Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
Bathing in Blood
25. The Sliding
"The whole tale of how I killed him...
...would take too long...
Reciting unhappy truths about good
And evil...
On the mournful thread of old age, remembering
Buried strength and the battles it had won."
-Beowulf
Sometimes things were just too good to be true.
They could put on quite the show, for sure; flaunting imaginary genius and infinite skill. Daring any who had the means to step up and try their hand. Looking for all the world to be on top of it all, only to find too late that they really aren't the greatest thing since sliced bread.
What a shame.
Gaara sighed, disgusted, world-weary, gathering up the pink-haired girl in a blanket of feverish sand. She'd been putting up a good fight, he supposed, considering her insufferable weakness. He had to give her some credit, though. She'd kept her infuriatingly emotionless cool to the end.
The very end.
As if her mind was somewhere else, somewhere far away. Perhaps a daydream. She certainly seemed like that sort; the kind of petty little halfwit who would while away her time in fairyland with her make-believe Prince Charming. Which was the worst place for one's mind to be in when fighting him.
But then again, what did he expect? He was Gaara of the Desert, after all. Gaara of the Desert was jaded to these things. Gaara of the Desert was jaded to all things. What was more, Gaara of the Desert didn't give a shit anyways—
"Something is wrong here."
The Shuukaku's voice rumbled listlessly up from the silence. Unusually so. Normally it would be raving, scrambling and clawing inside his head, nearly salivating over the contemplation of fresh blood. This was none of the above. This was a simple statement disguised as an understatement, thought most likely an overstatement because nothing ever went wrong.
Well, of course. Gaara threw his thoughts at the demon with anomalous sarcasm. She's obviously weaker than us, and that's quite a problem. All of them are weaker than us. The Shuukaku blatantly ignored its vessel's remark.
"Something is wrong here."
Gaara was feeling brave today, and impatient, and rebellious as well. Mother should be grateful for the meal, he muttered grudgingly in his head, barely concealing his mutinous view. Cutting off whatever other protests the demon had in store, he extended one hand in a movement that was practically habitual. As much as he didn't like doing this on his own—
Desert Coffin.
The sand smudged together, compacting into a sluggish wall around its victim. This was really too easy, entirely too easy, a joke; why he even bothered was beyond him—
Suddenly, the golden wall dissolved, scattering into a million skittish star-like flecks, retreating fearfully from the blood-drained corpse of a blue-haired girl in an orange dress. What a blinding color, this orange, clashing angrily with the evergreen kanji embroidered on the skirt.
'Asahi Karen'.
Her name.
How cute.
How vain.
This girl had been dead for quite a while. Less than an hour, more than fifteen minutes, all six quarts of crimson liquid drained from her pale body.
Why did he bother with analysis, when he already had the answer?
Gaara shook his head in disbelief. He felt the Shuukaku nodding, sage and self-satisfied, in the background as he glanced irritably in the direction of that long-lost shriek.
Kawarimi no jutsu...a basic technique...known to even the most worthless of ninja...almost an insult in its simplicity...
That scream. It must have been one of her teammates.
"Gaara!" Kankurou. He'd know that frustratingly patronizing tone anywhere.
"Gaara! Where did you run off to this time?" This one was Temari, with a concernedly screeching tenor. Stupid siblings. He growled, but did not move. Looked wistfully at the path his opponent had taken, knowing his window of opportunity to pursue this fight had just slammed shut on his fingers.
