This young man lays alone but fastened to the ground
The sounds of fleeing feet and a crying' eye will be his last sound.
What did we gain from all of this? Now was it worth a life?
We've thrown all our hopes away and set our dreams aside
..o..
..o..
Sun is high up in the sky and the smell of burned flesh almost makes him gag. There is so much of it in the air - not just burning flesh, but blood too. That cold, cold, cold metallic, rotting smell that burns your nostrils and chokes your lungs and turns your stomach into live acid.
Screams of his teammates still echo in his ears, like a song that has been dragging on too long and waves it way into the memory nerves of his brain. With his intelligence he is sure they will never leave and that is a suitable punishment in itself.
Sun sparks the grass, and burns the blood even further and the stench spreads across the field of the dead. So much about victory or living happily ever after. There is no such thing like living, least happily when you are a shinobi. Because of that he doesn't open his eyes, doesn't want to - he knows already by heart where each of them lie, battered and bruised, some bloody all over and some with a small hidden smiles on their faces.
His is the final move. The shadows dance around him, and Shikamaru carries out the last strategy in this round. Like little wooden chess pieces, one by one they fell heavily onto the floor, losing in the game board called life. His figurine is the king and as he falls one last thought flashes through his already fleeting mind.
Check-mate.