Author's note:
First off, this story contains an OC, and the rating may be bumped up due to some content. I know a lot of people aren't for OCs, but as a secondary note, this story will not revolve completely around her. It involves, mostly, the Akatsuki, as well as Sasori's attempts to kill Sunagakure's Third Kazekage - that is, the Kazekage he converts into a puppet. Note that this relies heavily on my interpretations of Sasori and how he spent his time after leaving Sunagakure. Pairings later, perhaps.
How To Kill The King
Chapter 1: The Bloodshed At Glasshouse
The rain was ceaseless, a grey veil covering the land from the nearest tree to the blurred line of the horizon, coming down in waves that turned the roads into hazardous trails of mud and made even the most experienced traveller hurry to seek out shelter. So it was that Sasori found himself leaving the road but an hour or so away from Amegakure, to hide himself away in a small teahouse lit only with small paper lanterns and a few dim oil lamps.
It was not something he would usually do - his body was in no way susceptible to the rain, for he could not feel the cold, but still the it was a bother. It was slowing his journey, and as impatient as Sasori considered himself, he always had a sense of practicality. And, right now, getting himself bogged on the muddy road outside was not ideal.
As soon as Sasori stepped into the teahouse, he knew it was unusual. Most teahouses did not exceed a single storey, and yet this place had two, closed off by a screen that had been marked with the words "no entry". The main sitting room was also full of the ruckus of many visitors, whose forms shifted as shadows across the shōji screen walls.
Odd, Sasori thought to himself. Places such as this are usually quiet. And empty.
He turned to leave. In his full Akatsuki attire, and without his puppet armour Hiruko to hide behind, the idea of being noticed by a travelling shinobi did not sit well with Sasori.
'Ah! Good evening, sir! Welcome to Glasshouse!'
Damn. She saw me.
Sasori glanced back over his shoulder, eyes held in their aloof half-shut state. The mistress of the teahouse was a thin, middle-aged woman dressed in a plain black kimono, though she did sport a few colourful ornaments in her hair. She bowed as a greeting to her new guest.
'I was just leaving,' Sasori murmured, moving back toward the entrance.
'Oh, but sir,' the woman rushed to stop him, leaping to her feet, 'you do not wish to miss our performance tonight!'
Sasori was already bored of this place. 'Performance?'
'Yes, but of course!' And the woman reached out to grab Sasori's arm, dragging him into the main sitting room without another word. Perhaps it was her sheer lack of ignorance that surprised Sasori enough to stop him from breaking her neck on the spot.
Sasori was dumped rather unceremoniously in between a huge tattooed shinobi (judging by the forehead protector wrapped around his right arm) and a frail old man, both of whom were being served tea from a second woman in black. The tattooed shinobi raised his cup to his mouth and drank the entire thing in one mouthful, suggesting that it was not tea he drunk, but sake - Sasori could smell it.
'For you, sir,' said the woman serving the tea, and she shoved a cup into Sasori's hands. He did not even make to raise them.
Suddenly, the lights went out. The only source of light within the teahouse now came from a dim blue paper lantern hanging from the ceiling; the eyes of perhaps a dozen or so more men glinted in the shadows of the room. Sasori was so thrown by all this that he could not even fathom standing just yet. Or perhaps he could stop playing "who shall I kill first?" in his head and actually carry out his wishes in the dark.
From somewhere in the room, a mirror was wheeled into the centre of the tatami mat, a mirror set in a decorative wooden frame. The twang of a shamisen sounded from the back corner, in a steady, growing rhythm.
Oh great. What now? Sasori cleaned his teacup so tightly it almost smashed.
Just then, something did smash: the mirror. Upon hearing the sound of breaking glass, the other men in the tearoom ducked, but unnerved, Sasori watched on, unblinking.
Somehow, the glass had suspended itself in mid-air; and from the confines of the mirror came a young woman, adorned in a white silken kimono, dancing with the grace of a heron in between the shards of glass in time with the rhythm of the shamisen. Hair as white as her kimono whipped around her face as she danced, and her skin was almost as pale as snow. It was like watching a ghost dance.
Suddenly, the shamisen stopped, and the glass fell to the ground as fast as the rain outside. The dancer stopped too, breath making her shoulders rise and fall sharply. She then reached out her hands, and the glass at her feet began to spin around her in the manner of a whirlwind; the shamisen music started up again, and the (obviously, drunk) men in the teahouse began to cheer for her. Under the blue light and glittering glass, and the affects of the sake, the entire scene was like something from a dream.
It was beautiful, in truth. Like art.
Sasori flinched at his own thoughts.
Then, out of nowhere, the scene was broken: the tattooed shinobi beside Sasori suddenly rushed forward and seized the girl in the white kimono about the waist, oblivious to the glass he had to push his way through, and the girl let out a scream. The other men in the room jeered as the girl was hoisted over the shinobi's shoulder.
'Hey, Okaa-san!' the shinobi bellowed, and the teahouse's mistress appeared in the room. 'What do we start the bidding at, then?'
'Really, Goro-san?' The mistress asked with a smile. 'They have not even finished their dance -'
'A thousand yen, then?' asked the man named Goro. Sasori almost reeled in disgust, something he thought he could never do. Was he truly bidding on this girl? She was beyond him - whiter than snow, and clearly in possession of a jutsu Sasori had never encountered before. Like a glass doll. She was like art.
'A thousand?' another man suddenly piped up. 'I'll pay a twelve hundred.'
Sasori could barely see the girl's face; he only saw her hands moving within the slightly sheer sleeves of her kimono. Saw the tears on her face. Knew she was about to break.
If he had blinked, he would have missed it - missed the way the glass from the shattered mirror rose up from the floor and impaled itself in Goro's neck. He did not even have time to scream: he simply gagged, blood spilling from his mouth and onto the tatami, as he fell forward and hit the floor with a thud, pinning his victim beneath him.
Silence. And then -
The other dancers screamed first. Then the men shouted out, everything from fits of anger to terrified wails (and these closely resembled those of the dancers'). More glass fired itself through the air like arrows shot from a bow, slitting skin, cutting hair, leaving spatters of blood on the floor. Feet thundered on the ground as guests of Glasshouse made for the door, while the mistress collapsed on the floor, gave a pathetic squeak, and then fled out into the rainy night.
In under a minute, the entire teahouse was empty, the guests well down the road by now.
On the bloodstained tatami, the girl in white coughed and shoved the weight of Goro from her small frame. The collar of her kimono had been dyed red in his blood, and strands of her silvery hair had also become stained and tangled. Trembling, the girl looked down at her hands. Red. Bleeding. She had her own glass in her skin, so spontaneous had her attack been.
'That was quite a show.'
The girl in white almost screamed, and scurried back across the floor. There, unmoved since having first arrived, was Sasori, untouched by glass or blood.
'An interesting jutsu, too,' Sasori went on, watching the girl's face turn, if possible, even whiter. 'How do you manage to control glass? By combining earth and fire elements, perhaps?'
The girl stared at him, blinking slowly. Grey. Her eyes were grey. It was as if all colour had been drained from this girl. Saying nothing, she clambered to her feet and made for the door. Her legs were shaking beneath her, however, and in a few moments she was back on the tatami, sobbing.
'You killed that man so easily, I am surprised you are affected this way,' Sasori continued, glancing down at the cup of sake he held. 'The aftershock of dealing death does not sit well with many people. But you lashed out, didn't you? That man...' Sasori glanced at the lifeless body of the shinobi, Goro. 'You have hated him for a very long time, haven't you? And tonight, you'd had enough -'
'Shut up!'
The words were only hissed, but Sasori heard them all the same.
'Please,' she was sobbing louder now. 'Please...oh Kami, what have I done?'
In the meantime, Sasori was moving, discarding his untouched sake and heading for the door. Best leave the pathetic, sobbing mess to her own amends.
'Wait.'
Sasori stopped, halfway out the door. Turning, he saw that the girl in white was now kneeling directly behind him, face streaked with tears, hair a tangled mess of blood. Yet, a strange sense of calm had overcome her.
'Help me.'
Sasori blinked once, slowly. Saying nothing, he reached down and pressed two fingers against her forehead, where a seal flashed briefly before disappearing once more. The girl's grey eyes rolled and she fell face-first onto the floor.
'You'll need help,' Sasori began, reaching out with chakra strings to lift the girl off the floor, 'when you become a weapon for the Akatsuki.' He grabbed the girl by her bloodstained kimono, hauled her over one shoulder, and set off back to Amegakure.
Closing:
So undecided with this... Move on to the next chapter for a small teaser of sorts - and let me know what you think in a review, if you would kindly :)
