Disclaimer: I suppose since these are required, I must say, "I do not own anything of this fic but the idea!"
vii — violet
Everything in our world has meaning, whether naturally or because people need items of symbolization. Throughout my lifetime I've heard many different things about the color violet and what people perceive of it. Some say the mere sight of it stirs up inspiration, so writers and painters and those in need of just that often have flowers of its hue posted somewhere in their work area. Some say it epitomizes individuality and uniqueness; old Kaede once told me that it constitutes spirituality, and that it helps us get in touch with our deeper subconscious thoughts. Empathy, controlled emotion, the respectable and distinguished, impracticality, immaturity, dignity, the cynical—the list goes on and on. Leave it to humans to over glorify things they consider beautiful, ne?
If anyone asked me what I think it represents, I would say "fantasy and future." Corny, I know, but I've seen the specific color so often during my visits to the Feudal Era (from the Well's glow, to the iridescent lights my arrows sometimes emitted), that I can't help but relate it to my past mystical adventure.
On the other hand, for Sasori, violet more than likely equates poison, and lots of it I'm sure.
I stand on the opposite side of his operation table, my arms loaded with sharp tools and necessities that he asks for on occasion as the torturous minutes steadily tick on by. There is a puppet between us (it looks so real and human-like that I'm afraid to ask what it's made from), its vacuous eyes staring up at me in a way that makes my skin crawl. I ended up here in a pretty unceremonious fashion, and I pray that I'll be out really soon. All these lifeless, adult figures propped up on the stone walls with nothing but a candle flame casting intimidating shadows upon their faces is super creepy and nerve-wracking.
I never mixed too well with horror movies, especially ones involving killer dolls. I'd rather be with Zetsu than in this room—and that's saying a lot.
I'd just been minding my own business in the hallway, waiting for Itachi to come out of his room and entertain me, when Sasori came slithering by in his large puppet (Hiruko, I think he called it). All I did was greet him to be polite, and next thing I knew he had wrapped an invisible string around my wrist and began dragging me with him to the direction of his room. He didn't even offer me an explanation of what he was planning on doing, he'd just said in that raspy, coarse voice of his, If you have time to waste dawdling, you'll make yourself useful instead. Try and try as I might, I was unable to detach myself from him and his imperceptible string (and the more I struggled, the tighter it got around my wrist; I soon gave up in worry of having my hand's circulation cut off…).
So now here I am, watching him in his "true form" pour an enormous jug of gooey violet liquid into the inner compartment of his puppet. Gug, gug, gug, it goes. A bitter smell accumulates in the air, and a dizzying sensation momentarily takes over me. When I manage to blink it away, I realize Sasori is staring impatiently at me, a demanding hand held out before him.
"The scalpel," he says in a crossed tone, as if he had already asked for the darn thing ten times before.
"…oh." Then my head spins back into place, and I repeat with more clarity, "Oh—sorry, here." I hand it to him, the sharp side held in my hand as a safety precaution.
Sasori eyes it for a fleeting moment, probably laughing in his head at my expense. Not like a human-puppet could be harmed in such a way, but oh well, I did it out of habit and etiquette, all right?
He takes it and hunches over his current project, tinkering with its insides, unperturbed by the pool of violet located inches below his eyes. I unconsciously wince, imagining against my own will how it would feel to have deadly poison so close in proximity to my own frail eyeballs. They're already watery and irritated, and I'm nowhere near the pernicious stuff (which may very well be worse than Naraku's miasma). I believe Sasori noticed my discomfort.
"How would you like for your body to be reformed into that of a puppet's?" he says placidly, not bothering to look up from his work. "Then you could do away with such petty weaknesses."
My eyes grow wide in shock, and my arms suddenly go limp. All the well-crafted tools I'd been holding, in so mindful a manner, plummet straight to the floor and cause a distressing racket not unlike that of nails raking across a chalkboard.
Sasori is frozen on the spot, hovering over his puppet, stiff.
I scramble out of his workshop, escaping before that crazy shinobi decides to add me to his doll collection.
