Quotidian ch.5
By: firefly
Note: Hoooly crap, THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone for their reviews, support, and patience. This chapter was a long, long way coming (not to mention the longest chapter ahaha), and a really draining one to write.
I think it's safe to say there's one chapter left to go, and although I doubt there'll be two I won't rule it out. Bah, just know that this insane fic is coming to an end soon. XD
Now, carry on my lovelies!
(P.S. The "screening test" described in the fic is a real psyche experiment I participated in for a class.)
Of Double Entendres
A spider descended slowly on a strand of silk, pausing momentarily at the shuffle of papers before it continued its descent towards the ground. Dust flew up from every preceding impact of books and papers on a half-rotted table, startling hiding spiders into a scurry towards open crevices in the cracked wood.
A bare bulb flickered overheard, casting a grimy, dim yellow light over the old documents and splaying dark shadows over the dusty stone floor.
Another pile of papers was dropped onto the desk, sending up plumes of dust. A soft, muttered curse sounded in the silence.
"Where the hell is it…"
The shelves were better illuminated when he brought a lamp forward, walking right up to the files, violet irises appearing scarlet in the glare, darting from file to file.
He shifted the lamp and descended into a crouch, scoping the file names until one of the headers on a whole shelf finally caught his eye.
Sunagakure no sato.
He placed the lamp onto the table and reached forward to take the entire section, rising to his feet and dumping it onto the table. A mouse squeaked and scurried out past his foot from the jarring impact of files but he paid no attention, gaze focused resolutely on the papers he perused.
Photographs of various Suna shinobi met his gaze momentarily before being discarded back into their files, each folder dropping to the other side of the table as he browsed through them.
Dead jounin. Missing jounin. Active jounin. They were all mixed together.
Muttering another curse under his breath, he dropped forty of the checked files to the other side of the table, and then opened another one. He didn't have to look past the first photograph to know this couldn't be it, eyes stilling on the candid photo before him.
Sabaku no Gaara, he read silently, staring at the label before raising his eyes to the photograph again. He recognized him as the Kazekage of Suna, and as the jinchuuriki they'd captured to extract the Ichibi. The photograph depicting him was a few months old, showing a full view of his face as he listened to something an advisor next to him was saying. The snapshot had been taken by a spy, to both the obliviousness of the subject and all those surrounding him.
The rest of the photos also depicted Suna's current Kazekage in various stages throughout his life, supplemented by sheets upon sheets of data and statistics. A family tree was printed on the inside of the folder, showing the jinchuuriki as a descendent from his father, the Yondaime.
Sucking his teeth in annoyance, he dropped the photos to the corner of the table before reaching for the rest of the files.
They yielded nothing, and after forty-five minutes of perusing them he shoved them back onto the shelf in aggravation. Reaching up, he moved to grab the chain hanging from the single bulb overhead, but paused when the jinchuuriki's file caught his eye again.
Slowly, he let his arm drop back down by his side, eyes narrowing into a squint as he approached the desk again. The foremost photograph was the most recent, blurry save for the perfect shot of the Kazekage's young face. Three people walked on either side of him and a few behind, clustered close.
The faint clinking of rosary beads sounded in the silence as he slowly leaned closer, pausing only when his face hovered inches from the photograph, violet eyes scrutinizing the figure in black near the Kazekage's side. Her head was turned towards someone in the back of the group.
Something akin to anticipation played in his chest when he touched the photograph, tracing the blurry, dark object protruding from behind her back. Suddenly encouraged, he pushed the photograph aside and looked at the next one.
This one depicted the Kazekage with another young man who looked slightly older, features somewhat obscured by kabuki paint. In the far corner, a dark figure stood by, cut off from above the chin, but her gloved hands rested upon a long, dark object, similar to the one in the previous photograph.
A flip to the next photograph, and he came to a standstill.
There she was.
Now in clear sight, standing directly next to the Kazekage and the same painted man from before, her hair was up in those distinctive pigtails, her large, dark eyes focused on the Kazekage, lips slightly parted in speech.
Feeling a triumphant smirk flourish on his lips, he pushed aside the photo and took up the rest in his hands, straightening to look at them in the light. The camera had caught her in various poses, unbeknownst to her and her company, catching her in serious, amused, indifferent, and even laughing expressions, although every shot of her was blurred in conjunction with the main subject, the Kazekage.
He watched her grow younger with every subsequent photo he withdrew from the back of the pile, a wry smirk gracing his face as he took in the never-ending haughtiness with which she carried herself. The smile gradually faded when he noticed the same, constant arrangement in every photo.
The face-painted kid. Sabaku no Gaara. Then her.
Blinking, he dropped the pile to the table and spread it out, staring in bemusement at the sight of three years' worth of photographs taken of the same group of people. Along with the three of them, a partially masked man constantly stood watch near them, his vest denoting him as a jounin.
Realization suddenly dawned on him.
The jounin had been their genin instructor. The three must have comprised a genin team. The team consisted of…
He ran a finger down the family tree on the side of the folder, eyes widening when he caught sight of the names branching off from the Yondaime's.
Sabaku no Gaara. Sabaku no Kankuro. And Sabaku no Temari.
His eyes darted back to the photographs, slowly taking notice of the similarities in their features, the similar haughtiness that came with being recipients of preferential treatment.
Siblings.
His arm drifted back to his side, eyes widening.
Traces of her steely voice resurfaced at the sight of her picture, their first meetings coming to mind.
I know the organization you're a part of…I know what kind of people you are.
Accusing.
I keep coming back because I'm waiting for you to give me a reason to kill you.
Vindictive.
Nothing to do with you…? Does it matter? You're all the same, so I don't see why you should be excluded.
Unforgiving.
But I'd torture you first. Then I'd decapitate you with your own weapon. And then I'd bury you alive.
Ruthless.
I'm not like most kunoichi…
"Well fuck me," Hidan said softly under his breath, staring at the picture in amazement. "The jinchuuriki's her brother…"
All at once, the inexplicable reasons behind the moments in which he'd felt her tangible fury and unspoken maledictions became blindingly clear, and with it, he slowly realized just how much unadulterated hate she must have been harbouring, and how much it must have been tearing at her insides to let him leave unharmed each night.
All her talk of guarding the border, her vehemence towards performing her duties, her pride to do her job—they were all pretenses, all transparent coverage for the real reason she came to him each night.
Revenge. She was out for his blood and nothing more, and from the cold glint of her eyes and unwavering determination, he could tell she would stop at nothing until she had it. Her hate was tangible in the dark, a constant, lingering burn on every inch of his frame from the moment he arrived to the moment he left. It was intense, untiring, and poisonous, forged from the deepest form of malice and wrath fathomable, something he could sense in the way his skin tingled unpleasantly long after his departures from the oasis.
The aura of malevolence only grew with each meeting, doubling and tripling from the incipient feelings he'd sensed in the first meetings into something darker, something alive and sick and thriving in the harsh cold of the dark desert.
He found his mouth completely dry when he unconsciously licked his lips, breathing slightly shallow and violet eyes alight with something akin to euphoria as he traced the unassuming, calm expression in the picture.
There had been doubt before. There had been a lingering pessimism, a slew of low expectations, nothing but a hunch, but through the thick veil of uncertainty had emerged a small hope and the nagging question of what if?
In the small storage room of the Akatsuki headquarters, in the back logs of shinobi profiles stacked upon dust-ridden shelves, he'd come searching for a sign, some sort of confirmation for the shred of hope he held in the back of his mind.
He'd had his misgivings, but now he knew. Now, there was no doubt in his mind.
She was perfect.
Temari opened her eyes, finding herself looking into the blackness of the ceiling, sensing the back of her head throbbing with a dull ache against some hard edge. Her fingers tingled unpleasantly and after a moment she realized her limbs were asleep. An attempt to flex her stiff, numb fingers was met with a jarring, dismaying sense of weakness, disgust at her diminished strength eliciting a sour feeling in the back of her throat.
As she slowly became aware of the hard surface pressing against her neck and backside, Temari eventually realized that she was slumping in the hard wooden chair she kept in her room.
Her eyes streamed with the effort to lift her head, fingers twitching by her sides, the back of her head lolling listlessly against the top of the hard, wooden backrest. A throbbing, unrelenting pressure pushed against her throat and she had to gasp to breathe, limbs torpid with exhaustion, leaden and useless by her sides.
She didn't know how she'd ended up in the chair. All she could concentrate on was the sight of the black shape perched on the foot of her bed, mere feet from where she sat, its eyes glistening in the blackness.
No, no, no, not again, not this again.
It cocked its head to the side, and suddenly she was more terrified than she'd ever felt in her life, wanting to scream and being unable to as the unrelenting pressure on her throat smothered her voice, reducing her to a state where she could do no more than manage shallow, hitched breaths and not succumb to unconsciousness.
When it spread its wings, beak opening to screech as its feet left its perch, she felt her useless, leaden arm move, a scream tearing from her throat to grab the vile figment and fling it away, to tear into its feathers and rip it apart. Her fingers closed around it, seizing and expecting to feel the crack of small, hollow bones, only to slacken in shock when she felt the distinct slide of soft, silken fabric beneath her fingers.
Her eyes widened in horror when she heard a familiar, sardonic chuckle, goosebumps breaking out violently against her skin when cold fingers covered her hand, prying it away almost gently from the cloth, fingertips brushing purposefully against the skin of her palm.
She couldn't see this, her wide eyes aimlessly searching the blackness of the room, futilely searching for his face. Her bare feet managed to move a minuscule amount over the floor, and a faint whimper caught in her throat as she felt them slide over cool grains of sand. In the far recesses of her mind, she sensed the whispering noise of torch fire flapping in the wind.
A zephyr of silken fabric grazed against her side as he circled her, feeling like a caress of thorns as it brushed slowly over the hypersensitive flesh of her arm. A moment of silence, and then she felt his voice caress the shell of her ear in a whispered greeting.
"Hey, Blondie."
Vestiges of a whimper started and died in her throat as she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut.
"You're starting to feel it, aren't you?" he murmured, a soft undertone of delight lacing his words. "You're starting to feel this…" she wanted to lash out at him with every fiber of her being when he tapped her right temple. "…breaking down."
Don't touch me. Get away. Stay away from me.
A shudder of revulsion wracked her frame when he rested a hand almost comfortingly against her crown, tucking a few stray hairs behind her ear before settling it onto her shoulder.
The sensation made her want to hurt him in ways she'd never fathomed, cruelly and without reprieve. He seemed to sense this and she felt his growing smirk in the blackness, screwing her eyes shut at the feel of his grip tightening slightly.
"Get away," she managed to whisper, voice hoarse.
A soft snicker pervaded the air, fading into silence for a few blissful seconds until she felt his grip tighten slightly once more.
"That's the last thing you want," he said suddenly, the smile audible in his incorporeal voice. "And you know it. What do you want for real, though? What do you want so bad that it keeps you up at night? That when you dream, it's always of me, of us…?"
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter as he gave her a condescending pat on the head, as if coaxing her to speak.
"I want…" she spoke, voice hardly audible. "I want…"
"What do you want?" Gentle, coaxing. Cruel.
I want to break you.
"Come on…"
I want to hit you till you crack.
"Tell me."
Till the silver soaks up the red.
"I can keep a secret."
She could imagine the expression on his face as he spoke, the twisted grin and malicious glint in his eyes, the venomous intent in the words despite the honeyed resonance of his voice. And more than anything, she wanted to tear that countenance to shreds.
Her heavy, numb fingers twitched before slowly rising from her sides, and as he continued speaking with fake amiability and gentleness, she slowly pressed her hands over her ears, pushing her fingertips into her scalp in an attempt to block out his voice.
On the left side, her nails dug into the soft flesh of her temple till the skin was rent beneath the pressure, and gradually, she felt the steady, slow emergence of hot blood running down the side of her face, forking into spider lines over the crest of her cheekbone.
His fingers curved over hers once more, a faint, admonishing noise sounding in his throat as he forced her arm back down near her side.
"Waste not, want not, Blondie."
His fingers cupped the underside of her jaw from behind and her eyes widened, lips parting at the barely tangible sensation of his mouth skimming across her cheek, susurrant words fanning out across the skin.
"You're full of bad habits…"
Then his tongue—jarring, hot, and pulsing—swept languidly over the crimson spider lines streaking her skin, drawing back savouringly before culminating in a breathless murmur.
"…seriously."
A choked cry of revulsion tore from her throat at the same time she flung her arm up, and suddenly the blackness exploded to white and the sensation of something hot and wet against the side of her face became frighteningly real.
Kankuro cursed in shock when she knocked the bowl of warm water from the bedside with a violent swing of her arm, sending it clattering onto the floor. Stooping to pick it up, he raised his concerned gaze to her flushed, perspiring face, her teal eyes reflecting a degree of fright that betrayed the state of mind she'd been in before waking.
"Kankuro?" she croaked disbelievingly.
"Yeah," he said comfortingly, leaning forward to touch her forehead. "Relax, Temari. You're running a temperature."
Relief flooded her face, features almost crumpling in the intense rush of emotion, but she forced herself to look away before Kankuro could notice the uncontrollable welling in her sore eyes.
Then suddenly, she became all too aware of that hot, wet thing against her face and reached up with trembling fingers, taking hold of it and wrenching it away with a shallow gasp of disgust.
"Sorry," he said sheepishly, taking the wet rag from her shaking hand. "Gaara told me to play nurse till the doctor shows up."
Temari glanced towards the far wall, taking note of the time—11:56 AM—before the meaning of Kankuro's words sank in.
"Doctor?" she echoed, voice hoarse. "I'm fine—"
"Shut up," he ordered abruptly, pressing a heavy palm against her clammy forehead. "You're sick as hell. We could hear you moaning in your sleep, and when I came to check on you…" he paused, brow furrowing in worry. "You wouldn't wake up."
She stared at him wordlessly for a long time, subdued with a sense of dismay and compunction.
Her brother stared back, regarding her with tacit concern until she slowly closed her eyes in resignation, fingers slackening by her sides.
The doctor arrived ten minutes later and Kankuro eventually left her for the check-up. Rather hurriedly, Temari noticed wonderingly.
"Well, Temari-san," the doctor said, withdrawing the stethoscope from her chest. "Besides the low blood pressure, which I'm attributing to your sleeping medication, you're fine."
Temari said nothing, settling for observing him as he tucked his tools back into his carrying case.
"Although…"
She followed his troubled gaze to her left arm, and suddenly feeling chagrined, she pulled on her sleeve to obscure the bruised, mottled skin where she'd administered the injections.
"I'm aware of your current position at the border, and I know it's a stressful position, but please, don't overuse the stimulant shots," he said gravely, paying no attention to her surprised look. "They can have a detrimental effect on the body if used in excess. You should stay in bed and take the next week off, at the least."
"I know," she muttered, running a hand over her face. "Trust me, I know."
When he didn't get up to leave, Temari raised her head again, blinking at the sight of the envelope he held out to her. When she slowly took it from his hand and caught sight of the label on the front, he spoke before she could object.
"Kankuro-san has raised some concerns about your…current state of mind, Temari-san. And as it's my duty to make sure that all employed shinobi are mentally fit to work, I'm referring you to have a screening."
She dropped the envelope, clenching her fingers into trembling fists.
"You think I've gone crazy?" she asked blankly, voice shaking.
"Of course not, Temari-san. But from the symptoms your brother described…"
"What symptoms?" she interjected heatedly. "There's nothing wrong with me—"
"Talking in your sleep, he tells me, which you've never done before," the doctor interrupted sternly. "Acting anxious, paranoid, hostile. And your fever, which I think is a psychosomatic reaction to the stress you're under."
Temari wanted to lunge forward and strangle him, wanted to scream at him and tell him he had no idea what the fuck he was talking about or what he was dealing with and that her 'current state of mind' was a necessary sacrifice for the sakes of her brothers. She was not going crazy. She was not—
The doctor looking vaguely alarmed by the infuriated expression taking over her face, but did his best to keep his appearance neutral, glove-clad fingers sliding the envelope towards her again.
"Today at three," he said calmly, giving her a reassuring pat on the back of her hand. "Just take the slip with you. It won't take long."
Temari said nothing, eyes trained on the envelope on the bedspread, and a moment later he got to his feet and quietly departed from the room.
There was no refuting this. Following through with referrals for a psychological screening was mandatory when issued by a doctor, at the risk of being removed from shinobi duty. She had no choice but to obey.
Half an hour later, when she'd showered and dressed and ventured downstairs, Kankuro raised his head from where he sat at the kitchen table and gave her a fleeting look, avoiding her eyes. She walked by him without so much as a backwards glance, slamming the front door behind her.
Breathing hard outside, Temari leaned back against the front door, closing her eyes and willing herself to look calm.
Inside, she knew he'd done it out of concern for her, knew he felt regretful, but that didn't stop her from feeling infuriated. She looked up, teal eyes glistening in the glare of the sun. Narrowing her sore eyes against the harsh light, she lowered her head and started walking, glancing at the clock on the academy tower.
1:38 PM.
She still had plenty of time to get to her appointment, and after a few minutes of wandering the neighbourhood, she remembered what date it was. Today was the day the first barricades were scheduled to go up, and if that schedule was still in effect, it meant Gaara was at the border supervising the dig.
Pulling the fan from the sash around her waist, she waited for the next gust of wind and caught it, swinging herself up on the canvas as the wind lifted her in the direction of the border. From her vantage point in the sky, she could see billowing clouds of sand and dust already collecting on the horizon.
At the border, Gaara raised his head, glancing away from the piles of disconnected metal and scurrying workers up at the sky over his shoulder as a dark shadow approached from overhead. He relaxed instantly as he made out the three familiar circles on the fan.
"Hey," Temari greeted a moment later, dropping neatly into the sand beside him, snapping the fan shut and tucking it back into her sash.
Gaara eyed her from the corner of his eye, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the way her knees buckled slightly on impact.
"You were supposed to see a doctor today."
"I did," she answered, looking out at the workers. "I passed my physical okay."
When Gaara didn't reply, Temari glanced over at him, brow furrowing when she saw him staring at her with an unreadable look on his face.
"I'm fine, Gaara. I promise."
She made it a point to avoid looking at where she'd concealed the referral in her shirt. Inwardly grateful when Gaara finally looked away, she watched in curiousity as he raised his arms and called calmly over the wind.
"The first one."
Almost immediately, the workers retreated from a series of markers placed along a swept portion of the desert, and Temari watched in intrigue as they looked expectantly towards the marked area.
The landscape fell silent, the only sound in the surrounding desert emanating from the flapping of Gaara's robes in the dry, hot wind. He slowly raised his hand, holding it outstretched over the markers, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration.
Temari smiled slightly when the workers stumbled back with alarmed looks on their faces. The ground beneath them began to rumble and the sand stirring in spirals on the surface floated up into the air, the tiny grains vibrating.
A bead of sweat appeared on Gaara's brow as the tendons in his hands flexed, fingers curving in slightly as the rumbling increased, forcing more particles of sand to rise into the air.
"Move back," he said impassively.
The workers did as they were told, scrambling back, although Temari remained by his side, watching as Gaara abruptly swung his arm upward.
A geyser of sand erupted from the ground, the explosion so violent she staggered back to get behind him, staring at the enormous wall of sand that sprayed up vertically into the air and blew out from the edges of the markers, burying her knee-deep into the desert within seconds.
Gaara remained standing there, robes flapping violently from the rush of escaping sand and air as Temari moved farther back, watching him with a proud grin as he reached out with his other hand, keeping the sand surrounding the barricades' foundations out of the precipice he'd formed. Sand continued bursting from the ground for another minute or so, eventually tapering off, forming a massive brown cloud over them as Gaara slowly lowered his hand.
The workers darted forward immediately, gathering their equipment and preparing to drill into the exposed bedrock beneath the sand as Gaara kept the surrounding sand from spilling into the hole.
Temari approached and stood next to him, giving him an admiring smile.
"Nice job, Gaara."
He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, watching the workers start the drilling process.
"I'm only capable of doing this twenty-three more times before my chakra reserves run low. Then I will return tomorrow and do twenty-three more."
Temari nodded, lifting her gaze to look out over the border.
"Two months for them all to go up, right?"
Gaara nodded, and when Temari said nothing in reply, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
His sister stared with intense fixedness out at the oasis, teal eyes hard and narrowed, fists clenched by her sides.
Gaara stared at her for a moment longer before slowly looking away, returning his attention back to the barricade construction. Slowly, gradually, the first set of disconnected metal was erected successfully to the cheers and exultation of the workers, a towering black domino amidst a sea of brown.
Temari smiled grimly before clasping Gaara's shoulder and turning to leave.
Only 1380 to go.
Half an hour later, a few minutes shy of her appointment, Temari emerged from beneath an overpass, heading towards the medical research facility adjacent to the hospital. She walked briskly towards the building, stepping over the flagstones to take a shortcut through the atrium.
Her shoes grated over the sand as she entered the empty courtyard, each clicking impact of her heels echoing loudly in the silence. The complete and utter absence of sound was eerie, and she felt the urge to walk faster as her offending heels repeatedly filled the cavernous space with hollow clicks.
The pillars on either side of the courtyard extended high up to support the ceiling, granite leviathans made to hold up a shield against the merciless desert sun. The air seemed to grow colder as she kept walking, chilling slightly with each consecutive step.
It was odd, she found, her breathing growing slightly laboured as she quickened her pace. The courtyard had never seemed this long or empty before, and she attributed the sheer lack of people in the normally busy atrium to the barricade construction. No doubt, most of the village had headed out to the border to watch the awesome display of their Kazekage's power.
Somewhat lifted by this thought, she raised her head and slowed to a normal pace, trying to enjoy the peace and silence.
The back of her neck prickled and she mindlessly reached up to wipe at it, almost faltering in her step when her fingers came away dry. She slowed to a stop, standing still in the middle of the empty hall.
The only sound she could hear was her own laboured beating and throbbing pulse.
Vaguely, purposefully, she wondered why she felt so tense, when inwardly she knew the answer far too well, alarmingly well.
I could come back during the day.
A faint tremor worked its way up her shoulders and she held her breath as the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Her hand descended on the frame of her fan and she suddenly whipped around, holding it defensively in front of her.
The empty courtyard remained as it was. Nobody came lunging in for an attack. Nobody was following. She was alone.
Swallowing, Temari straightened, hesitantly tucking her fan back into the sash around her waist. Furrowing her brow, she took a moment to glance around a second longer, swallowing dry air on a parched throat.
There was no one there but her.
Clenching her jaw, she willed herself to turn around and keep walking, keeping her gaze focused resolutely on the mosaic tiling passing in a blue blur beneath her feet. What she was thinking was improbable, highly unlikely considering the sheer number of people at the border. There was no way he could...
I'd find you, don't worry.
Clenching her jaw, she walked faster. The pillars swept by in a never-ending procession of tall shadows, blurring with the mosaic tiling as she continued at her brisk pace.
Watching the convergence of the blue tiles and dark shadows beneath her steps, she became fixated by the continuous pattern, mesmerized by the constant, one-second gap between each pillar's shadow. Grateful for the distraction, she kept her pace doggedly, finding solace in the continuous patters sweeping by underfoot.
She didn't expect to be literally thrown out of step when the shadow of something jagged and dark appeared in the one-second gap between the pillars, disappearing and melding almost instantly with the shadows.
Stumbling to a stop, Temari whipped around, eyes wide and fists clenched tightly by her sides. She breathed hard, blinking as cold sweat beaded on her forehead, doing her best to ignore the uneasiness engulfing her as her narrowed eyes swept the empty courtyard.
Hundreds of pillars. Hundreds of shadows.
Breathing laboriously, Temari forced herself to be rational. She hadn't slept well the past few weeks, and the ambiguity of shadows simply must have been a result of her insomnia. No need to panic. Walk.
Convincing herself to be calm was increasingly difficult this time, even more so was forcing her gaze to remain on the floor. She walked even faster, her arms swinging from the momentum, heels clicking louder and faster in the empty hall.
The shadows retained their fluid-like consistency, passing by with reassuring continuance beneath her feet. But it wasn't enough. She felt something.
Lifting her head, she kept her gaze trained on the pillars to the left of her, watching them pass by in a blur with wide, unblinking eyes. She couldn't tune out the sounds of her ragged breathing and obstinate footsteps, ignoring how her eyes watered with the effort to stay open.
A draft caught against her right side and she turned her head to look to the right, jaw tightening when she caught herself looking between two sets of pillars. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, she felt trapped. Telling herself she was being paranoid had stopped working altogether. She walked even faster.
As she turned her head to look straight ahead at the end of the hall, she glanced askance to the left and felt the air leave her lungs at the sight of something black vanishing with fluid seamlessness behind a pillar.
A moment later, she saw it again. And again. And again.
Something black and billowing.
Like the flaring hem of a cloak.
Before she knew it, she was sprinting, tearing through the courtyard as fast her heels would let her, tearing her eyes away from the innumerable hiding spots surrounding her and feeling suffocated by the sensation of something black and ominous bearing down on her from behind.
The sounds of her heels impacting against the tiles became indistinguishable from the rushing of blood in her ears, both sounds melding to form a deafening cacophony of blaring noise that endured all the way to the end of the courtyard.
She reached with both arms outstretched for the door handle when it came into sight, yanking it open with enough force to tear it off its hinges before disappearing inside and slamming it shut behind her.
When she raced up the stairs and burst into the clinic, when she encountered the surprised, vaguely perturbed expressions of the patients in the waiting room, Temari had no explanation for her breathlessness and her harrowed, almost terrified expression.
BP: 90 over 65
HR: 67 bpm
Temp: 37.4ºC
Notes: Low BP. Possible direct result of current medication: 2 mg Lorazepam.
Temari stared blankly at the scrawled writing on the clipboard, rolling her sleeve back down as the physician took up the report and left the room, delivering it to the screening specialist. Inwardly grateful that the short physical examination wouldn't be put in with her permanent file (the prescription sleeping medication wasn't hers, after all), she relaxed somewhat, kneading her temples with her fingertips.
Held inside now for more than half an hour, she'd recovered from the impending panic attack that had threatened to overwhelm her when she'd burst into the clinic. Only now, after calming down and thinking back to what she'd seen Temari doubted it to be more than a figment of her imagination, a hallucinatory effect of the drugs. Nothing more.
The thought worked to calm her but that nagging voice remained in the back of her mind, directing her thoughts continuously back to the way the shape had startlingly resembled a cloak. Shaking her head, Temari pushed the apprehensive feeling away and stood when a nurse came in and directed her to the screening room.
She followed silently, taking comfort in the calm atmosphere, the little paintings and potted plants and dim lighting meant to induce tranquility. The nurse escorted her into a small dark room with bare walls, seating her at a cubicle before a blank plasma screen. Temari obediently sat back and let the nurse attach the electrodes to the corner of her eye, against her temple, and against the crease just to the right of her mouth.
A pulse reader that doubled as an external thermometer was clipped onto the index finger of her left hand and a pair of heavy headphones placed over her ears. Her right hand was left free to grasp the mouse attached to the plasma screen.
The nurse left after briefly giving her instructions and after a few moments of silence, the plasma screen flickered to life, casting an eerie glow over her features.
More instructions flitted across the screen and Temari paid them no attention, knowing full well what the test was about. A picture popped up, then, depicting a broom leaning adjacent to a janitor's closet. It lingered there for a good five seconds, letting her take in every aspect of the picture before more text replaced it.
Rate the emotional impact of this image on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the lowest emotional impact and 10 being the highest emotional impact.
She clicked the number "1" displayed on the screen.
Then more text popped up.
Rate the negativity of this image on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the least negative and 10 being the most negative.
She clicked "1" again.
A moment later, another random picture, this time of a glass of water flashed on the screen, followed by the same questions as before. The image after that was of a kunai, and in the five seconds that elapsed with the picture displayed on the screen, the headphones emitted a brief, loud, blaring noise into her ears. The flinch and spike in heart rate that resulted, automatic symptoms of the startle reflex, were recorded by the electrodes and pulse reader.
She knew that this would continue for an hour more—this rating game of seemingly innocuous images with the blaring noises coming unexpectedly and randomly in between.
The kunai disappeared, and her face remained impassive as the next image showed up.
A bloodied, mostly naked corpse on a war-ravaged field, dismembered, eyes open.
Rate the emotional impact of this image on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the lowest emotional impact and 10 being the highest emotional impact.
She clicked "2".
Rate the negativity of this image on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being the least negative and 10 being the most negative.
She clicked "4".
The next image that appeared was that of a sunset, tranquil and beautiful over the desert landscape.
Temari knew the purpose of this test well, having taken it twice before, once when she was made genin and again when she was made chunnin.
The innocuous images were used as placating devices, luring the subject into a state of calm and relaxation, a state of blissful ignorance. Then the disturbing images would suddenly and unexpectedly show up, and the sensors attached to her body would record her response, including how hard she flinched, how much her heart rate increased, and how high her body temperature rose.
That was the main device in measuring a shinobi's ability to function with a sound mind, as the ideal, desensitized shinobi would have little reaction to whatever they saw on the screen. On the other hand, the rating scale was there to ensure that the subject wasn't completely unaffected by the negativity of some of the images, an average response being somewhere between "3" and "6".
Any subject who responded with an average below "3" wasn't normal, implying nearly zero emotional response to the images he or she saw. In those cases, further tests would be taken and their shinobi licenses could be revoked.
The ideal shinobi was neutral. Not apathetic or emotional, not sociopathic or sensitive, but somewhere in between.
Another picture. A dead child, cradled in the arms of her sobbing father.
Rate the emotional impact of this image on a scale of 1 to 10…
Do I feel little or nothing, like I'm supposed to? Temari wondered blankly, staring at the image. Will you approve of my answer? Is there a right answer?
The numbers glowed out at her, the cursor blinking impatiently.
She clicked "4".
Following the screening had been a short interview with the specialist which she seamlessly bullshitted her way through, and the last thing that remained was the CT scan to check for any abnormalities in the brain. Results would take two weeks.
The lingering fever she'd had since waking had finally subsided around 5 PM, and a small injection of the stimulant drugs quelled whatever weakness the fever had left in its wake.
Neither Kankuro nor Gaara had made any move to stop her when she'd left the house at 11 PM for her shift, Kankuro not daring to confront her after what had happened in the morning. She didn't know whether it was wrong of her to feel a vindictive form of gladness over his guilt.
And now…
Her brow furrowed slightly in the chill, a faint cloud of broken vapour escaping into the darkness as she slowly exhaled. Her wristwatch glowed in the darkness, acting as a beacon to the scorpions that skittered close by. It read 2:39 AM.
A peculiar sensation flooded her chest as she watched him sprawled casually there on his back near the oasis, one knee propped up and hands holding slips of paper that kept his steadfast attention. The feeling gradually grew more potent as she watched him re-arrange the stack, putting the first paper at the back of the pile before raising the next one higher to catch the rutilant glow of the flares.
She hadn't said a word when he'd arrived, too disturbed by the sense of relief and exultation she felt, too disturbed with recollections of unsettling dreams, thoughts of paranoia and questions of whether that specter in the atrium had been just a specter.
And in return he'd kept his silence, settling for entertaining himself with whatever it was he held in his hands. The fact that the papers had kept his attention for nearly half an hour spiked both her intrigue and concern.
It was a disquieting sensation, and she spoke merely for the sake of distracting herself from the foreboding feeling.
"What are you doing?"
He answered without looking up, his voice holding a faint note of distraction.
"What's it look like?"
Temari scowled, that uncomfortable, unnamable sensation only intensifying.
"If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't be asking."
Her voice seemed irritated and unsure when it carried to the oasis, sounding distant when obscured behind the sheaf of photographs he held. Hidan blinked slowly as if coming out of a reverie, lifting his gaze from the photographs only briefly to glance at her silhouette at the top of the dune. Then he lowered his gaze once more to the picture—her picture—examining the way she watched the ground as she walked next to her brothers, her expression thoughtful, calm, relaxed. Blissfully unaware.
He shifted it to the back of the pile, lifting the next one in the stack up to the ruddy light, turning it and tilting his head slightly so the shot of her profile became clear. Violet eyes flickered lazily from the picture to her tense, oblivious form in the sand, a slow grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"…research, Blondie. Nothing interesting."
Temari eyed him uncertainly, somewhat unsettled by the vague response. Licking her lips, she strived to keep her voice impassive.
"On what, exactly?"
"You're talkative tonight. Warming up to me?"
Temari sneered, but then recalled the document Gaara had given her the day before, tucked within the inner pocket of her shirt. Withdrawing the folded piece of paper from her shirt, she scrunched it into a ball and tossed it down towards the oasis. He lowered the stack he held—photographs? she wondered—and glanced over at the scrunched up paper next to his scythe.
"Hirai Dairou," she announced as he reached over and took the paper, unfurling it before his eyes. "S-class missing-nin. Know him?"
"No," he said disinterestedly, sounding somewhat disgusted. "Jeez, talk about a face only a mother could love…"
Temari managed a small, humourless smile.
"I don't expect you to kill him, since then you'd actually be doing me a favour, but if you see him…" she trailed off, not knowing what kind of help she could expect from the likes of him, anyway, not sure why she'd even bothered showing him in the first place.
"Now you're asking for my help? You are warming up to me."
The fact that she could hear the grin in his voice made her regret asking in the first place, but she feigned contempt, tone haughty.
"Scum like you benefit from the deaths of fellow missing nin. The fewer there are, the harder they are to track, so you'd be doing yourself a favour."
"Hey, I want to be tracked. Death wish and all, remember?"
Temari fell silent, somewhat perturbed by his casual tone. He put the wanted poster out of sight, along with that stack of papers he'd been perusing, settling for folding his arms behind his head and staring at the star-ridden sky.
Silence reigned for a full five minutes, broken only by the faint flapping of torch fire until she spoke, asking a question that had been intriguing her since the day she'd discovered he was immortal.
"How do you know when you're ready?"
He gave her an inquisitive glance and she took a slow, deep breath before continuing, striving to keep her voice impassive.
"How do you know…when you're able to die?"
He remained quiet for a few seconds, the silence on his part somewhat alarming, and she was hardly aware of the way her fingers clenched tense fistfuls of sand.
"…You just know," he finally said after a moment, voice calm and complacent in the still air.
Temari's brow furrowed.
"What do you mean you 'just know'?"
"How do you know when you're in love?" he returned, tone wry. "How do you describe knowing that?"
Temari opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, unable to think of an answer.
"Yeah, it's like that, Blondie. You just know. You can't put it into words."
"I wouldn't know," she said a moment later, somewhat surprised at herself for the admittance. "I've never felt anything like that."
In response, he placed a hand dramatically over his heart, sounding injured.
"That hurts, seriously. You make it sound like what we have is nothing."
She stared at him for a few seconds in silence, face blank. But when she realized what he was saying and recognized the mocking irony lacing his undertone, her reaction was far from what she'd anticipated. Instead of smirking and retorting with a harsh comeback, instead of scorning him or sneering, she laughed.
The desert echoed briefly with the short, harsh bark of laughter that sounded slightly hysterical to her own ears, sounding like the mad bubbles of mirthless laughter she'd heard from a mentally ill woman in the hospital once while visiting her injured brother.
"What we have?" she echoed jeeringly, expecting to hear cool derision and faltering as she became all too aware of the hysteria tracing the tremors in her voice.
He smiled languidly in the dark, resembling a serene devil in the rutilant light, his voice mirroring his complacency as he tilted his head to the side.
"Yeah, what we have."
Temari stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless, terrified of the sudden onslaught of vulnerability she felt. The calm voice in the back of her mind got lost amongst the chaos of uncertainty and panic, telling her in ineffectual snatches that he was getting under her skin, messing with her, fucking with her.
Unconsciously, her fingers dug deep into the sand, clenching tight in an effort to stop her from moving forward, from crossing that line and wrapping her fingers around his throat, severing his head from his body, shedding his blood. Her heart rate soared, blood pressure nearly doubled, body temperature rose, and for some reason, for some absurd, insane reason—amongst the internal chaos—she felt a calm concern for the differing stats in her physical report at the psychiatric clinic. In that moment—brief, silent, seemingly eternal—Temari felt as if she'd finally lost her mind.
His voice brought her back, dragged her back from whatever hell she'd felt herself succumbing to, and for one short, deranged moment, she was grateful for it.
"I won't be here tomorrow."
"What?" she said blankly, finding her voice hoarse.
"Not until August or something." Still sardonic, but now he sounded vaguely annoyed, though not with her.
She found herself speaking before she could stop herself.
"Why?"
"Business and shit like that," he replied in distaste, but then his tone changed to a more ironic one. "You'll have to cope for a month and a half without me, Blondie. Think you can last that long?"
Temari stared at him, unable to think of a response as she processed this information. He wouldn't be back for a month and a half. The barricades would be up around the same time, or at least be close to becoming complete. Suddenly, a burst of unbidden hope rose within her.
Freedom, for at least a short amount of time before she had to encounter him again. Time for recovery. Time to think. It was more than she could hope for.
"I think I'll manage just fine," she finally replied a moment later, pleased with the way her voice recaptured some of its calm. "In fact, it'd be even better if you didn't come back at all."
In the red glow of the flares, he smiled. "That's the last thing you want."
Temari froze, fingers slackening by her sides.
That's the last thing you want, and you know it. What do you want for real, though? What do you want so bad that it keeps you up at night? That when you dream, it's always of me, of us…?
"You'll be here when I get back," he continued, voice calm, honeyed. Cruel.
She could feel her heartbeat thundering in her ears, and his words were hardly audible over the violent din of her pulse.
"And we'll have ourselves a little reunion."
Breathing hard. Can't really breathe.
Breathing harder. Pulse racing. Climbing. Thundering.
Exploding.
"What do you think, Blondie?"
"You're insane," she whispered.
"Just another thing we have in common," he replied amiably. "Like I said, we're not as different as you think we are."
Playing with me, messing with me, fucking with me—
He was standing now, taking steps backwards, slinging his scythe onto his back and turning to leave. She felt sick at the thought of him leaving her sight now, not for a night, but for a month and a half, all previous hope of rest and recovery dissipating like torch smoke.
"Wait," she said faintly.
Come back.
He paused, glanced up at her.
Don't leave.
Silence.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly as though to speak though no words came out. The space between them felt insurmountable in that moment, and for the first time she felt utterly helpless, completely dependent on another human being, on him—something lesser than a human being, for her well-being, her sanity.
It nearly reduced her to tears.
He didn't move, watching her intently, maybe smiling, maybe grinning, enjoying himself as she struggled to find her voice. When she couldn't bring herself to speak, he turned away once more, feigning genuine concern.
"Don't fret, Blondie. We'll have ourselves a reunion, remember? Try to worry more about what you're gonna wear, like a normal girl, instead of how you're probably going to lose your shit permanently while I'm not here. Because seriously…"
He glanced over his shoulder. "You won't be half as fun if you go over the fucking deep end."
Her lips moved but no words came out. She felt like she was suffocating.
He turned to depart with a jaunty wave, but then paused once more as if a thought occurred to him. "By the way…"
Temari stared at him, felt his gaze on her, and wanted nothing more than to run, to flee and hide and escape that penetrating stare, that wicked grin with its venom-laced words, that devil in disguise, masquerading in his own circle of hell.
His voice was lazy with complacency when he finally spoke, calm and cool with surety in the dark.
"Bet you look good in red."
Temari stared at him wordlessly, only capable of watching in silence as he turned his head and left.
2 weeks later.
CT scan report: normal.
Screening report: normal.
Psyche exam: normal.
Work status: approved.
The letter fell from listless fingers, landing against the tiled kitchen floor. There would be no relief, she realized, no happiness or normality, no vestiges of either until one of them was dead. In the madness that had infiltrated her calm, detached world, her functional, practical life, this was the only truth she could trust.
She glanced down at the paper.
Normal. Normal. Normal.
And yet I still feel like I'm breaking, sliding, and falling.
River country.
The man stumbled back, tripping over one of his accomplice's bodies, his expression one of disbelief as Hidan calmly reached up and withdrew the kunai, giving it an appraising glance before raising his eyes again, taking a step forward.
"Do you have any idea how much that fucking stings?" he drawled, slipping his finger through the loop in the hilt, twirling it idly as he slowly advanced.
The nin didn't bother with a reply, lunging over his partner's body and towards the doorway, only to find himself pinned to the wall when the kunai pierced his cloak, embedding into the wood.
In a desperate attempt to escape, he withdrew another kunai from his weapons pouch to sever the cloak from his body, only to have the knife snatched from his grip.
A high-pitched scream rang out when Hidan shoved him back against the wall and grabbed his wrist, pinning his arm near the side of his head before driving the kunai through his palm to hold him there.
The man struggled viciously, severing the tendons in his hand in the attempt, only to have his head crack back against the wall when Hidan calmly picked up a nearby plank of wood and smashed him across the face with it.
"Calm down, will ya?" he said in an annoyed tone, dropping the plank when the man slumped to his knees, reeling from the blow. "And stop whimpering, you fucking pansy."
Blood oozed from the side of the nin's head when Hidan reached down and grabbed him by the front of the cloak, pulling him to his feet. A moment later, his hand slipped into the open weapons pouch, a smirk touching upon his lips when he counted the kunai inside.
One…two…three.
His smirk widened.
"Perfect."
"I'll give you money," the man rasped, a blend of blood and saliva coating his lips in a bright sheen. "I'll give you all of it."
"I don't want your goddamn money," Hidan replied offhandedly, withdrawing the kunai from the pouch, scrutinizing the blades. "It'd be a lot smarter to start begging for God's mercy instead of bribing me, dumbass."
"What are you doing? What are you going to—" the man's words were abruptly cut off with an agonized cry when Hidan pinned his other arm parallel to his head and drove the kunai through his palm, making him immobile.
"Honestly? I'm trying a change of pace," Hidan said casually, tapping the sharp tip of the third kunai against his temple. "The mind needs a little stimulation, you know?"
He held one of the remaining kunai in his right hand, putting the last one in his left, stepping forward and onto the nin's foot to keep his leg immobile as he descended into a kneel.
"You see, there's this girl I know…"
A hoarse curse caught in the nin's throat when Hidan impaled a kunai through his foot, pinning it to the floor.
"And she's shared some pretty interesting advice on how to deal with heathen shit like you…"
The last kunai embedded itself with a satisfying thunk into the cracked, wooden floor, effectively making the nin completely helpless.
Hidan slowly rose to his feet, looking at his work with satisfaction before raising his gaze once more to the man's face, violet eyes alight with excitement.
"Judgment awaits heathens ignorant of others' pain. And guess what? I'm the one who's going to be delivering judgment on your sorry ass, and it's going to be with a new, experimental method I haven't tried until now. Today's just your lucky day, isn't it?"
The man didn't respond, moaning low in his throat as blood continued oozing from the wound on his head, hands and feet purpling around the stab wounds.
"I'll admit it, I'm pretty conservative about my methods," Hidan continued, reaching out to take a fistful of the man's hair, raising his head. "I stick to what I'm good at, you know what I mean?"
He reached forward with his other hand, resting it almost gently over the man's throat.
"But I've gotta say—she makes her methods sound so goddamn enticing. Seriously, I just couldn't resist trying them out myself."
He pressed his fingers a bit more firmly around the nin's neck, smirk widening into a grin when he felt the racing pulse against the pad of his thumb, the flesh extraordinarily pliable and soft beneath his grip.
"It's a girl thing, you know?" Hidan continued amiably, taking a step closer till he was directly face to face with him. "They've gotta make everything so goddamn personal…take everything nice and slow…even with a kill."
He tightened his fingers slightly, feeling a thrill of excitement crawl up his spine when the man's pulse spiked beneath his hand.
"But she's seriously something," he said, voice soft with amusement, eyes lowering momentarily in thought. "You'd think girls would go for something quick and easy like decapitation…"
A soft chuckle sounded in his throat.
"Guess I'm more merciful than I thought…"
The man made a choking sound in his throat when Hidan abruptly tightened his grip, amazed with the way the flesh gave so easily beneath his squeezing fingers, his own pulse spiking and melding with the nin's, throbbing against his palm.
"I've seen them bleed out," he said slowly, watching his pupils dilate and face whiten. "But never choke. Always been too impatient for that. But now I'm curious…how does it feel?"
The man made no reply, wide eyes darting desperately towards his hands which strained against the metal embedded in their flesh, quivering violently with suppressed agony.
"Does it hurt?" Hidan asked, leaning closer to search his expression. "How much?"
He continued tightening his grip until he could feel the reverberations of the strangled cries, erratic pulse, and hitched breaths, all three melding to form an indescribable blend of sensation against his palm. He watched him intently, watched his eyes and mouth, searching for signs of how much pain his fingers were inflicting.
"So, apparently a lot of shit is happening to your body while I do this," Hidan said slowly, scrutinizing the man's purpling face. "I'll be damned if I can remember half of what she said, but it sounded fucking painful." He tightened his grip further.
"Is it?"
Blood bubbled up the man's throat, forcing itself out through his clenched teeth, running over his chin.
Hidan lowered his eyes to the blend of saliva and blood in disgust, reaching inside his cloak with his free hand and withdrawing a piece of paper, flicking his wrist to unfold it.
The nin's eyes widened when the picture was raised for him to see.
"Recognize him?" Hidan asked, grinning now, looking between the picture and the nin's face. "Looks familiar, doesn't he?"
A hoarse, agonized sound managed to escape the nin's throat just before Hidan scrunched up the paper and shoved it in his mouth, muffling his choked cries and stemming the blood flow.
"You're pretty damn pathetic for an S-class missing nin," he said with a grin, slowly leaning forward to whisper into his ear.
"Aren't you, Hirai Dairou?"
The man jerked violently beneath him, and Hidan squeezed till his knuckles turned white, the grin never fading as Dairou began to shake spasmodically, capillaries bursting and blooming red in his sclera.
"Jeez, this is just fucking brutal," Hidan laughed, watching the man's face turn blue with a mix of bemusement and amazement. "Must hurt like a bitch, seriously."
He absentmindedly ran his tongue over his dry lips, swallowing on an equally dry throat, breath quickening and eyes brightening with excitement. He wondered just how much it hurt, how different this brand of pain felt from all the others, felt enticed to experience it for himself. Wondered if she'd do it.
"Think she'd say yes if I asked her to?"
Hirai Dairou's eyelids suddenly drooped, eyes rolling slowly into the back of his head as his muscles continued to twitch.
The scrunched up paper fell out of his mouth, followed by a hot gush of blood.
Hidan tensed when he heard heavy footsteps enter the room from behind him, pausing in the doorway.
"Hidan, what are you doing?"
"Fuck off, Kakuzu. I'm busy."
"Hurry up. We shouldn't linger."
Hidan narrowed his eyes, smile strained as he applied more force, waiting for the erratic pulse against his palm to cease completely.
It didn't take long. A minute later, Hirai Dairou was dead, head bowed towards the ground with a steady stream of red foam trickling out from between his blue lips.
Snorting, Hidan released him, raising his right hand and flexing his fingers, marveling at how easy it had been.
Kakuzu watched him silently from where he stood, brow furrowing at the oddly pleased expression on his partner's face as he stood near the corpse, staring down at it while idly rubbing his knuckles.
"You haven't been yourself," he said flatly.
When Hidan didn't acknowledge his words the Falls nin continued, seizing the opportunity to expunge whatever was responsible for his partner's recent bizarre behaviour.
"You've changed ever since you started going there. What the hell have you been doing?"
Hidan didn't reply, now idly fingering the rosary around his neck as he stared down at the corpse, a blank, distracted look in his eyes.
"Hidan," Kakuzu said sharply, catching his attention. "Are you listening to me?"
"No," he replied flippantly, kneeling and pulling one of the kunai loose from the corpse's foot. "And I don't give a shit about what you think, so save your breath."
"You're disobeying Leader-sama's orders. I don't care what happens to you, but I'm not taking the blame for your bullshit."
"Who said you had to?" Hidan retorted, rising and taking a step towards the body.
Kakuzu stared at him wordlessly for a few seconds, and when he spoke, his voice was frosty.
"Don't make me incapacitate you, Hidan, because if that's what it'll take to stop you from screwing around and missing our deadlines, I'll do it."
He half-expected the religious man to ignore the threat, half-expected for him to laugh it off. What he didn't expect was for Hidan to slowly turn around with the bloodied kunai clenched in his fist, violet eyes nearly slit from the force of his murderous glare.
"Don't even," he said softly, something cold and lethal lacing his undertone. "Don't even joke about that, Kakuzu."
He took a step forward, and Kakuzu couldn't help but acknowledge the slight twinge of apprehension this abrupt change of demeanor was bringing about. The Falls nin stood his ground as Hidan stopped in front of him, radiating more unadulterated fury than he'd ever felt from him.
"What I do is none of your goddamn business, and if you get in my way or try and stop me…" Hidan clutched the kunai tighter, no sign of mirth in his eyes. "I swear to Jashin-sama, I'll fucking kill you."
Kakuzu stared down at him wordlessly, saying nothing even as he gave him one last, withering glare and turned, pulling the scythe off his back as he approached the corpse.
As Hidan grabbed a fistful of the corpse's hair and tilted the head back, Kakuzu spoke, his voice blunt.
"You've changed."
Hidan pressed the bottom blade of his scythe against the bruised flesh of the corpse's neck, a mirthless smile overtaking his features as he paused.
"You have no idea."
He gave a swift yank and Kakuzu lowered his gaze before leaving the room, the sound of gushing blood resonating gently in his wake.
Note: reviews seriously help. :D