They hadn't been that hard to massacre… not really. They'd been well built – constant, rigorous training hardening up their muscles – but, when they were more interested in darts that their eventual downfall, it wasn't even worth the screams. Gaara hated an easy kill; mainly because they were all easy these days. At ten, he was shorter than your average child (4ft 11" at the most), but it never stopped him killing… enjoying killing… thirsting for blood…

He was a bit like a vampire in that respect: he just didn't know when to stop…

And now he had dust on his tongue. It was an unpleasant sensation: bad enough to have dust on your feet, in your hair, muddying up your clothes, than to have it anywhere near your mouth. It was his own fault really (he knew that): flak jackets were always too dirty to lick, after all… but he just didn't think… Oh well, (he swallowed) not as bad as Yashamaru's medicine… Although he'd rather have Yashamaru and his medicine than… no. No he wouldn't. Yashamaru was dead. That was that.

He was at his front door now, key in hand, Yashamaru safely out of mind and …someone breathing down the back of his neck.

"Temari?" He turned around. She wasn't Temari.

"You'll do nicely," she hissed and, before he could react, they had landed on a cold, hard, lino floor.