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Today, a different day that felt the same as the day before, Sai went to Orochimaru whilst he toiled away on a fresh body, classified documents in hand. Orochimaru, a serpent more slippery that a terror-struck snake, shrunk his eyes at his request, yellows getting squeezed down into two starry points, and let loose a laugh so musical that it filled Sai up with a terrible agitation—that he wanted to run far away from here and never look back. The lantern light struck the man's features, and Sai noticed that his skin seemed sicker than before, as though a cloth from which colour had been drained some more.
"Your master is pushy, boy," Orochimaru spoke, a smile carving further into the features, pointy teeth occluding, gleaming white, brighter than pearls—he must be a fussy man about the condition of his mouth, Sai imagined.
Sai said nothing, and observing his silence, Orochimaru turned towards the body, hands going deeper into the chest cavity, and went on: "all in good time, boy. All in good time." Then he said nothing, and Sai, to his great dismay, listened to the slurping sounds the congealing blood made, oozing forth in great, loose strings from the wound; and the room, now, seemed nothing more than the cadaver's extension, a phantom limb the mad-scientist had severed off in disinterest.
Sai watched, for the man had not dismissed him, and his master had taught him to listen and not talk, so he did . . . worry gaining greater grounds within, eyes wandering to notice rich purple flowers that created from their unions great many tangles along the walls—their scents . . . bewitching! Then, when his resolve had almost left his control, Kabuto came into this den of woe, took from his hand the scroll, and urged him to take his leave. Relieved, he bowed, a gesture which (seemingly) went unnoticed by the ghastly man from the Sannin, and left the room.
Whilst Sai was leaving the room and its psyche-attacking aromas, he heard Orochimaru take Sasuke's name, rolling it from the tapering tongue as though the Uchiha youth was the tastiest meal he had ever relished. Curious, much too curious, to let this go, Sai went to his room, secured it from the inside with a latch that was rusted through and heavy, and took out his trusted scroll. He looked at the sunken fireplace that was going cold fast, its yellows strangulated by the place's chill, and sat down on the bed. Then, unrolling the scroll, he made quick brushstrokes; and from shapely blots that suffused the scroll's pores as innumerable streamlets out came mice. He smiled; mice were snakes' favourite meal, feeble and free; but now, its prey was out to hunt—with tentative curiosity!
Sai, through Yamanaka clan's chakra technique, guided the little vermin; and into the black of the crevices they went, five of them, scampering away one after the other. He heard hushed skittering till distance drove the sounds further away from his reach; now, his chakra, which connected each manufactured creature like a puppeteer's string, brought back signals to the nerves: sounds, sights, smells—he had become their senses.
And through the channels they went, hopping over each other with bursts of speed, arriving at last to their destination: a place where the snake's voice was greatest; and had they been alive, shivering clumps of flesh, they would have not travelled to their hunter of their own accord.
The noises came, hit the tiniest chakra-tipped hairs, sent the mice into a bit of a frenzy as they chased one another in a circle—in play; and Sai listened to the man speak: "I don't trust the boy. Danzō has send him out here for a purpose. Why don't you be friendly? Ask, perhaps?" And the slopping sounds returned, agitating the mice as though they feared that that was to be their fate.
Silence followed for a moment, and then the young man spoke, whom Sai recognised to be Kabuto: "friendly? Orochimaru-Sama, he won't tell me anything even if I smile and clean his soiled sheets. Why don't you cut ties with the man? Send this boy's head to him in a little bag? Or we can use him—see what makes him tick?" Kabuto must have been smiling as Sai could almost feel it, encased by the words that came as knocking echoes against the stones.
"Makes him tick?" Orochimaru repeated, letting slip a pleasant laugh that was made to sound equally unpleasant by his voice's unusual timbre. "You wanted me to do the same to Sasuke-Kun."
"I've changed," Kabuto said, almost in jest.
"Your dull humour hasn't," Orochimaru spoke, quite disinterestedly. Then a great gurgle rattled the old channels in the walls; and the little mice jumped to-and-fro in reaction to the vibrations. Did Orochimaru drain the blood? (Where was the outlet located? Sai was . . . almost curious about the possibility as to where he may discover it.) "Another failure. This won't do."
"There's still time to make good use of him and pay that snake back for not keeping his promises."
"No, Kabuto, let it slide . . . for now," Orochimaru spoke, his last words a winding chill about Sai's spine. "Where is Sasuke-Kun?" A thunk followed the man's words—a quick squish of sorts . . . another one to the pile below. How did this man manage to keep the odours at bay? Was it the peculiar flowers Sai had seen earlier? He could not say—he would ask . . . one of them, if opportunity ever presented itself.
"Out by the lake, I imagine?" Kabuto said and three thumps followed; he had backed away from his master.
"Be kind to the boy. Let him train as he pleases. His days are coming to an end . . . the poor, beautiful boy," Orochimaru spoke, and the taste of syrupy delight in his voice . . . was felt, even by the mice.
"Do you think he'd protest? He won't—"
And Sai could not hear anything more as the mice had burst into many droplets inside the mouth of a snake in hiding. The prey could only run so far . . . Sai's eyes snapped open, a realisation in him coming alive: did Orochimaru plan on taking over Sasuke's body? When?!
Silence . . . a cold coiling about the room, tightening; Sai rolled up the scroll that was clean, washed off the chakra-ink, mind running amok like the frightened mice. He had to reach his master—but . . . how? It was no use for now. He would have to lay low, talk to the youth, befriend him . . . kill him, for that was to be his fate.
And just like that, his day was spent, fearful and full of doubts; by night, he dreamt a little dream: letting his kiss blossom on the youth's shy mouth, bolder the colour there, an answer to his . . . little pleas? And he woke up again and he wrote again, of what he felt to be real in reveries:
Brother, I miss my distant body, but I miss thee more . . .
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