The Yamanaka murder from the killer's perspective, and the character you've all been waiting for while another shocking one shows up.
The entire chapter was written to show the contrasting mentalities of two very different killers who were partners Once Upon a Time. The distasteful rehashed gore is for all of you. XDD
When he kills the woman, the blood feels unimaginably sweet—against his lips, tongue, and mouth! And against his skin, coating his pores with the silky life energy in crimson, precious red, he licks!
Divine. Absolutely divine.
Fangs drip with greedy, retching saliva. He laves the woman thoroughly, gleefully taking in her vacant expression, the repressed shock! He lavishes her face and neck and shoulders, reveling in the haze he is putting her through. The torture.
She is still alive, the detached part of him notes. Still alive, still in there, watching...away in her own little world. Are you in pain, my dear? Yes, yes, I think I am! Shall I pour you some more of life's wine? Yes, I think I want some, more and more!
So he obliges her, the bitch.
Is violation necessary? Perhaps it's all a tad cliché. Look, watch as the husband walks in and watch as the man is horrified to see his wifey on the floor! A dog. A bitch in heat, ass in the air, cunt throbbing and throbbing and gushing out all sorts of liquids, all pure sweetness.
No, no, no, it can't be, he argues. How can I be so cruel, so foul? Let's not degrade the meat, shall we? A shame, isn't it, to see such a pretty face mashed against the floor? There's no harm in leaving her be, just walk out that door! Walk out that door!
He's no pervert; it's not like he wants to fuck the cunt in front of the husband's eyes. Does he want that? Of course not. He is refined. He is gentile. He has good taste and does not do ungentlemanly things.
So, he asks again, what should I do? Degenerate into an odd rapist and do such droll things with a petty woman? How boring. How dull!
Yes. Let's. No harm in clichés. No harm at all. The done deal, the same old, same old...are they not there to inspire the uninspired, to educate the uneducated? Am I uncreative and unimaginative enough to go with the flow, to become a sycophant to society and cheap ass Saturday morning cartoons? Should I deny this curiosity to dabble in the dabbled, to experiment with the norm?
Normalcy can't always be overrated, he thinks. It's there for a reason. It works, doesn't it? Clichés are there because they work.
Something in his mind urges his actions, chasing at his taunt arms as they rip away her underwear to the glory underneath. An urgency that chases his actions, feelings, thoughts.
More, he thinks. I want more. His mind is puzzling in that it is both lucid, yet deliriously engorged with the arousal of the kill.
No more role play, no more scenarios. I am not your Husband, deary. I am no so Kind.
For one moment, he does not want to be knowledgeable and creative. He wants to simply...feel. Yes, let's feel, kiddies, let's feel—!
Is this not boring? he asks himself again. Am I being uninspired?
Her hair is so ugly he croons into her skull even as he fists his hand and punches it into inininside of her. Thrust, punch, thrust punch. It widens, her hole. Stupid whore, accommodating him so easily! Why so easy, loose? Have you done this before, my dear?
Of course she has: she's got two kids, ain't she?
No, no, the beautiful boy is not hers. How can such a precious boy belong to her?
My mistake, his mind supplies with a solemn sigh. What a mistake I've made!
I am sorry, he thinks. I was wrong. Forgive me?
His mind is silent, curiously blank; it does not sigh.
This is boring. She is bleeding all over moist digits, and she is boring. Clichés are boring. This is such a bore.
Giving one last pump deep, caressingly deep inside of her, he extracts his hand and pulls free. Squelch! What a slutty sound.
There's a barely discernible white sheen on his enclosed fist that gleams even in the dim lighting. Milky, soggy, clingy—the essence of a woman. It smells. Delightful? He picks at it, disconcerted by its silkiness. Veins of blood mingling in with the soggy whites...
Ah. Are you aroused, my dear?
But she is so still, she cannot answer. Her chest heaves with pain, face undiluted with agony.
He puckers thin, stretched lips and wonders what he can do; he is aware he has only few minutes left. What to do?
She's a greedy child wanting more. Selfish, naughty whore, just lay there and die! What a bore! Go die, he thinks. Go die. Now.
Wait. Few more minutes. What do children like to do in a span of a few minutes? Play, yes? Yes, of course! Of course they like to play! And what do children do when they play? Toys, yes...yes...toys!
There are none. He is put out, displeased. He is seeing a potential masterpiece before his eyes, so where are the art supplies?
Crayons, pencils, pens...you know, the usual ilk. Where are the toys?!
It takes two precious minutes to locate them. By the time he comes back to her quivering body, he is shaking horrifically. Uncontrollable jerks and nerves that dance and make him twitch, he is infuriated!
Not enough. Not nearly enough. There is simply no time! The little boy is coming home soon to mommy, and yet the masterpiece is not yet finished!
In his haste, he scatters the utensils all...over. How messy the room is, and the sight is distasteful. How best to end this now? How best to feed her innards with her children's playthings? How best to pretty her up with her Sunday's best?
Her arms are sagging at her sides. Her heads lolls back against the wall. Her legs are splayed, orifice ripe for the picking.
Open...opened wide. Greeting him with a sigh, a lust filled and coy smile that draws him in. Drawing and drawing...it greets him at the door! It is inviting him in!
Mood clearing, he cheerfully spares a few seconds to get his other tools of creativity. When he comes back, he does not regret getting them.
Fashionably old fashioned pencils, along with the new mechanical things dripping in lead. Pens of all variety to match the colors of the rainbow. Color pencils here and there, but mostly metal, shiny bits and pieces belonging to the kitchen. It is the best he can find.
Spoons. Forks. What a western family! What a delight to find such a quaint, traditional home that is so accommodating to his tastes, his décor. The forks are a delight, but there is simple poetry to the idea of scooping her out with dainty spoons. Appealing, is it not? The Egyptians couldn't have done more!
So he crams them into her, all manner and shapes and sizes of tools. All of them! None of them. Perhaps this is all in his mind, or perhaps this is true reality and this is really happening. All he knows is that he is stabbing and thrusting and poking her with all assortments of materials that belong nowhere and anywhere near her.
And every weak gasp produced from such a lovely, whorish body is...a delight.
But all dreams end, even the pleasant ones. That's when the nightmare begins.
His has run out of space, out of room. No vacancy here. What do you mean no vacancy?! I say it just as I mean it—there is no more room for you here.
The woman is filled to the core. The sight should please him. It does not because she is full, and he is not done! Nowhere near satisfied! He is enraged!
He jerks away from the woman with a panicked fury that torments and twists his face. And what a terrible face! So pale, so white, so gaunt, so thin...and eyes. Terrible, terrible eyes. Slitted and frightening, those eyes that consume!
But he rather likes his eyes. They remind him of his precious pets, all curling and smooth skin scales and licking, biting mouths...Deidara is one of his pets. But Deidara is, unfortunately, wholly human.
Humans are boring, but Deidara is not boring. And yet...Deidara is human? BUT HE WANTS HIM AS HIS PET—!
Wait. Deidara can become his toy, oh, yes, he can. What do little boys and girls like to do? No. Forget the girls, just concentrate on the boys. Deidara. Focus. Blond and beautifully mangled, dangling eyes. Eye. Left, scarred, a masterpiece in its own right. A beautiful portrait of unhinged despair, pockets of tears never shedding there. What a wonderful job Sasori has done!
For pete's sake, you've only got five more minutes! But nostalgia curls at his toes and whispers against his ear. Can't you see he wants to hear? So let us reminisce, oh that wonderful partner of his. Sparring the old boy another thought, he toys with familiar, old feelings.
Mmm, he thinks, to have that beautiful man at his side once more. To cherish and behold the most beautiful of things is the most wonderful feeling in the world. Mold them, craft them, those pretty boys...until they bloom, shine.
He dearly, truly wants to kill that man. Oh, yes, he does. He wants to wrench his partner's throat apart, sink in his teeth, and suckle at those vocal cords that do not speak. Sasori, Sasori, always so patient. Your work is adulation, and yet you can't spare me your never ending silence? Never speaking, just working...what a workaholic. No indulging at all, that man! So achingly severe...
Ah, if only he knows where the pretty scorpion is hiding...oh, ohh, if only that man shows his face! Where are you? Where? Where?
I want you here! I want you beside me, I want to caress and eat you. I want you to die—die, so why won't you die? Why won't you be killed? Why must I search for you as you torment me so? Why must I forever look towards the desert sky, searching endless seas of sand, for someone demeaning himself to hide? Why hide? Why not come out?! Why the arrogance to think that I can never replace you? I am your better! Your master! No one enslaves me, much less a soulless boy!
But why have you succeeded? I need you. I love you—I want to kill you. I want everything. Your body, your heart, your face, your lives...give me your all, give me your reputation! Give me the legend! Give!
Five minutes more. Reminiscing doesn't take any time at all.
He is pleased. Discovering the blond precious beauty in the dull, monotonous life of dazzling stars, overwhelming couplings, and street, night life galore, he's found his precious boy! He'd been delighted before he followed the boy home.
The silver wretch, with hot, pulsing lips at the neck of his toy. Touching him! Touching his things, he doesn't like strangers touching his things...!
Clever, clever silver wretch hides oh-so nice from his acidic, slitted eyes. Such paranoia. He spends only a minute to try and catch their lost trail, before he realizes the clever, clever silver wretch has probably hidden in the city.
A plan comes to mind, and is now in effect. He only really needs to get to the home before his blond precious boy does.
Of course he doesn't need a guide. Even before then, he knows where the homely home is! He's here now, isn't he? Tainting the walls. Fucking the wife.
The husband, he thinks—laughing—has already been dealt with. He is upstairs! In his bed! Having no idea of the circumstances his little wifey is in!
The daughter. Hm. Dull, very dull.
He glances at the woman with critical eyes.
So there is a resemblance. Go figure.
This woman, he tuts, has led a very dull life. A life that has been spiced up the moment he has walked inside. Such a good wife. Such a good, good mother.
Mother, oh, Mother, may I see your insides?
He raises his hand. Clasped in them are careless knives. Slash! Such resilient skin you have, giving way to my blades like butter to the knife!
Nothing in his pocket but lint and knives.
I have to stop this rhyme.
He shakes his head, long hair swinging. But he can't help it, can he? The woman just has no more room left, and such a fact can't be true...she is his canvas, and there is his paint! Blood, the rank smell of death, the enticing, heady aroma of sex. Over. And over.
She's not dead yet, but she will be.
Canvas never runs dry. Neither do they run out of space. His artistry is everlasting—that is one endearing lesson his partner has imparted to him. There must be a certain amount of finesse given to each death, a close attention to details, a fine selection of details, that must be carried out in a grand manner.
The logic? There is no space within her. He is unsatisfied? To become satisfied, which is a pleasantly demanding aspect of his work, he must look beyond the entrapments and piss to obscure the lines of society. He must call forth all the creativity in him, all the efforts and joy he can pull forth, and push!
There is no room? Well, then, make room. Make her body the temple that shines, make her body as his precious eye! Temples are large, grand, with ceilings way up high. Artists need elbow space to work with, and the canvas never runs dry. The answers are so very clear. What must he do to improve?
Calling upon age old textbook knowledge that swirls in his brain, he leans over and caresses her womb with knives.
And then he starts to cut.
--
The old man sighs as he sips some tea. He sets it down gently, a sight that is in strange conflict with his gruff appearance. His face is gaunt, the lower half shrouded by a cloth. His pupils are glaring, his eyes narrowed. Haunched over in his seat, the board is laid out before him. He is participating in a game of shougi, and his opponent is a quiet one.
This pleases the old man for he hates idle chatter. He is not a man to cross, and often times the idiots of the town cannot offer him the slightest of challenges. He is bored, but this new challenger has urged him to take a newfound interest in a game he has already mastered long ago.
He lifts an arm and makes a play, and yet victory has only now approached his sight; they have been playing for four and a half hours straight. Though hungry, he soothes his stomach with tea. He is so engrossed with this game, this fantastical opponent he has found, that he does not care for petty earthly distractions. He can tell his opponent feels the same way. Not ever has he ever been approached by a player with such intense focus as this stranger!
He may be world weary, but he is quite intelligent. Like his opponent, he lets his reticence show. They let their shougi tactics speak for themselves.
The old man's way shows clearly through his pieces. Defensive, but deceptive in play, he lies in wait. He focuses on misleading opponents, drawing them into the world of traps and tricks, luring unwary men into their demises. He delights in unexpected surprises and crushing any arrogant fool's pieces completely. His brutal, callous intent shows in every one of his careful plays.
In real life, he is tired and old, but on the shougi board his actions speak of incredible knowledge, calculative thinking, and a staunch, pragmatic approach to his strategies.
No words are exchanged between the two. The old man is delighted that he has finally found an opponent who can appreciate his mastery of the game. It is why he faces this opponent with his complete attention, never allowing himself to stray into thoughts that would make him underestimate the much younger man.
He refuses to insult such a magnificent player by fighting him with less than his all. Holding back even a shred of his skill is the highest insult that can be paid in this moment in time.
The stranger, this silent opponent of his, can surely appreciate the gesture.
And he does. The stranger's eyes widen until that deceptively youthful face curves softly with his smile. The smile he gives the old man is a content, languid one, a gentle gesture of defeat. He leans in close, finger tapping the board. "You have bested me, Hiruko," the man says, and his words are said in dulcet tones. "I thank you for this game."
Soft spoken, polite, and completely respecting of his elder's skills. Yet, there is something in the stranger's face that speaks of coying smugness.
Hiruko, as the old man is indeed called, raises brows high. "Your shougi will always be appreciated here, boy. As you can see, though, I have won." He says this without boast, only satisfaction, and yet he can't help but furrow those brows when the stranger only chuckles.
"My dear opponent," the redheaded man says, face gleaming with triumph, "please check your pieces once more."
Hiruko obliges him, curiosity spurring him on as he rakes the board with shrewd eyes. They widen. His mouth breaks into a pleased gasp. He laughs! Hoarse, hacking laughs...as if he has never laughed before!
The redheaded man doesn't stop smiling. His content expression has become genuine and pleased. He taps the board again. "Well? Will you forfeit, my dear opponent? Or shall I overtake your king?"
The old man is still laughing, but now he is waving his younger opponent away. "Forget it, boy! I can make no more moves after such a trap. Turning my own strength into my greatest weakness...you have forced me into an unprecedented defeat."
"I am glad." The corners of the stranger's eyes crinkle. "I have not had such difficulty in the longest of times."
For the first time in many frustrated years, Hiruko smiles back.
--
The night Hiruko dies, he does so with sobering dignity, sitting in his home quietly. His tea is laid out beside him, as it always is. Occasionally, he takes calm sips, but his form is taunt, aging muscles tense.
He looks very much like a belligerent old general, ready for any battle. It is as if he knows he is about to die.
A shougi board is placed before him, its heavy set wooden pieces carefully positioned. At seemingly random times, he takes a moment to move a piece. He is playing both sides, playing a match against himself. What is the point of this? some may ask, but Hiruko is studying the board with much more intensity than he should. It begs questioning.
Had anyone been knowledgeable enough about his activities earlier—or, rather, his match this afternoon—they would have realized that the old man is replicating his near five hour match with the stranger. If that isn't incredulous enough, he is doing so with perfectly accurate memory.
An incredibly daunting task, recalling a five hour match, but this is no ordinary match. It is a match started and completed with only thirty-seven moves combined. It has taken five hours to deliberate and complete such an extraordinary game, with more cunning and wits involved than just the strategies being played out on the board below.
That is what Hiruko is doing now. It is not that he has photographic memory or near perfect intelligence. He is simply deciphering the undertones of the undertones of the match he has played with the redhead youth of this afternoon, a stranger who has only recently arrived in town.
He is deciphering the stranger's intent. As the replaying of the duplicate match continues on, his face grows more and more wary. His tea is utterly forgotten, consumed as he is in decoding the subtleties that this dangerous stranger has weaved into his play.
It is both a fascinating yet horrifying process.
He is too impatient with the world and its ways to bother to seek companionship. Human interaction stops strictly at the marketplace. Nothing more is needed. He hates waiting for something that will never come, but he despises making others wait even more. What a hypocrite he would be if he indulges in the same habits as the world around him!
When one is as consumed by the game of shougi as he is, a man learns to judge another's character by the strategies he plays.
You cannot lie on the board. The pieces cannot hold their owner's deceit, and that is why mind games between pros are particularly common and worthy. To hide the player's true nature, his intentions, to obfuscate anything that would give an enormous advantage away...
He is, he suddenly realizes, afraid.
In the face of this unexpected development, the old man can only laugh. Amused. He is very amused.
His fear slides into apathy; he knows now that he is going to die.
It is why he is not at all surprised to hear padded footsteps approach him from behind. They stop just short of his chair, and Hiruko does not need to turn around to know who is there, standing behind him.
He's lived too long anyway. And he so hates to make others wait.
Might as well converse with his killer. A morbid decision, but his humor is dark enough to accept this choice. "Please," he says, motioning towards the empty seat opposite of him. "Sit. I insist."
He feels, rather than sees, his killer's nod. The redheaded stranger from before moves around to take his place in the waiting chair. His manner is delicate and refined as always, but there is now a taunt, deadly edge to it. A taunt, but Hiruko is not intimidated.
He idly wonders why a famed murderer has decided to grace his door. The old man poises this question aloud.
He is rewarded with Sasori's dulcet laugh.
The killer leans forward ever slightly. His tones are musing, mockingly thoughtful. "Why is it," he says, "that I am not surprised to find my old rival here, waiting for me?"
Hiruko tilts his head in a nod. "I am flattered to be called as such. I was not aware that you had considered me such a threat? But I suppose my intellect is a curse in this case."
"You are correct."
"So I am alive still, why?"
"Answers," is the arch, airy response. "I am in need of answers as to recent events in Konoha."
"Hm," Hiruko says noncommittally, clearing the board. "I am retired, Akasuna no Sasori. You will get no answers out of me."
"And yet your loyalty belongs to no one but yourself. You are a police captain no more. This does not constitute as a betrayal. We are not in Konoha."
"No, we are not. We are near Suna, your mother's homeland."
"How knowledgeable you are." Idle praise.
"Hmm." The old man finishes setting up the new pieces. "I've done enough research on you to know your origins. How many long hours have I been consumed with the thought of capturing you? Sadly, this poor substitute of yours in Konoha fails utterly to hold my attention."
Sasori smirks, the first facial gesture he gives that is not disarming or charming in the least. It is stark to his intentions and utterly cruel. "...I have my reasons for letting the man play."
Hiruko heaves a sigh, already bored with the conversation. "Let us proceed with the new game. Do you agree?"
Sasori has finished setting up his side of the board. He shrugs lightly in compliance. "I am black. I will move first. In our previous game, I was white. Did you duplicate our game in my perspective?"
"Yes. It didn't work by the way."
"Really..."
"You are masterful at this," Hiruko says, the praise unhesitating.
"I know." They both know they are not talking about shougi. "Your reluctance to speak...are you that ignorant of the workings of your former partner?"
"Of course not," he says immediately. "However, people change. My apprentice has had years worth of experience away from my command. I can claim no knowledge of his tactics now."
Sasori's smirk only widens. He smoothly moves a pawn.
Hiruko counters the move by copying it.
A few more moves, and the black rook is finally captured and put to the side. This game, in contrast with the afternoon one, is rapid. If this careless pace keeps up, he knows they will finish in less than a hour. Shougi games typically last one to two hours. Their earlier one lasted five.
Right now, each is taking less than a minute to decide each move. Pros take three. Hiruko's brows raise high, again impressed with his opponent's prowess, but he is not surprised.
For forty-nine moves, they do not speak.
"Contrary to belief," the old man is compelled to finally add, moving a bishop, "I voluntarily retired that day seventeen years ago. When I was first in charge of your case, my methods were controversial, yes, but not so much to garner such animosity. I am from Suna, after all. What did they expect? I was not about to let myself be humiliated from a dismissal. Konoha no longer welcomed me, but I was fine leaving it. My greatest achievement comes in the form of a boy, anyway. It is enough to know that they cannot live without him."
"He does you proud," Sasori notes, languidly capturing a white rook. "Even now, in ignominy, you are well up to date with the happenings in Konoha. What will you do when you find out he is dead?"
Hiruko chokes a laugh, caught by the absurdity of the statement. "I will be dead by morning! There is no use in asking me such an irrelevant question."
"I have decided to watch these events play out. These years have been such a bore to me, and nothing has challenged me to greater heights. It is to my regret that I must kill you. You are simply too intelligent. It has taken me a decade to locate you. Will you answer my questions before you are dead?"
"I will now," Hiruko says, voice satisfied, "because you have proven to be my greatest opponent."
"You are not an artist by any stretch."
"Feh," he says. "My death will just be credited to that partner of yours."
Sasori gazes at him calmly. "You know of my partner?"
"Who doesn't? Then again, all of Konoha is in a panic. Screaming about copycat this, copycat that. The stupider ones think you're actually back. The idiots! Be wary of my boy. He has a tendency towards prophetic theories. They are usually right."
"I have no intention of returning to Konoha. I never had." Sasori briefly closes his eyes. He wordlessly moves a pawn. "My partner has aims I am all too aware of. He is foolish if he believes he can attain them. If he becomes too much, I will simply eradicate him."
"Yes." Hiruko shrugs. "I suppose you will."
"You are being very impersonal for talking to your killer."
"I am in admiration of you. So skillful a player can't obviously be insane enough to perform this cohesively. Your murders were artworks themselves. I miss those days. Times are blindingly boring now."
Sasori tilts his head. "Curious."
"I have lived too long," Hiruko says, decisively cornering a valuable piece. "Do what you will with me."
"...Curious."
"Are you surprised by my attitude?"
"Your shougi tells me you are anxious, and yet your manner is calm. What are you so impatient for?"
"That boy," Hiruko says, "will have surpassed me by now. I will die here. It is inevitable. I will have been granted a properly gruesome death by the morning. That boy will not see it that way. He will avenge me, my ultimate successor, even when he curses my name. With my death, he will prove his worth."
Sasori's expression is indifferent, but his eyes fairly gleam. "...Is your partner worthy? Will he best mine? Will your last play be the greatest one you've ever played?"
"My last play...recognizing my death as a potential catalyst or shaping the boy into what he is today? Yes, I believe him worthy. Either way, he will stop at nothing to capture your partner. And when he makes that last pawn of yours dead, he will come after the king." Hiruko looks up, a savage grin twisting his face. "Nara Shikaku will succeed where I have failed; he will have captured you. This game will finally come to a close. I have been waiting for this for years..."
Sasori watches intently as Hiruko sets down his thirty-seventh play—a white pawn placed directly in line of his black king, protected from being captured by the king itself by a hidden white bishop, tucked eight paces away.
Checkmate.
Sasori did not kill Inoichi's wife, but it should be obvious who the real psychopath killer is. Sasori shouldn't come off as insane, being in full control of himself, but it should be assumed he has spent the last ten years lying low...doing what, I wonder? And what is his partner's motive and goal? Do you believe Shikaku, who thinks Sasori is the brainwashed apprentice of some psycho killer? Who is really pulling the strings around here?
Hiruko was a very powerful captain who took Shikaku under his wings. This shrewd bastard saw to it that he cultivated the Nara prodigy's talent, but Hiruko had none of the ethics or morals that Shikaku has. There is a reason Hiruko is so willing to die. Is it strange to split Hiruko/Sasori into two separate characters? I giggle at the image of them playing shougi together...