Masquerade Chapter 5: quatre: can't stop the forwards motion, a naruto fanfic

project: masquerade
disclaimer: i do not own naruto, or the characters in it, or wonderland.
summary: she will follow the white rabbit. she will fall in love with the mad hatter. she will kill the queen of hearts. but fairytales don't always have a happily ever after and she doesn't believe in once upon a times.
pairings: sasusaku
notes: i love gaara. maybe he'll let me have his children, the moment he becomes real and 3d.
chapter: quatre: can't stop the forwards motion (we're moving way too fast)

"We see a deadly sin on every street corner, in every home, and we tolerate it. We tolerate it because it's common, it's trivial. We tolerate it morning, noon, and night. Well, not anymore.

I'm setting the example."
- Se7en

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING: WONDERLAND

The White Queen pressed her gloved fingers against her lips, watching and waiting as Alice steadily, and slowly, vanished. She was… different, that was true. Bright pink hair and startling eyes; oh, they were certainly frightening. Already, they made her shiver; it was as though they could see right into the depths of her soul—and perhaps they realised that she was not as pure as she looked.

Eventually, Alice vanished—and, with her, the White Queen's smile.

The March Hare remained where he was, frozen, almost statue-like, as the Queen swept across the floor towards the window; she peered out, her snow white eyes scanning the darkness of the forest which surrounded her castle. There she stood, surveying her surroundings, searching for a glimpse of movement; once she was sure there was nothing, she stepped away, and only then did she let her mask slide from her face.

Her eyes turned blank as she gazed at the Hare.

"Your majesty," he murmured again, instantly dropping to one knee; she loathed him, she really did, but she would never say it. If they knew…

If any of them knew…

She forced herself to smile again, sweeping over to him and cupping his chin with one hand; she saw fury flicker across his face, briefly, as it always did, and then he calmed himself. Often she found herself wondering why he so loathed the touch of anyone; and often she had to remind herself that it was none of her business. She wasn't there to learn about them—about any of them. She was there as their sanctuary. Their safety.

Their leader.

She would have scoffed, had she not been in the presence of one of her followers. Instead, she spoke, playing the part of the kindly ruler, as she had been doing for far too long. "Brave Hare," she said, tipping his chin and gently forcing him to face her. "You have been working hard. You deserve rest. It is time for you to leave."

He nodded sharply, as she let go of his chin; then, elegantly, she gestured for him to leave. He did so, bowing again, before turning jerkily and slipping swiftly out of the room. If there was one thing she did admire, it was their blind faith. He trusted her. They all trusted her. And rightly so, no doubt.

She was, after all, their Queen.

And she had played the part well, despite the fact that she had not wanted to. Her cousin—her darling, wonderful, stupid cousin—had informed her, sorrow-stricken, one day, of the Game. Within a few nights, she had found herself part of it; sucked into it, because of his words. She blamed him.

She hated him.

Upon entering Wonderland, she had been informed of her position by a beautiful rabbit. He had not laughed at her sickly skin, or her greasy hair, or her ghostly eyes; in fact, after expressing her horror at becoming a Queen, he had beamed at her.

"You're the most beautiful person I know, your Majesty."

The words had woken a part of her, deep within her heart; and her emotions had whirred, finally needed. Her stomach had fluttered, and her cheeks had turned red, and she had suddenly become bashful. Confused and upset and oh so happy, she had grasped the front of his shirt; and, spurred on by her silly beating heart, she had pushed her lips against his, and held him against her for a while. He had responded first with equal confusion, and then simply gone with the flow.

It had not really been a romance.

It had never been a romance.

Her kiss had been numbing and bewildering, but she had never acted upon her feelings again; because the feeling had been uncomfortably good. She had never touched him again, despite the fact that he had neared her with the intention of touching; she knew she had awoken feelings inside of him that should not have been woken, but she stayed away, calling for him from afar. It contradicted everything she knew.

Eventually, her feelings for him became just another part of her act. They did not entirely vanish—not quite—indeed, they still lingered somewhere inside of her, but she couldn't quite access them. Instead, she pretended; just as she pretended to be a loving and caring Queen, watching over her people with a twinkle in her eye and a small smile.

It was what they wanted.

She realised she was stood staring at the door, so she forced herself to turn, to move, to do anything. Her act was slipping. Some of them might not notice it, but the March Hare certainly would; as would the Dormouse. A few of her footmen might. Alice wouldn't. Alice would never, ever, notice anything about her.

The White Queen crossed the room and sat on her bed, placing her head in her hands and waiting; her hair fell about her, like a curtain, shutting her off from the outside world and, for once, she was glad of it. He would appear just before she vanished; only a few minutes before, and he would only stay for a few minutes.

Six minutes, to be precise.

It was always six minutes.

He arrived at the same time, as usual; his face appeared in the mirror, foggy and distorted, rippling in the glass. A single gloved hand pierced the surface of the mirror, stepping through, followed by a foot, and a leg, and an arm, and a shoulder—until he stood fully in the midst of her white room, a splodge of colour—of red and black—like a stain. He shook his head, as though shaking water off himself, before bowing, blatantly mocking her.

"Your Majesty."

The Queen of Hearts smirked.

And the White Queen's heart shattered.

(and, elsewhere, a window shattered)

The March Hare did not leave the moment the White Queen told him to, as she had thought he would. Instead, he walked briskly down the long hallway, waving away a footman with the head of a heron; he wasn't sure where he was going, not at first, but a voice within him urged him onwards, whispering in his ear to walk faster. His strides became longer, until he was eventually he was running—racing down a hallway, searching for a door he knew he would never find, with people behind it he knew he would never see again.

He stopped.

It was a messy stop, something he was certain he would have done better under any other circumstances; but, for some reason the Queen's touch had messed with his head. The voice was louder. Its whisperings were stronger.

It was… persuasive.

It hadn't wanted him to stop, he knew that; it had wanted him to continue, to sprint out of the window and fall down, down, down. And it knew he knew, because it began to laugh. He grasped his head with both hands, because the noise hurt, and he slid to his knees.

"Stop… it…"

The laughter stopped.

For a few seconds, there was silence, and the silence was pure bliss. He would have stood up, but he knew the whisperings would begin again, and he would no doubt find himself running; so he sat down and wrapped his hands around his legs—a position he had not been in since he was six, and his own uncle had attempted to kill him. He let out a bitter laugh, which sounded more like a croak, and then instantly fell silent.

He didn't like noise.

It hurt.

He pressed his fingers against his face, tugging downwards, gently, and the mask he usually wore slipped away; his face became a picture of anguish, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to break down. Then, finally, he spoke.

"What have you done with them?"

He heard no reply—but the reply wasn't supposed to come from outside of him; it was supposed to come from inside his head. He waited, patiently, until finally, the whisperings began again. The voice giggled shrilly, before hissing, "I gobbled them all up—yum, yum, YUM."

The laughter began again.

The March Hare scowled, his face twisting with fury. "Shut up! Tell me what you've done with them."

"What I've done with them?" The voice mocked, suddenly sounding hurt. "How can I have done anything? After all, I'm not even real. You should be asking, Gaara-chan, what have you done with them?"

It laughed again.

He staggered to his feet, slowly, swaying as he did so; he had to use the wall for support. Because it was true—all of it was true—the voice had done nothing, hadn't it? It had just whispered. It was his fault.

He had listened.

And now.

Now he couldn't remember.

So he began to run; and as he ran, he rearranged his features, back into his usual unreadable expression. And he ran and he ran and he ran. His hands flew up over his face, and he leapt forwards—

—and the March Hare ran straight through a window, letting out a bitter, enraged laugh as he did so.

He woke up before he hit the ground.

(and, elsewhere, a heart shattered)

YOU ARE NOW LEAVING: WONDERLAND

real world.

03:49:11

Ino pressed her fingers against her lips, daintily, scowling at Kiba's back, and let out a loud, pointed yawn. When he didn't respond, she stretched, curving and arching and exaggerating every single little movement; when he still didn't respond, she smacked him across the head.

He turned, glowering darkly at her and rubbing his new bruise. "…what the hell was that for?"

She rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips and adopting a pose which just screamed authority. "Oh, stop being such a little baby," she drawled, flapping her perfect hands at him, displaying her new Blood Red nail varnish. "I just thought I'd tell you, it's way past three 'o' clock, and we've found nothing. Uchiha Sasuke is no one, apparently, so can we just give it up? He's not a drug addict, not a rapist, not a murderer—he's completely and utterly average. He's not a psycho. So, Kiba-chan, why don't you walk me home, so I can catch up on my beauty sleep, hm?"

Kiba peered at her, incredulously, before snorting. "You've seen the guy, right, Ino? There's no way he's that perfect."

"I have seen the guy, and yes, he's definitely that perfect—I mean, he's pretty perfect to look at, if you catch my drift," she replied, inspecting her nails idly and deciding that, yes, Blood Red would look good with Candy Apple green—then she paused and glanced at Kiba, wrinkling her nose delicately. "Well, he's certainly more perfect than you, anyway. No wonder Sakura likes hanging around with him."

Her words hit Kiba like bullets, but he kept his face steady and calm. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Ino flapped her arms pointedly, gesturing around at his bedroom—and he found himself looking, despite the fact that he knew what he'd see. Nothing. Apart from his bed and a few old wooden drawers, he had practically nothing in his bedroom; everything was packed away in boxes downstairs, ready for the next time he'd have to flee with his family—ready for the next time his father came a-knocking. He attempted to keep his calm demeanour, but he found that Ino was breaking boundaries he'd never even knew he had—she was tearing down gates and walls and fences he'd spent so long putting up, as though it meant nothing to her.

And she was doing it by accident, too.

"Well, you're hardly perfect, are you? And you've seen Uchiha Sasuke, and the way he acts; calm and silent and mysterious," she gasped the last word, clasping her hands together and fluttering her eyelashes; and then Kiba let himself properly relax, rolling his eyes at her shallowness. "You've got that messy bad boy looking going on, sure, but Sasuke is just dreamy."

"He's dangerous."

"Which means he's rocking the bad boy thing a bit better than you, Kiba dearest," Ino snapped back, wrinkling her nose again. "And you've found nothing to say he isn't anything but perfect, so, once again, can we just give it up?"

Kiba frowned.

He considered it, he really did, just for a few seconds; he thought of how easy it would be to agree, to let Ino's simpering smile (and her, ahem, assets) convince him—how easy it would be to push the computer chair backwards, to gesture for Ino to leave, to walk her home, to help her sneak into her bedroom window, to laugh and talk with her, to move in closer and capture her lips with his own. He thought of how easy it would be just to give. It. Up.

And then he inwardly slapped himself, because giving up would mean abandoning Sakura—abandoning her to face those demons on her own, and that was something he certainly couldn't do, no matter how hot the person trying to convince him was.

So he offered Ino a sheepish smile and shrugged.

"No."

She groaned, stamping her foot (gently, because she didn't want anyone else to wake up and wonder what she was doing there) and gazing at him with contempt. "But what can you do, Kiba? We've found nothing, and you've tried everything! We're running around in circles and grasping at straws—you've got nothing on Uchiha Sasuke!"

Kiba shrugged again, turning back towards his laptop and double-clicking on his email. "I've got nothing yet, Ino. Have patience, o doubtful one, and all shall be revealed."

She let out another exaggerated groan, before flopping down onto Kiba's bed; and, under any other circumstances, he would have been overjoyed to have Yamanaka Ino sprawled across his bed, but at that present moment in time, he was busy. The candy girl would have to wait, with her stripy tights and short skirts and pretty dresses.

He was busy.

His fingers tapping across the keyboard, more hurried and frenzied than he'd ever been before, he let his mind drift off to Sakura. No doubt she was still in Wonderland. She was probably drinking tea with that bastard, or laughing with the other bastard—more likely still, she was probably fleeing for her life with both of them, hand in hand. Happy, in a psychotic kind of way. Her eyes glowing, different, changed.

He shook his head, his hair brushing briefly in front of his eyes; he reached up, to tuck it out of the way, and thought idly that he'd have to get it cut. The normality of such a thought frightened him—that was what he should be doing; messing around, drinking, hanging out with friends, banging the hot cheerleader—that was what other guys his age would be doing.

(not uchiha sasuke though)

He should have been in bed, for Christ's sake.

(never uchiha sasuke)

He should have listened to Ino, and just given up. His resolve wasn't strong enough. He was doubting, because it was easier to doubt.

(uchiha sasuke is perfect)

He shook his head again, and his features hardened; Ino must have noticed the sudden movement, because she sat up and gazed quizzically at him. He rolled his shoulders, offered her a brief smile, and pressed send.

"There's no way anyone's that perfect, Ino, and I plan on finding out exactly who Uchiha Sasuke is. Because if he's dangerous—and if he hurts her—I will rip his balls off and personally feed them to the nearest hobo, understand? He can be as good-looking as he wants. He can win Sakura's heart with a dash of angst and a smirk, but I can see beneath his mask, and he's a slimy, disgusting worm. He's danger."

His knuckles turned white, as he balled his hands into fists.

"And I'm going to protect Sakura from him."

(a wide brimmed hat floats over the sleeping figure; then, as she turns and shifts and begins to wake up, it disappears like smoke.)

elsewhere.

05:06:51

Sakura woke up.

She stretched, lifting her arms high over her head and attempting to stop herself from yawning; she was tired. She'd woken up far too early, and she had no idea why; usually, she could lie in until past ten, but, occasionally, like today, she would wake up early. Generally, she cursed those days. Waking up early usually equalled a bad day.

She shrugged one shoulder, leaning over to check the time—she sighed, tugging both of her legs over the bed and sitting up. There was absolutely no way she'd be able to get back to sleep, and so she stood up, rolling her shoulders and flexing her muscles, attempting to get rid of any stiffness. Her legs felt sore. Her stomach was tingling; she felt glittery, shiny; it was a bizarre feeling.

Wonderland often left her feeling like that.

She strolled over to the door, on her way to the bathroom, as usual—upon opening the door, she walked straight into Uchiha Sasuke. His hand flew upwards, stifling her scream before it even left her lips; her other hand grasped her wrist, grasping it uncomfortably tightly, before she even had the chance to move away. He tugged her forwards, pressing himself against her; the tingling in her stomach intensified and she felt heat rising to her cheeks, spreading across the tips of her ears and the back of her neck.

They stayed like that for a few seconds. To anyone else, it would have merely looked as though he had pulled her into a tight, meaningful embrace; and that would have been true, to a certain extent; the embrace certainly was tight.

And meaningful.

Slowly, steadily, Sasuke removed his hand from her lips, and Sakura let out a soft, indignant gasp; then she narrowed her eyes, glowering pointedly at him. Before she could even begin to speak, however, Sasuke had pulled away, and was busy pacing the room, shutting and locking the windows. She remained silent, choosing instead to cross her arms and tap her foot; he'd no doubt tell her what his unexpected visit was all about, in time. No doubt he was being paranoid; even so, despite her reassurances, she could not help but tense every single time he passed her—he scared her.

Eventually, after doing a few laps of the room, Sasuke stopped in front of her, mirroring her exact pose, except he didn't tap his foot. They stood in silence, simply staring at each other, until finally Sakura broke the silence.

"What do you want, Sasuke?"

He didn't respond. Instead, he reached past her and carefully shut the door; it slipped close, making no noise whatsoever, and Sakura shivered again. His arm was touching her, brushing her shoulder, and the closeness; the intimacy; was making her dizzy. She could smell him. He was all she could smell. She had to sit down. She had to close her eyes and sit down, because, if she didn't, she was going to fall under his spell forever.

Instinctively, her eyes flicked up to his.

Instantly, she was caught.

She would have stood there for hours, simply staring at him, her breathing coming in short, gasping breaths, had something else not caught her attention. She pushed away from him, her brow furrowing, as she walked steadily over to her bedside table; and, as she moved, her blood ran cold. She leaned over.

There, on her bedside table, was a playing card.

The Knave of Hearts.

She reached out to touch it, her hand hesitant, despite the fact that she knew it would vanish—and, sure enough, within seconds, it had turned into smoke. Her fingers passed right through it. She couldn't speak, but it didn't matter—Sasuke would have interrupted her, had she even attempted to. "He's close, Sakura," he murmured, because all of a sudden, he was stood right behind her, close enough for her to feel his breath on the back of her neck. "He's close and he's dangerous; Naruto's leading him away."

"How?" Her voice was hoarse.

Sasuke arched an eyebrow, before replying. "You saw the warning, Sakura. He can see them as well, remember?"

And she did. Bill the Lizard's tortured face flashed across her mind, and she felt a sense of unbelievable calm fall over herself. She felt as though someone else had taken over her body, then, and, almost in a trance, she stepped over to her bed and sat down, picked up a book and began to skim through it, aimlessly searching for something to do. Dimly, she saw the Mad Hatter lean against the bedroom wall, obviously waiting for something—someone. Probably Naruto. That would make sense.

Absently, as she skimmed through her book, she became distantly aware of what felt like a continuous scream, coming from within her. She closed the book, cocked her head, and listened; part of her was shrieking shrilly, a noise that only she could hear, and she had no idea why.

(but she did, she knew, and she had to look)

She glanced sideways, at the bedside table.

Her hands flew to her face and her eyes widened—and, opposite her, he stepped forwards, obviously alarmed—and she thought she was going to scream.

Because there, on the bedside table, was a group of cards.

The three of Hearts.

The six.

The eight.

And the ten.

Sakura gazed through her fingers at Sasuke's face, searching for some kind of reaction; but there was nothing. He was unreadable, as always. But she could sense his tension, like static electricity; he was wired and ready; all pumped up with macho pride. He didn't plan on running from the fight and Sakura didn't plan on dying. She tore her fingers from her face, moving with a newfound purpose, and reached into the bottom drawer—there, nestled between an old faded bra, a pair of odd socks and a pink fluffy diary, was her golden pistol.

She picked it up, shifted it from hand to hand restlessly, and then let herself become calm. She wasn't a damsel in distress—this wasn't going to be like Bill the Lizard. She was going to kick ass, because she was Alice and Alice was her.

She was ready.

(and, elsewhere, the march hare sprang)

uptown.

10:05:31

The whisperings grew louder.

("what have you done to temari, what have you done to kankuro: is that all you ever ask? you have bigger fish to fry and with me, you're going to make it to the top, kiddo. now dry your eyes you fucking baby")

Gaara ignored them, choosing instead to focus on his reflection in the mirror of the public toilets; waiting outside, sat at a table for four, were his father and two ex-military men. He washed his hands vigorously, casting a quick glance over his black tie and shirt; the shirt was new, bought especially for the occasion, and already he was regretting it. It was too white. It was too loud. It hurt his eyes and his ears. He looked away, drying his hands absentmindedly, before shifting his suit jacket and stepping out into the restaurant.

It was one of those posh restaurants—the kind were the food is average, but the prices are sky high—filled with that sort of people—the type who dress expensively, drive expensive cars and eat at expensive restaurants. They eyed him as he walked past; he could feel each one of them staring at him. He could hear each one of them whispering. He didn't know a single one of them, and yet, he felt as though each of them recognised him.

He tried to ignore them.

The whisperings grew louder.

("look at them look at all of them what do they know, with their riches? and what do you know, with your rags? pathetic, all of you")

He neared his table, pulled out the chair, and sat down—the bodyguards stood on either side of his father, each with one hand beneath their jackets; his father was wary, and rightfully so. The last time Gaara had met him, he'd tried to kill him.

This time, he wasn't going to fail.

"…how are your brother and sister?" His father asked, even though he didn't care. Of course, he would never say such a thing, but it was common sense—Gaara knew it was true. He shifted slightly, but otherwise didn't reply. His father sniffed.

The two bodyguards exchanged a pointed glance.

His father let out an exaggerated sigh, before linking his hands together and leaning forwards. He was wearing the deodorant his mother used to like, before she passed away; he didn't let it distract him. Instead, Gaara mimicked his father, leaning forwards until they were practically touching noses. The bodyguards tensed.

"I'm going to kill you."

His father scoffed, flapping a hand. "You've tried before, boy. You were lucky last time—"

"—I was unlucky—"

"—and you'll never get the chance again. I won't allow it," his father's lips curled into a mocking smile. "Face it, kid. You've lost. Now it's just a matter of whether you plan on coming quietly to the Institute."

Inwardly, Gaara tensed. The mere mention of the Institute was enough to bring up nightmares. Oh, there had been nothing completely bad about the place; rather, it was exactly what he'd thought it would be, at the age of four, when he'd first been diagnosed as a schizophrenic; by the age of six, he had become a sociopathic schizophrenic; by the age of ten, he was well on his way into being a complete and utter psychopath. He didn't blame his father for placing him in an Institute; it was no doubt the right thing to do.

But he was his father.

He was his son.

His mother had died not long after Gaara was born; that was what had led to years of bitterness and hatred; years of rivalry and complete loathing for each other. His entire family had hated him. His psychiatrists had said he was a victim of emotional abuse. Although it made everyone feel better to believe such a thing, Gaara disagreed.

He deserved it.

He'd killed his own mother.

He didn't doubt that. His mother had hated him. Giving birth had made her weak and feeble; she had held her child once, looked into Gaara's eyes, and died. She'd seen something there, probably. She'd seen the demon he would become.

The whisperings grew louder.

("oh the institute hey, you remember there right? good times, good times. oh we did have fun there didn't we. you screamed and screamed and SCREAMED. and i whispered. i always whisper")

"I'm not going back to the Institute."

His father raised an eyebrow, leaning backwards and stretching, checking the time on his Rolex pointedly. "Oh, aren't you?"

Gaara didn't respond.

"If that's how you want it to be," his father smiled. "I'll drag you there myself."

Gaara wasn't listening. Around him, the chattering seemed to be growing louder; perhaps it was the thought of the Institute doing that to him. The place hadn't been a bad place, not at all; it had been designed to help, and so it had probably helped. But it had been so quiet. The voice hadn't been a whisper there.

It had been a scream.

He wasn't going back.

Idly, he inspected his glass. Empty. The waitress hadn't walked around yet, asking what drinks they wanted, and he didn't plan on staying for that long anyway. It was upside down. He calculated briefly how long it would take him to pick it up and smash it against the table; then he calculated how long it would take for the bodyguards to act. His adding wasn't as brilliant as the Dormouse's, oh no, but it was good enough to tell him that the odds on him succeeding were definitely bad.

He wondered, briefly, what to do.

If he didn't act, he'd probably miss his chance.

The whisperings grew louder.

("slit his fucking face, gaara, go on, i know you want to, of course i do, i'm in your head aren't i? now go on, smash that glass jump across the table get him get him YOU FUCKING GET HIM. he deserves it right, that filthy RAT")

He smiled a small smile—and his father's eyes widened in alarm—before one hand closed around the empty glass. After a few seconds, half of it was smashed against the floor, and the other half was clutched in his hand, jagged and sharp and perfect for slitting a rat's throat. His father's chair clattered backwards and the bodyguard's guns flew out.

Gaara sprang.

(and, elsewhere, alice was ready)

"Wonderland does funny things to people."

nowadays, it's nothing big
it's hot to be a sinner

rewind.

05:17:46

The Knave of Hearts was on his way to meet someone, when he spotted the hat. He wouldn't have noticed it, had he not been attempting to cross a fairly busy road; his eyes had been trained on the cars, watching carefully, waiting for any chance to cross. The church wasn't far. If he walked quickly, he might catch the morning seminar—he would sit at the back, and he would watch as they all talked of hearing God speak to them, of how He changed their lives.

He would sit and he would chuckle softly.

And as he thought of such things, he noticed it, floating towards the curb on the opposite path—his eyes had widened behind his glasses, before narrowing. Then, without a seconds hesitation, he stepped into the traffic.

Cars screeched to a halt, but he paid no attention—even as the drivers leaned out of their windows, swearing and screeching, panic-stricken and angry because, oh Lord, they almost killed a man—he continued on his way. The hat drifted, not quite touching the ground; of course, there was every chance it was just a normal hat; there was every chance that his mind was playing tricks on him. But he felt that would be a naïve, stupid view.

Better to be safe about it, at least.

He stepped onto the curb, and the traffic resumed. The pedestrians around him raised their eyebrows, sharing certain looks, and then shook their heads, continuing on their way. The Knave ignored them, crouching down and reaching out for the hat.

His hand passed straight through it, as though it were smoke.

It vanished.

He cursed softly, before reaching into his pocket and flipping out his phone. He straightened, gazing around him, searching for something—somewhere, nearby, the Mad Hatter was hiding; and no doubt with him was Alice. If he could find them… if he could just figure it out… His eyes scanned the houses around him; the majority of them were flats, with one or two city houses nestled in between shops. He could imagine the Mad Hatter cooped up in a flat, but not Alice.

Never Alice.

He turned and he turned, his eyes searching, his fingers tapping keys on the phone; he pressed CALL, and he heard the familiar ring of a phone, elsewhere. He waited, patiently, searching for a street sign. He found one. He memorised it.

Someone picked up.

"…hello?"

"Number six," the Knave stated, waiting for a confirmation from the knight on the other end of the phone; after receiving one, he continued, "I have found Alice. I will send you the details of my location. However, you will need to split up and search for her. The Mad Hatter will be with her, therefore bring backup. Do not call me."

"But what if—?"

"Under no circumstances will you call me, do you understand?"

"…yes."

He smiled. "Good boy," he said, and then he hung up. The knight didn't even have time to splutter in protest, no matter how much he probably wanted to. And it was better that way—less fuss, less hassle.

The Knave of Hearts took one last look around, before shifting his glasses back up his nose and turning his collar up. After a few minutes, he would be at his local church. Just in time to catch the priest's first prayer.

fast forward.

10:32:03

Sakura flipped her wrist, attempting to aim the gun as quickly as possible under Sasuke's careful scrutiny; so far, she'd succeeded in hurting her wrist and smashing a lamp with her foot—Shizune had walked upstairs then, and Sakura had hid Sasuke under the bed, despite his many objections. Her carer had stepped into her bedroom then, peered at her with suspicious eyes, and then retreated back down the stairs.

Only when the door slammed did Sakura breathe a sigh of relief.

"That was close."

Sasuke's eloquent response was muffled by her bed, luckily; but from what she caught of his mumbling, he'd said something about a screwdriver, handcuffs and used a hell of a lot of bad language. She'd laughed then, fully relaxing, but tensed a moment after at the sight of his face. No fun and games. This was war.

Sort of.

She aimed again, but apparently her wrist flicked too much that time, and if she'd actually pulled the trigger, she'd have probably shot somewhere to her left, as opposed to straight forwards. She rolled her eyes and placed the gun down on her bed.

"What does it matter, anyway?" She asked, throwing her hands into the air and fixing Sasuke with an incredulous look. "If they planned on turning up, they'd have been here by now. They can't find me."

(downstairs, the doorbell rang.)

"Don't jinx it, Sakura."

"You believe in jinxes?"

"Hn."

("excuse me, ma'am, do you happen to know a girl named alice?"

"alice? no, there's no alice here. maybe you've got the wrong house."

"pink hair and green eyes?")

"You do! You believe in jinxes!"

("…you must mean sakura! yes, she's right upstairs. would you like me to call her down for you? she's not in trouble, is she? …are you a police officer?"

"oh, i'm not a police officer. i picked up a mobile phone of a friend of hers, and i wanted to drop it off with her."

"that's very kind of you. excuse me one second."

"of course.")

"Why wouldn't I believe in jinxes?" Sasuke murmured, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms; but his chin jutted out slightly, along with his lower lip, and Sakura would have sworn he was sulking. "Wonderland exists, doesn't it? So why wouldn't—"

"—SAKURA!"

Sasuke shut up, instantly. Sakura rolled her eyes, before cupping her hand around her mouth and calling back down to Shizune. "What is it?"

"There's a nice man here to see you! He says he's got a phone one of your friends lost. You come down and get it now!"

Sakura froze, her eyes catching Sasuke's. He nodded.

"…I'll go out the window."

With that, he was gone.

Sakura waited a moment, before scooping up her pistol and slipping out of the door. She started down the stairs, creeping quietly; she could see Shizune talking with the figure, but barely make him out. He was warped by the glass; his features were blurred. As far as she could tell, he was only slightly taller than her—Shizune certainly seemed to dwarf him, that was for sure—and quite slender. In fact, the only thing that truly made him male, as far as she could see, were the broader shoulders and lack of breasts.

She jumped off the final stair.

Shizune backed away, ushering Sakura forwards and then retreating into the kitchen to make coffee. Sakura waited a moment, before stepping forwards and peering at the newcomer. Her eyes widened. He looked like Gaara—the March Hare—but there were such obvious differences. This man was smaller; he looked younger, but he seemed older. His eyes were golden-brown, like treacle; they were sleepy. Tired, but filled with a blank cruelty. He was slender; everything about him was tiny.

And he was pointing his gun at her chest.

And she was pointing her gun at his head.

Neither person said anything; but Sakura's eyes flickered upwards, searching for Sasuke, for her backup. The man in front of her noticed her movements, but made no sign of being scared; in fact, he didn't seem pressured at all.

"Coffee?"

Shizune bustled back into the hallway. Both guns vanished. The man turned to Shizune, and all traces of hatred left his eyes; rather, they suddenly seemed kindly—trustworthy. Warm and inviting.

"Thank you, ma'am, but I certainly can't accept…" His voice was lower than Sakura had guessed it would be; lower and softer, to the point where it seemed peaceful.

"Nonsense!" Shizune snapped, forcing one cup into the newcomer's hands and another into Sakura's; she linked her arm around his free hand and practically dragged him inside. "Come in, come in; I you and Sakura have got so much to talk about, no doubt. She doesn't have friends around often, you see."

"Shizune…!" Sakura hissed, disguising her panic as embarrassment; a cold-blooded killer was in her house, and she was going to have coffee with him, and where the hell was Sasuke? She followed her foster mother anyway, feeling the weight of her gun tucked into the waistband of her trousers and feeling only slightly more secure. She followed them into the living room, and sat down opposite him.

Shizune beamed at them.

"So, Sakura, don't you want to introduce me to your friend?"

She loathed the way Shizune said friend, right then, but she forced herself to smile good-naturedly. "A-ha, well, this is, ahem…"

"Sasori," the man interrupted, stretching one hand out for Shizune to shake. "I go to Sakura's school. We only have a few classes together, and we don't talk much, but I was in her group for our last Chemistry project."

He lied so easily—so fluently—that, for a few seconds, Sakura was convinced. Now that she thought about it, she did recall seeing a boy of small frame in her classes; and she had been in a group with a redheaded kid in her last Chemistry project. Then she shook her head, snapping out of it; his words were convincing, yes, but she knew the truth. There was no way he could have been at her school all along.

No way.

Shizune stood up, offering him another smile. "More coffee?"

"Please," Sasori said, despite the fact that he hadn't finished the last one, and his eyes never left Shizune as she wandered out of the room. Then they flickered back to Sakura, and the guns were revealed once again; in fact, they were in practically the same position as before, except they were both sat down.

There was a moment of silence.

"Well… this is an interesting turn of events."

"You could say that," Sakura agreed, before frowning. "Where's Sas—the Mad Hatter?"

"Him?" Sasori tilted his head, as though listening for something; he remained like that for a few seconds, before snapping out of it. "No doubt he's messing around with Deidara. That idiot plays for too long."

That didn't sound reassuring.

"You're a murderer! Why didn't you just kill Shizune?"

"Because I'm only a murderer sometimes."

Sakura narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Sasori simply shrugged, gesturing with the gun. "Exactly what I said."

She raised her eyebrows, before sighing, choosing instead to simply stare at him. He was calm, much calmer than she was; and no doubt he was quicker to. She attempted to judge the distance between her and the door, failed, and then attempted to think of a plan; nothing came to mind. Again and again, she called up a blank, as Shizune busied herself making coffee and cleaning and probably cooking something for them to eat.

She didn't have a plan.

Except…

She'd keep him talking.

"You have beautiful eyes."

He looked momentarily startled, and she wondered whether it was because she had spoken or because of what she had said. His eyes narrowed firstly, mistrustful, and then he relaxed; after all, he had a gun too.

It was even.

"Thank you," he paused, unsure of what else to say, but Sakura saved him the effort of a returned compliment.

"They're awfully lonely though."

He didn't respond.

Sakura pressed harder.

"Why are you so lonely?"

Sasori smiled bitterly. "Because I'm a murderer, remember?"

And then he pulled the trigger.

back it up.

10:12:36

The whisperings grew louder.

("almost there almost there so close i can almost taste it taste him taste BLOOD. get him get him go go GO")

The bodyguards aimed their guns and fired twice, but Gaara was no longer there; he threw the table upwards, using the momentum to duck downwards, the broken glass still clutched in his hand. He could feel his blood dribbling down his wrist, and he knew that hand would be useless for a good few days. Dimly, he heard screams, as other customers rushed to get out of the way of the psychopath and his father.

His father.

He span underneath the table, pinning his hands by his side as he slid beneath the chair his father was sat on; the older man let out a pitiful mewl of fright, launching himself upwards as though he'd sat on a hot coal. Gaara almost launched himself after the other, had a bullet not chosen that precise moment to tear through his shoulder. Blood spurted across the white tablecloth. It would probably stain.

Okay.

New plan.

Get rid of the bodyguards and then kill his father. Easy enough.

He twisted, wobbling slightly—the smell of blood always stunned him—before lunging towards the closest of the two men, a blonde guy with bright blue eyes. The other—a stereotypical bald man, who was probably called Butch—stepped forwards, clubbing Gaara's already injured shoulder with his gun, before balling his fist up, ready for a proper punch. He ducked and lashed out with his free hand, but Blondie's fist collided with the back of his head, and he was sent reeling. He smashed into the table and would no doubt have laid there, had it not been for the two guns both aimed at his head.

"Kid, why don't you just listen to your father, huh?" Butch scowled.

"Yeah, you might actually hurt someone with that thing," Blondie agreed, before gesturing with his gun. "So stand up."

Gaara grinned, flipping them off with his empty hand. "Blow me."

The taunts had been aimed at both of the men in general, but Gaara had guessed it would be Butch who'd react badly. Sure enough, his face turned a beautiful shade of red, and he thrust his gun forwards, into the redhead's open mouth. "Eat this, you fucking queer!"

Hooray for idiots.

Gaara braced himself with the floor, letting go of the glass, so that he could lay both of his palms flat against the ground—then, without a second thought, he pushed himself upwards with both his hands and his feet; he kicked wildly at Butch's legs, sending the bodyguard crashing down on top of him and dislodging the gun from both his mouth and Butch's hands. It clattered to the floor somewhere above him and he noted the spot down in his head; then, with his free hand, he scrambled around for his makeshift weapon.

His hands closed around the broken glass.

The whisperings grew louder.

("slit his fucking THROAT")

And, for once, he actually listened. He ignored the man's pleadings; ignored the fact that he was making a grown man beg and scream and sob for mercy; and dragged the sharp edge across the man's throat. At first, there was nothing. Then blood began to bubble up at the wound, welling over the edge, and then spurting out, like a furious fountain of blood. Butch's cried became gurgles. He sounded like he was screaming underwater. The close proximity meant that Gaara ended up soaked in the copper liquid—the frenzied gunshots reminded Gaara that there was still a second bodyguard.

He was crying.

"Please… please… You can't—you didn't—please—please—!"

"Run away and stop crying then," Gaara snapped, because he couldn't be bothered with the melodramatics; he noticed, absently, that the rest of the restaurant had fallen silent.

Blondie turned tail and ran.

It was then, coated in blood and watching a fleeing thirty-something year old, that Gaara realised his father had used the excitement as a chance to slip away.

He'd lost again.

Absently, he picked a tablecloth up and wiped some of the blood off his face. Then he nudged the steadily cooling body out of the way, and walked over to the desk; the woman there, no doubt a waitress, cowered beneath his gaze.

He placed a few coins on her desk.

"Sorry about the stains."

With that, he left.

onwards we go.

10:45:52

Sasori pulled the trigger again, but he knew it was useless; he'd let his emotions get the better of him and, in doing so, given Alice the perfect opportunity to fully unleash her power. In fact, to tell you the truth, she appeared to have entirely vanished. Dimly, he heard Shizune sobbing in the kitchen. No doubt she'd heard the shots, then.

He'd have to kill her too.

"Surprise!"

He launched himself forwards, inwardly agreeing with Sakura's childish exclamation—because, hell yes, he was surprised. He hadn't expected her to sneak up on him that quickly, and it was only because of her childish taunt that he'd managed to dodge out of the way. He rolled into a standing position. Alice clapped her hands.

It was then that Sasori decided the girl stood in front of him was certainly not the girl he had been speaking to earlier. The girl from before—Sakura—had been reserved, careful saying anything in front of him, a murderer. This girl was certainly Alice. Ridiculously confident. Completely insane. He wondered where Deidara was and how his fight was going.

He flipped his gun sideways and shot twice. Neither bullet hit their mark, and he decided that someone was playing a cruel trick on him.

The gun against his head agreed with that idea.

"Nighty night, Sasori-chaaaan."

"Whatever," he rolled his eyes, feigning indifference, his hand closing around the muzzle and pushing it sideways—she squeezed the trigger anyway, and he felt a searing pain in his hand. He pulled backwards. He ducked away.

This wasn't going in his favour.

He needed backup; the girl was a monster. He closed his eyes, instinctively dodging to the left; the bullet tearing through the flesh of his thigh told him she'd predicted his movements, and plain cruelty was the only reason why he wasn't dead. He wondered absently when he'd dropped his gun. He fell to one knee. He decided, right then and there, that he was going to die.

He opened his eyes.

It was Sakura peering at him then, not Alice, and her face was uncertain; but he'd decided, and it was his decision. He reached out, almost gently, and placed the muzzle of the gun against his forehead. She hesitated. He shrugged one shoulder.

"You were wrong, Sakura. I'm not lonely—just tired."

He smiled a small smile.

"You're the one who's lonely. You're a sad, frightened girl, shoved into extraordinarily terrifying circumstances, and you're doing unbelievably well at surviving. But you're not immortal. You can still die. Just don't do it too quickly, or you'll be lonely forever."

Then he placed his hand over hers, gently, kindly, and helped her pull the trigger; helped her blast his brains all over Shizune's favourite sofa. There was a sort of 'oh' moment, when he realised the full extent of what he'd done—and then it was as though everything had been switched off, and he knew nothing.

Sakura let out a choked sob.

The corpse of Sasori slid to the floor.

"You're no messiah. You're a movie of the week. You're a fucking t-shirt, at best."
- Se7en

Outside, the gunshot was heard. Simultaneously, Sasuke and his foe cocked their heads, listening carefully; Alice couldn't be the one dead, that was for sure, due to the fact that neither of them had forgotten about Wonderland. In fact, he remembered it clearly. And apparently so did the blonde knight he was fighting. He caught a wild punch.

"He's dead," he murmured, both eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise. So Sakura had actually won, then.

He was surprised.

Sasuke raised an eyebrow, surprised at the angry reaction those words got; the blonde man span, flipped his gun to his other hand, and shot twice. Sasuke ducked easily. The knight swore loudly, backing away, shooting repeatedly, obviously attempting to escape.

The Mad Hatter smirked.

Then, quick as a flash, he moved. He darted to the left, feinted right, and then double-bluffed; then he ran. The knight's eyes widened. No one had yet outrun the Mad Hatter, and so he ground to a halt, because dying fighting was much better than dying running. He lifted his fists, adopting a defensive stance; Sasuke skidded to a halt, rolled his eyes, and then kicked. The knight span away, grunting slightly, but otherwise fine.

Sasuke's eyes swirled red.

Everything changed. He was a kid again. The world was bathed in blood. The knight's face distorted; his eyes turned red and his smile turned wide and thin and evil. He was the monster. He was the monster.

THE MONSTER.

He moved.

Someone screamed.

Inside, Shizune screamed, her hands flying to her mouth in despair as she gazed at the scene before her; apparently, one scream wasn't quite enough. She let out another shrill shriek, followed by another, and another, until her throat felt hoarse and painful. Sakura gazed at her, obviously dazed, no doubt in a state of shock.

The corpse gazed at her as well, with its beautiful wide dead eyes.

She screamed again.

A few hours later, the police arrived, but neither Sakura nor Sasuke were there to meet them. Shizune did not say where her foster daughter was. Shizune did not know.

At around the same time, Kiba received a reply to his email. On it was a date and a time and the name:

_wasp.

Elsewhere, the police arrived at Gaara's rented flat. His neighbours were all too happy to point out the apartment of the redheaded weirdo with the creepy eyes.

When they broke down the door, he'd already climbed out of the window.

He was halfway down the street before they realised he'd gone.

It was only five hours later, in Sasuke's apartment, sobbing in his toilet, that Sakura realised there was no turning back—no giving up. Unless she fought, she would die. Unless she won, her newfound friends would be trapped forever.

She unlocked the door and let Naruto give her another cup of too-sweet hot tea.

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING: WONDERLAND
YOU CANNOT TURN BACK