Cigarettes.
Little, poisonous, vindictive cancer-sticks.
Asuma chewed on one reflectively.
Kukuku.
It was morning.
Kukuku.
The light was twisted and shadowed, throwing strange shadows.
Kukuku.
It flickered on a yellowed picture.
Kukuku.
Kurenai. My beloved, still alive. For now.
Kukuku.
Takeshi. Died in a sad, small, enclosed space. Died with a scream and a lie on his cold lips.
Kukuku.
Seto. Stupid old man, he was the one who started Asuma on cancer sticks. His ashes are scattered in some Iwa place.
Kukuku.
It danced to another.
Kukuku.
Shikamaru. The smart one, the lazy one, the stubborn one.
Kukuku.
Chouji. A bit clueless. The so-called useless one. Takeshi stirred in him occasionally.
Kukuku.
Ino. The pretty one. You would not want to cross her.
Kukuku.
Two were gone.
Kukuku.
The others will live.
Kukuku.
He swears.
And there was a cigarette.
The wonderful, holy reviewing drill. Heh.