There are two different POVs, the first being the Yamanaka wife who gets killed off who is then, subsequently, not a character for the rest of the fic. Then, Shikaku is finally introduced in all his calculative genius glory.
I am highly aware I'm practically thrashing through this fic's progress. School is literally next week and chases me towards the finish...
As a young mother, she lavishes Ino with all her love and attention. The girl is wonderful and beautiful and bright, but she has become spoiled.
She wonders if its her fault, her inexperience, that makes her fail as a mother. Perhaps she isn't strict enough, she wonders. But denying her baby girl anything is so, so hard.
At least Ino isn't rude or without tact. Her daughter is pretty enough but not extraordinary so. This half way point is the best conciliation between plain and beautiful.
She must find herself a good man, the mother thinks. She must hurry and settle down.
But Ino is not interested in men in terms of marriage. When she thinks of men, she thinks of them in a most lustful manner that worries her mother.
Perhaps Ino will grow out of it, she thinks. Maybe it's a good sign that she's interested in clothes, although the brand names littering the girl's closet are a distasteful sight...but at least it is feminine one? And her studies? What of her studies? Ino may not enjoy school in particular, but she does well nonetheless.
This should please her, the mother. And she is. She's so proud of her little girl.
But Ino is showing subtle signs of not wanting to marry. She is staying out longer. She is enjoying a vivacious nightlife. She is in want of work.
It's not alarming at first. Simple jobs here, easy jobs there...but soon Ino starts to expand her horizons, latching onto the idea of life beyond the home. And the jobs! Soon, that girl is enthralled with her late night job at...at this garish club. This girl is now fasting becoming an adult, is now acting beyond cooking, cleaning, and housewifely things.
The mother misses her sweet little girl, the one who used to clutch at her skirts and loved being taught how to cook. Now Ino is all grown up...
"Who will support you? When will you marry? Why won't you listen to me?" She wants to yell all these things, but of course she doesn't. Ino is, surprisingly, taking herself seriously—pacing herself, even. She's earning her savings, gradually learning the art of independence...she should be proud of Ino. And she is.
The world is a dangerous place. She just doesn't want to see Ino hurt.
When she learns of a prominent artist's death in the area, she isn't too concerned. But when she learns the artist's name, she is afraid.
"Inoichi," she says, clutching his arm. "Inoichi, are you...have you...?"
Her husband doesn't say a word. That night, he silently readies for bed and grieves for his dear friend.
They were classmates, she believes, at the same university. Didn't they have the same art seminar? And Inoichi always did cherish his friendships more than most...
She wonders how she can help him when she knows she cannot, that she is powerless. Helpless.
It is a private grief that she has no part of. She met Inoichi long after he'd graduated, which is why she has never professed an interest to this part of his past before...
What is more important than focusing on the home, her family? They are the world to her, but now she feels guilty that she's never made an effort to be involved with her husband's previous life. What was he like? How did he do in school? Questions like these gnaw at the guilt in her and make anger bubble up inside.
Well, why should she be so concerned with Inoichi's past? Why is anything more important than the present? This artist, this man her husband is friends with—have they ever met privately before? Has either one of them made an effort to seek each other's company outside of university life? To form a good camaraderie, who is this man who holds such power over her husband to make Inoichi break down at the man's funeral...?
Why, she despairs, did that man die? Why does this have to happen now when Inoichi and she have long settled into marriage? Why does this...this reclusive painter have to take away the attention she used to adore from her husband? Who is this man who breaks the tranquility of their quiet lives? Why must he disturb them? Why must he cause her husband to neglect...
Why now? Why is that man dead, and why does Inoichi even care?
Anxious over Ino, anxious over her husband, this is the time when Deidara enters her carefully constructed life. A life that is slowly breaking apart, falling down.
But she is tenacious and stubborn, even as the grasp gluing her family together is tenuous...at best. Unraveling at its fine seams, if the housewife doesn't keep the household together, who will?
When Deidara arrives, he shatters that glue. He rips apart her efforts. He stomps on them until they are in irreparable pieces. He despises her—she knows he does. Why else does he bring abnormality into her home? For what reason is there to justify that normalcy is now an incomprehensible failure?
But even with all the grief Deidara brings her, she can still not forget her first impressions of him; they are long lasting.
When Inoichi brings a strange boy home, the artist's son, she refuses to compromise. She does not want him in the house and most certainly not as an adopted son.
And yet...he's hurt. A lovely little bird who does not speak; the Deidara of her memories is a wonderful darling who gives her no trouble at all. For a moment all is well. This moment is but a fleeting speck of time, a sum of numerous years that feel nothing but a week.
Things change when she sees him torture for the first time.
And she becomes ill. Nauseated. Her world is collapsing around her, and Deidara can do nothing but smirk. Her husband doesn't understand; can he not notice how their livelihood unravels about their shoulders?
Why is this happening to her? Why does this have to happen?
Why is Kami-sama so cruel?
Please, she begs. Please keep my family together. Please don't break us, don't let this happen to us. Please.
She wants her daughter back, the baby she makes as her precious eye. And her husband of old, that caring and kind, gentle Inoichi...why can't things go back to the way they were before?
Deidara. She can no longer recall that little boy of eight who first crosses over her threshold.
She is falling. The world is falling.
Pain. Something is bubbling deep within her womb, clawing its way up her spine, and retching into her brain...pain.
It hurts, Inoichi. It hurts.
Slowly fluttering eyes open and shut, she feels a crushing numbness taking her body away, away...
She looks down.
Blank, bleak, she can't feel her legs anymore. They aren't there anymore. Hacked, tattered, something all too heavy and oppressive clouds her mind. There is despair. Pain.
She wants to scream.
A bubble of hysteria arises in her, spurred on by the blood that spurts in her face.
Her legs. They're gone.
She looks up into the face of her killer. And smiles.
--
The woman is a mockery of an effigy. Of what? Her legs are splayed wide, her simple skirts and layers bunched at the hip. Her wrists are strung together and are stabbed to the wall by an an enormous nail, forcing her arms to hang above her head, it is like a parody of Christ.
Those wires bite down the skin in deep soft, surrender. Circled round and round, the tethers are merely unbent metal hangers, tied so hard they cut into milky, pliant flesh. The extremities are purple and pulpy, looking about to burst. Circulation's been cut off, he notes rather detachedly.
The clothes are torn, but it is difficult to tell whether she's been raped or not. Why? He crouches low and stares into the cavern that is her womb, the thighs being hacked at the roots. Unhesitatingly, he clicks on a small flashlight he has unhooked from his belt and shines the light into her most secret orifice. Nearby, a coworker retches. Another has to leave the premises immediately.
He ignores them all, mind running wildly and smoothly to take in all details, even the most minute, even the most distasteful. Mentally crossing out all uneeded facts, he immediately categorizes and organize the knowledge's he's gained. Information is filtered instantaneously.
Sighing, he knows he's the only one with enough nerve to do this. He will not lose his composure entirely over a little gore; he is rather desensitized to it. He leans forward slightly, shoulders haunched as he surveys the damage.
Whatever phallus shaped objects the killer had been able to get his hands on, it's there, plunged deep inside of the woman. Short, grounded pencils, varying from worn to new. Sticks, with splintered ends, and capped plastic pens. Metallic kitchen utensils, like a spoon, shoved unhesitatingly towards the woman's uterus—everything and anything, it's there. There is no question in anyone's mind that were the woman alive, she'd be sterile by now.
The brutal creativity astounds him. The sight is disgusting, no doubt, but there is a jauntiness to it all. Like artwork produced from a proud papa, it's so clear.
The killer not only takes pride in his work, he treats a kill as his own child.
Such meticulous care, the man thinks. Such obvious relish.
Something catches his attention immediately. A knife, he sees, is still stuck in a jagged and hazardous cut, standing out to him as strange. To leave the knife alone in its place...is that the decision of a meticulous executor? A small, minor detail overlooked by all and overshadowed by the gore—but this man does not overlook it or underestimates its value.
Any other officer would have ignored it, not realizing its significance. Any other officer would be a fool, acting without the experience or the eyes as this particular man does.
But why? Why does the man puzzle so much over this one detail over the next? He takes in the sight once more, immediately traverses multitudes of mental paths, and comes to one conclusion.
Leaving the knife within the body after death is an unusual choice amongst the unrestrained artistry of the murder. And there is a definite, clear element of there being no restraint. Brutal, horrific murder, yes...but there is no grace. There is only a sick sort of amusement to be had, but the killer has not defined this kill by the principles of grace.
Blatantly mutilating a mother's womb and nailing her to the wall of her living room, knowing full well that the real target—her son—would be the first to walk in onto the scene...
Arrogance. Egotistical arrogance; there is no grace to be had, no restraint. There is nothing here but joyous sadism, entirely without the solemn reverence the killer Sasori graces each and every one of his victims. Characteristic of the legendary killer's M.O. is the obvious unsaid words of but there can be more.
The original is not such a mindless brute; Sasori has a restraint that he exercises with every murder—those same words of but there can be more...done. There can be more done, just as he could have easily killed Deidara at the same he took the boy's eye, just as that monster could have chosen to rape an innocent child at the same time. But the blond boy had been ignored, only coming away with half broken vision, and the rest of that night's horror takes place when the artist killer turns his back attention towards the father to finish the job.
Sasori, above all, enjoys his kills and exacts each wound, each scar, with meticulous, fastidious care. Therefore, whereas his victims should have come out looking unthinkably abused, they don't, not to the extent they could have been damaged. His is a subtle horror, a quiet terror—but absolute. Still, Sasori does not lose himself in a frenzy, does not kill for the misshapen, random sake of killing...and definitely not carry out his murders by going against his own rules of grace.
There is something deeply wrong with this woman's murder, and it is not the method of her death.
Sloppy. That's the only way the man can put it. If there is any true artistry to this particular homicide, it would be a sloppy, hazardous grace. Wild abandon, mindless relish... and uncharacteristic with the rest of the woman's carefully placed scars. Clashing...yes, clashing with the supposed perfectionist's M.O.. As if...this killer has tried too hard and has slipped up.
There are other blades, of course, most of the sharp implements being strewn around the room. Only abandoned and not plunged within the body, he knows, because their purpose has long finished: to widen the birth canal, opening it in the most forceful and degrading of manner.
There is even a peeking butt end of a cigarette in there, shoved in among the other objects. There are probably more; ash dribbles down wounded flesh...flecks of gray among the clotted, mottled red.
A narrow of the eyes as a new revelation appears; cigarettes that were still burning upon death. He can tell—there are marks of minor burns, tiny enough to be unassuming, but the carved and slashed open flesh of inner, sanctum walls are peppered with them.
Almost overwhelmed with the anarchy stark fresh before him, the man hangs back his head and breathes. He absently tucks his flashlight away. His eyes are squeezed shut with a deep, born horror that he does not give words to.
The man does not want to open his eyes. But he does—he has to.
He notes her throat, a seizure of muscle and veins frozen there. A twisted smile touching her lips, the thumping palpitations of her once fluttering eyes...he can see it all.
The torso, he thinks, struggling to recapture his composure, is unmarred. Untouched.
He doesn't know whether to thank God or not, and it is this incredible thought that nearly forces him to cave to hysteria, to lose his composure completely.
This a mockery of life, and the only reaction he can give is a slight tightening of the lips. Though he appears unmoved, in his mind the world slows to a halt and only the corpse is in the room with him. He can see only her, and everything else...fades. Everything else is insignificant at this moment, so...so terribly inconsequential.
His private, silent moment is interrupted. "Captain. All of the family members have been recovered."
The man's gaze rapidly cools. He doesn't answer his subordinate immediately, only waves him away. "Ah," he says. "I see. And the family? How long since they've been transferred to the hospital?"
"An hour, sir. They're...they're fine—no, that is, the father and daughter are injured, but..."
"What of the others?"
"The team, sir? They're currently waiting for you to...finish."
The man stands. "I've seen enough. Wrap this up. I'll give my assessment tomorrow as usual." Walking away, he tosses the words over his shoulder. "Forward the rest of the evidence to my desk, physical copies. Don't give Yakushi any. Get me this family's files—everything. I want all their info and all their contacts by the morning, and I want a hospital update as soon as their situation is secured."
"Yes, sir," the officer says, choking, "but who, sir? Who could have—?"
The man pauses at the door. "This is nothing compared to the monster's usual work. This is absolutely...nothing at all." The man releases a rough breath. "There's no need to profile the monster when it's so clear whose work this is." Or isn't, he thinks.
"Sir?"
All the anger drains away. He turns to look at his subordinate with an impassive face. "Don't dwaddle," the man says. "Get to work, Yoroi."
"And...and what about Officer Yakushi? Sir, isn't he—"
"No. Do as you're ordered. Yakushi's suspension is for the duration of this investigation. Get me those files." His thoughts are jumbled, which reflects in his choppy, disorganized words. He furiously motions his subordinate away. "Go. Do it!"
When the officer quickly leaves, he slumps against the wall and clasps his face in his hands. It is the first emotional display he allows himself, the first lapse in control...
Will it be the first? he thinks.
But his despair is not stemmed from shock; he knows full well he's expected this day to come.
"Akasuna no...Sasori. He's come back. Finally—God, why." He stills suddenly, realization punching his gut so fast he is gasping for breath. "...No. No, no, no, this isn't his work. I know Sasori—this isn't his work. Central focus on the vagina, brutal attention to this one area...yes, that's his style. But that knife, something about it...I don't know what, but—why has it taken him eleven years to come back? What was he waiting for?"
An old, lingering memory slinks into his thoughts. The man closes his eyes.
"...Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Not this again. It was...a theory, just a thought. I was wrong. I thought there was substance to it back then, but when a decade's passed with no activity...no. It can't be." Forcefully, he jerks up a hand and slams it into the wall; his flung open eyes are fierce. "No. I'm a fool to think that. Don't go there, Nara, just don't—no. It is. It is true, isn't it? It's true..."
He stumbles against the wall, a hand griping his face. "I was right. Whether it's ten years ago in the past or ten years in the fucking future, I will always be right." Fumbling for a cigarette, and then remembering the woman, he crushes the pack and flings it away. His laugh is terse and short of breath, voice morbidly triumphant even as it is hallow. "So even as Cassandra crows, Troy falls and all the crowd turns away their ears...but she believes. Which means, I have to believe. My intellect, my theories—they will crumble to scrutiny if I don't have faith in my own abilities."
He calms. The analytical bent of his mind has seized back control, and the man is glad.
"Okay. Okay, after a long period of inactivity, rumors came about the legend being dead. Missing? Never to return? The police seized it, prettying up the affair, saying Sasori was dead..." A bitter twist to that smile. "Ah. And herein lies the problem: he sure as hell doesn't look dead right now. And this is going to cause a public stir...politics. It's all about the politics."
Settling into this newfound, extraordinary bout of composure, he breathes and gathers his rattled thoughts. "Copycat," he says immediately. "Everyone is going to assume it's a copycat. Right."
Shaking his head, he stands and begins to pace. "...But is a copycat no better than a half-assed stuttered explanation? Copycats don't pop up ten years after a serial killer's spree; they take advantage of current media heat, letting the true killer be the scapegoat for his crimes..." His eyes close in contemplation as he absently begins to mutter out words to himself, his thought processes.
A plan forms. Flexing his hands, he absently goes back over the details, thinking it a functional enough plan. Not perfect, but all of the puzzle pieces have not yet been put into their places...
For example, where is the real Sasori? Having established that the murder is not to Sasori's credit isn't good enough—he intends to find out who did it. Not only that, if alive where is the real Sasori? How does one go about luring out a phantom?
He already knows the answer to that.
But he cannot ignore the other possibilities. Copycat, he thinks, copycat...what are the potential copycat's motives, goals? What is he trying to accomplish?
As he toys with the thought, an officers enters the house, searches the room, and shoots his superior a questioning look. The Nara distractedly gives the go-ahead.
The subordinate nods sharply and motions to the people waiting beyond the doorway. A forensics team soon swarms in past them, but the Nara has gotten what he needed. He doesn't need the time to survey an undisturbed crime scene anymore.
He walks out of the house, face calm, eyes half-lidded and contemplative. His coworkers give him a wide berth, easily recognizing the expression on the Nara's face and how dire the consequences are to disturb the man when he is thinking.
But said man doesn't care, too consumed by thoughts of the killer's identity. There is something else I'm forgetting, he thinks. Something that the murder has almost completely driven from his mind...
A file is promptly handed to him. An update from the hospital.
Oh, the Nara thinks, frowning when he realizes what he's forgotten. Don't tell me...He takes it, glances at it, and then turns away.
Yamanaka, the paper screams. He idly brings back his gaze and forces himself to read.
And sighs.
Father, thirty eight, alive but has suffered blunt force trauma to—
Crumpling the paper, he shoves it into a pants pocket and walks away. His face has hardened without his knowing, but his eyes are tinged with regret.
"After this mess is over," he says, muttering, "when this is all over, then I can forget I ever had a friend named Yamanaka Inoichi."
He stops to stare up at the sky in silence, watching as dawn breaks for day. Not one for sentimentality, he scowls and slouches away.
Next chapter is biased towards Shikaku's perspective and fully develops his character, and by doing so will justify that spectacular finale. But, you know, what the heck's up with this site? It lists Shikaku's name as "Shikato." I'm appalled.
I can tell you right now that Deidara doesn't show up for the next chapter either. Instead, this interlude/arc is happening to transition Deidara to his development into the boy of the summary. Meaning? The real plot is happening soon.
But why did Shikaku flip? What's this theory he keeps talking about? What's with the falling out with Inoichi? And, most importantly, is this the avant of the real Sasori or just a creepy copycat?