Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
There are two types of people in the world: the winners and the losers. Winners and losers always fight. But the winners will always win, naturally, and that means that the loser will lose.
What happens when the losers lose?
Simple. They die.
So who was a winner and who was a loser?
Location, Time Uncertain
The world was dim, but it wasn't completely black yet. The darkness was dragging him down. It was gravity pulling him down, while he was hanging onto a cliff by his fingernails. He dug his fingernails into the sharp rock of the cliff. Sharp spikes of pain traveled up his hands.
His index finger hurt the most. Ever since he'd broken it about a decade ago, it had never been the same.
He had thought that breaking a finger was painful. Fool. It was nothing like this torment.
I would break all of my fingers, if only I could pull myself up.
That wasn't going to happen. His body had been rapidly deteriorating in the last twenty-four hours, and he was in such a poor condition that he couldn't even pull himself up with both arms.
It would take a miracle to save him. No, not even a miracle, just a stroke of luck. Just a random person who just happened to walk by and see him.
Ha. He'd run out of his share of luck a long time ago, during that moment ten years before, when he was saved from death by a stabbing kunai.
Hm. He wondered if that red-headed woman—Tayuya, he recalled dimly—had felt the same as he did now. When those trees had crushed her, did she die immediately? Or had she experienced the same torture that he was going through now? He'd never know.
Wishing was hopeless. Wishing didn't get Asuma back. Wishing didn't get his father back.
Wishing wouldn't save him. He knew he was going to die.
There's no point in hoping for a miracle, he had said to himself ten years ago, on that fateful day. Maybe there was still some hope left.
Fool! Everything had gone downhill from there.
With a snap, his index finger broke for the second time. He clenched his teeth. Nine fingers left.
He'd prided himself with his quick wits and intelligence a long time ago. Ha, they wouldn't help him now. Especially since he had no stamina left.
But, ten years ago—
That was the thinking of an idealist! Nothing in the shinobi world was ideal!
He gasped in pain as a rock slit open his thumb. Blood dripped down onto his forehead and down his nose, finally flowing into his mouth.
"I'm sorry," he gasped, to Ino and Chouji back home. "I'm sorry," he gasped, to his late master Asuma, who had told him to always protect the king. "I'm sorry," he gasped to his comrade, who had saved him ten years ago. What was the name now? He couldn't remember.
"I'm sorry," he gasped, to his mother and father who had raised him and cared for him and hoped that he could grow up and live a long life.
Tears now mixed with the blood on his face. His fingernails scraped against the rock, and he felt himself sliding down.
The rock crumbled into little pieces, and his fingers closed on air. With nothing to hold on to, he felt the darkness coming to consume him.
But something still bothered him. He couldn't remember her name.
He felt the gravity pulling him down. He was powerless to stop it. He would die, here and now, and no one would know. No one would ever know.
The darkness roared up to meet him, then suddenly it was gone.
A hand grasped his bloody one and hauled him up. In that instant, he remembered that name.
Temari.
Then he was lying on a cool, hard stone floor.
"Are you all right?" Yukan asked him.