resisting the changes in motion.
"What is that?" I asked, calmly curious.
Then shouting sounded in the background.
"An attack," Elder murmured.
Then, a large wooden beam fell clumsily from the ceiling, carrying years' worth of old, dusty rubble. It fell right between the two of us. The force of the collision shook me up, right onto my feet; ironically, other things started to come down.
China fell out of the cabinets, breaking, chairs groaned as wood rubbed roughly against wood and tile, and the walls creaked unsurely. Ebizo had to avoid the flying shards, but I didn't. One embedded into my calf with a dull thud, and dusty air billowed throughout the house, sticking to my 'skin.'
I saw the atmosphere outside of the swinging-open door ripe with tension and excitement. My feet were drawn to it surely as my eyes were glued onto the frenzied world outside. As my hand touched the wooden molding of the door, I could hear Elder shouting.
"Don't go out there, Miyuki!"
Despite the exigent cries of my protector and caregiver, I kept going without as much as a backwards glance. This had never happened before. Curiosity, a yearning for knowledge, was something strange for me. I needed it; something compelled me forward to every new opportunity.
His cries faded as the wind and sand whipped around my ears. Some people were running, guards and shinobi shouting orders, others watching the sky. My eyes turned airborne, where most of the tension was sprouting from.
An impossibly-large bird was flying in the sky, carrying a black-clothed figure attacking a shell of sand. The sand was almost like a puppet, whipping, pulling, and retracting complexly in retaliation. Large explosions were going off, clamoring through the sky, sand and shrapnel descending to the city. It made it hard for the other shinobi to ascend to the battlefield; all they could do was watch in horror.
Suddenly, sand spread like large storm clouds over the city of Suna. The sky darkened as I felt a sense of foreboding, but I shrugged it off. I was in too much awe at this development. This insane pull made it hard to even think.
I couldn't have even imagined something like this… so much emotion and excitement wrapped into one.
The amazement was overwhelming.
A large crack, like extravagant thunder, went off, cracking the sand shield hovering above my head as a few grains fell. I shifted backwards in anticipation, and then after a long haul, the sand wall creeped over to the desert, and I could see the night sky again. And the figures in the air.
The egg-like sphere crumbled away, and a figure was suspended at the center. His body went limp with exhaustion; in short time, he sagged and fell. The giant bird—appearing to be made of clay or sand—swooped down and caught him.
But one thing made me stare at once.
Amidst all of the yelling and panic, one thing was distinctly clear.
The falling figure had striking red hair.
A realization pulsed through me; a certain empowering feeling sweeping through so strong that it giddily thrust me forward, chasing after the figures as best as my faulty, slow, marionette body could manage.
I ran—lumbered—, following the path of the bird. Pieces of sand fell off and hit my smooth, artificial cheek, but my gaze was locked on the sky.
I passed a gate I've only glanced at a few times, stumbling over the figures that were strewn haphazardly in the large split between the two cliffs, bleeding and dusty. A few groaned when my foot clumsily made contact with them; others did not make a sound.
The moment I broke through the narrow channel, I could not find the bird again amongst the even blue sky. I stood suddenly slack, all of that feeling sinking, like absorbed water suddenly bleeding back into the environment.
But then a rushing of air and the humming beat of wings crept into the space right behind me. I creakily turned around, meeting the blue eye and blonde-haired person riding the giant bird.
"Well, what do we have here, hmmm~? Another girl for 'Kazekage-sama'?" He inquired mockingly, wearing a lopsided smirk.
I stood, transfixed, as his smirk widened. Then, his face slowly morphed into a puzzled expression, soon grim as he studied and began to comprehend my facial features—the tell-tale marks of a puppet.
But I could care less. I peered past him to the man wrapped up in the curling tail wings belonging to his animal. His bright-red hair was messy; his bangs swept over his forehead, covering the tops of black-rimmed, sleep-deprived eyes.
Although they were closed, it was impossible to mistake.
Then it hit me, along with a feeling of disappointment: he was not the same man I remembered.
All of that happened in a split second, and then the blonde man moved his hand. Instantaneously, an explosion cracked right next to my left ear.
Immediately I tumbled to the ground, my limbs entangling. My vision slid hastily, and I tried to move, though dizzy. One of my arms had popped out of my socket, and the slack feeling was odd. It felt strange in this position, not as normal as being upright and intact, so I felt urged to try to reposition.
Slowly, laboriously, I started moving.
The blonde man's features were contorted into slight horrification, and moved his hand to presumably cause another explosion; however, he suddenly stopped, as if frozen by something, and backed down.
Before I could comprehend the content of another second, I was suddenly lifted from the ground. I noised slight alarm and protest as I was suspended in air, and a hand creeped up my back and tore back part of my shirt. That hand immediately found an opening in my back, and I could feel a tug of the cords in my body tighten, and then slacken so my extremities hung uselessly, even my head.
But I was still aware and awake.
My head rolled to the side, and I met the eyes of a man with spiky black hair. His eyes were hard and lifeless, like how Elder Ebizo described an executioner of olden times during the great wars.
How did you know where that was? I wondered, trying to ask the dead eyes.
Then there was another tug, and I was cut off from the world.
| | ImperfectPuppetImperfectPuppet | |
{A/N: I wrote this, gosh, how long ago? It seems like forever. Oh well. I've always liked this idea, and I figure I can work on it every once in a while, when I'm not busy on other sites and other stories. :) Please fogive any errors, and I hope you enjoyed the beginning of this... odd fic. xD)
