Justice in Death
Black. Red. Black. Red. Red red red red redredredredred... Chest heaved from exertion; lungs burned for air. He was used to running long distances as he chased after criminals and chased... the tailcoats of his brother. But this... this wasn't the same. His body was begging for respite, though something was keeping him from accomplishing just that.
He could feel it. He could smell it. It coated his skin and the back of his tongue like a tattoo, staining him down to his tattered soul.
What was happening to him? Why couldn't he make sense of any of this? The blood that dripped from his fingers and soaked into his clothes made him want to vomit. He didn't know where they came from, didn't even know where he had been.
His memory was coming and going in pieces. He saw faces and heard voices, but most of the time they were expressions twisted into horror and screams of agony. Every time he closed his eyes, the scenes would play across the backs of his eyelids.
That old man... what was his name? Who was he? Why was he bleeding on the ground? And that guy... Takamine... He wore a look of surprise and disbelief. Why? And why was he suddenly full of deep cuts and slouched against the tree?
Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. He just couldn't figure out what. Wait. No, he knew. But why eluded him.
Soramaru stared blankly at the space before him, not truly seeing the marks that traced along his skin. He had tugged at his clothes, pulling them open to stare down at his once purely human flesh. Now, it was pocked with scales, as if they had been there all along, and this thing called skin no more than a cover-up to hide the truth.
Truth... that revealed he was the Orochi's vessel.
His lungs seized. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. He bent over, his head between his knees, and gasped. His whole body trembled as if struck by a terrible chill, but it was no outward element that made him shiver so.
Wrapping his arms around himself as if that would do anything to keep himself human, to stop what was inevitable, he slowly lifted his head. His master's words broke through the silence of his mind. He remembered Sousei's purpose as an Inu, and his resolve to carry out his mission.
His own hands would do nothing to stop the madness. If there was anyone who could stop it, it was Sousei. A shudder ran along his spine, not out of cold but terror. He would have to die. The only way was to die. But he didn't want to die. He wasn't ready.
Looking down, Soramaru saw the half-dried blood under his fingernails. He remembered the warmth of it fresh against his skin when he had clawed open those men's bodies. Red. Black. Red. Black. Red. Black. Red red red red redredredredred...
Clutching his hand into a tight fist, squeezing his eyes shut, he bit back a sob and got up. He had to do this. He didn't deserve to live after what he did. Tenka would've done it. He had. Soramaru would do it. It was only right. He could.
He could... right?