And this makes sense, how?
Brain says type, Katie types. Screw what comes out. These things are crappy, unedited little things that I posted her for no adequately explored reason.
xXx
It all started with an explosion that singed the edges of her pink hair and really set her on the edge.
She knew who he was, that blonde Akatsuki with the stupid girly hair - he looked like Ino for God's sake- and then there was that half visible mad expression on his features that did funny things to her insides. It made her want to break ever bone in his body slowly and painfully. At least, that's what she told herself as she charged towards him, leaving nothing but crators and rubble in her wake.
Then he laughed and told her that her fists made art and she told him that blowing people up - leaving nothing but bits of torn flesh and blood - was sick and not art. If that was his art, it was sick. He was sick. She knew she had pressed all the right buttons when his hands pushed into that all too familiar handsign and more clay came flying towards her.
She would never admit she actually found the brief flashes of light to be impressive in a way.
It was too late for this and Sakura was far too tired to be dealing with some half mad - completely mad - Akatsuki member who looked far too young to be a mass murderer who thought nothing of killing a couple of hundred people and calling it art. He fought at long distance and she just couldn't get close enough to hurt him the way she really, really wanted to. There was no reason for this fight to actually be taking place.
He wasn't trying to reduce Konoha to a pile of ash and debris and he wasn't trying to drag Naruto back to some dark base to suck the demon right out of him. No, nothing like that. She saw his face and froze while he grinned at her across the massive lake. They were far from that place now, and she wished she had cornered him and forced him to say. Sakura could see clearly that he was more skilled with Earth and Air, than Fire and Water.
Hell, she didn't like the Water element that much either, but it was likely he would suffer from that more than her.
That was wishful thinking at the moment when they were surrounded by nothing but stupid rocks and equally stupid trees which left splinters in her hands when she tore them to pieces trying to get to him.
Her temper was going to get her into trouble one of these days.
xXx
Hands twisted in his hair and dragged him backwards through the dusty courtyard. He should have known better than to struggle. A sharp swipe that was sure to break something put him off when he reached for the soggy clay in his pocket. They had deliberately drenched him in water after he had been subdued. Out of spite, and anger that those higher up actually wanted him alive
"Your favourite place in the world." He laughed that bitter, hoarse laghter that set teeth on edge and didn't reach his brown eyes.
The four, predictably, stone walls of his special cell were coated in a substance that would release a toxic gas if exposed to any kind of heat. Like the kind of heat that was produced by even the smallest of his bombs, and he refused to make them small anyway. A pitiful, 'pop' was not art at all. It was a waste of precious resources and only left him feeling more unfulfilled afterwards than he had been to begin with.
(And he didn't want to die yet.)
He didn't want to die without taking every single one of them with him in an explosion of rubble and caustic heat. That would be art. That would be worth it. They kept him in this cell and gave him clay when they needed someone's face blown off as a show of what happened to those that disobeyed, or when they just wanted to inflict pain on one of the many wretched souls locked in the underground tunnels here.
It didn't bother them when flesh showed, blood splattered and aching screams resounded through the air. Those bombs didn't make much of a bang, but it was something. He didn't even give a thought that he traded human life for his art on a daily basis. Those lumps of clay were bought with flesh and blood and pain. From an early age he was taught not to care - like every other shinobi child.
They just forgot , or ignored, the fact that they hadn't instilled that deep sense of loyalty that lay within most shinobi; that willingness to lay their lives down without a second thought for their precious village. Instead they taught him that he should be willing to do anything to gain the materials he needed; it was not a intentional lesson, but it stuck.
Hell, it stuck.
"Hey, how about I toss this match in with you, hmm?" He pursed his lips and took a long drag of the cigarette clenched tightly in his tanned fingers, the smoke drifted in and hung in the small room.
The message was clear; we aren't permitted to kill you, but feel free to do it yourself.
It was the same every day, they never seemed to get any new lines. His hand clenched around the mushed up, useless clay in his shallow pocket with as much force as he could muster. Imagining it was their organs splattering in his fingers; their life within his grasp. The tiny wooden match was flicked, unlit, into his cell where it landed at his feet. His sensei didn't say anything and simply turned and left.
Deidara scrambled up and sat on the yellowing mattress which sagged beneath even his slight weight.
The lit cigarette landed inches from the iron bars that stretched from ceiling to floor at one portion of the wall. They needed to be able to see him at all times. He had gotten several of the guards here when they weren't paying attention. Nothing sharp was ever left with him in here for that exact reason. He preferred to blow them up, but would settle for any other way.
He didn't even flinch as it rolled precariously close to the cell, same as every day. His nerve broke the moment his sensei walked around the corner and disappeared from view. Scrabbling forward on his hands and scabbed knees he blew the evil thing frantically until it rolled into one of the many puddles that formed on the damp floor. Humourless laughs echoed down the corridor as the guards at the station noticed what he was doing.
His already tattered pride was blown to a million pieces as he recognised one of them. He had been the one who had drenched him in water after his sensei's earth cage had made escape impossible. Deidara silently promised to give him a good sound kicking the next time they were in the practise field together.
This building was too close to the main river; the soil was too waterlogged for anything to really be stable here and water seeped through the stone constantly. The cloying smell of damp echoed through the long, dark corridors and manifested itself in strange illnesses that choked the lungs. Judging by the way the sun was shadowing they would come for him in an hour, maybe less.
Picking up the disguarded match he slipped it into the broken seam of his pocket where a small collection of them had already amassed. They could be useful some day.
xXx
xXx
It all started with an explosion that singed the edges of her pink hair and really set her on the edge.
She knew who he was, that blonde Akatsuki with the stupid girly hair - he looked like Ino for God's sake- and then there was that half visible mad expression on his features that did funny things to her insides. It made her want to break ever bone in his body slowly and painfully. At least, that's what she told herself as she charged towards him, leaving nothing but crators and rubble in her wake.
Then he laughed and told her that her fists made art and she told him that blowing people up - leaving nothing but bits of torn flesh and blood - was sick and not art. If that was his art, it was sick. He was sick. She knew she had pressed all the right buttons when his hands pushed into that all too familiar handsign and more clay came flying towards her.
She would never admit she actually found the brief flashes of light to be impressive in a way.
It was too late for this and Sakura was far too tired to be dealing with some half mad - completely mad - Akatsuki member who looked far too young to be a mass murderer who thought nothing of killing a couple of hundred people and calling it art. He fought at long distance and she just couldn't get close enough to hurt him the way she really, really wanted to. There was no reason for this fight to actually be taking place.
He wasn't trying to reduce Konoha to a pile of ash and debris and he wasn't trying to drag Naruto back to some dark base to suck the demon right out of him. No, nothing like that. She saw his face and froze while he grinned at her across the massive lake. They were far from that place now, and she wished she had cornered him and forced him to say. Sakura could see clearly that he was more skilled with Earth and Air, than Fire and Water.
Hell, she didn't like the Water element that much either, but it was likely he would suffer from that more than her.
That was wishful thinking at the moment when they were surrounded by nothing but stupid rocks and equally stupid trees which left splinters in her hands when she tore them to pieces trying to get to him.
Her temper was going to get her into trouble one of these days.
xXx
Hands twisted in his hair and dragged him backwards through the dusty courtyard. He should have known better than to struggle. A sharp swipe that was sure to break something put him off when he reached for the soggy clay in his pocket. They had deliberately drenched him in water after he had been subdued. Out of spite, and anger that those higher up actually wanted him alive
"Your favourite place in the world." He laughed that bitter, hoarse laghter that set teeth on edge and didn't reach his brown eyes.
The four, predictably, stone walls of his special cell were coated in a substance that would release a toxic gas if exposed to any kind of heat. Like the kind of heat that was produced by even the smallest of his bombs, and he refused to make them small anyway. A pitiful, 'pop' was not art at all. It was a waste of precious resources and only left him feeling more unfulfilled afterwards than he had been to begin with.
(And he didn't want to die yet.)
He didn't want to die without taking every single one of them with him in an explosion of rubble and caustic heat. That would be art. That would be worth it. They kept him in this cell and gave him clay when they needed someone's face blown off as a show of what happened to those that disobeyed, or when they just wanted to inflict pain on one of the many wretched souls locked in the underground tunnels here.
It didn't bother them when flesh showed, blood splattered and aching screams resounded through the air. Those bombs didn't make much of a bang, but it was something. He didn't even give a thought that he traded human life for his art on a daily basis. Those lumps of clay were bought with flesh and blood and pain. From an early age he was taught not to care - like every other shinobi child.
They just forgot , or ignored, the fact that they hadn't instilled that deep sense of loyalty that lay within most shinobi; that willingness to lay their lives down without a second thought for their precious village. Instead they taught him that he should be willing to do anything to gain the materials he needed; it was not a intentional lesson, but it stuck.
Hell, it stuck.
"Hey, how about I toss this match in with you, hmm?" He pursed his lips and took a long drag of the cigarette clenched tightly in his tanned fingers, the smoke drifted in and hung in the small room.
The message was clear; we aren't permitted to kill you, but feel free to do it yourself.
It was the same every day, they never seemed to get any new lines. His hand clenched around the mushed up, useless clay in his shallow pocket with as much force as he could muster. Imagining it was their organs splattering in his fingers; their life within his grasp. The tiny wooden match was flicked, unlit, into his cell where it landed at his feet. His sensei didn't say anything and simply turned and left.
Deidara scrambled up and sat on the yellowing mattress which sagged beneath even his slight weight.
The lit cigarette landed inches from the iron bars that stretched from ceiling to floor at one portion of the wall. They needed to be able to see him at all times. He had gotten several of the guards here when they weren't paying attention. Nothing sharp was ever left with him in here for that exact reason. He preferred to blow them up, but would settle for any other way.
He didn't even flinch as it rolled precariously close to the cell, same as every day. His nerve broke the moment his sensei walked around the corner and disappeared from view. Scrabbling forward on his hands and scabbed knees he blew the evil thing frantically until it rolled into one of the many puddles that formed on the damp floor. Humourless laughs echoed down the corridor as the guards at the station noticed what he was doing.
His already tattered pride was blown to a million pieces as he recognised one of them. He had been the one who had drenched him in water after his sensei's earth cage had made escape impossible. Deidara silently promised to give him a good sound kicking the next time they were in the practise field together.
This building was too close to the main river; the soil was too waterlogged for anything to really be stable here and water seeped through the stone constantly. The cloying smell of damp echoed through the long, dark corridors and manifested itself in strange illnesses that choked the lungs. Judging by the way the sun was shadowing they would come for him in an hour, maybe less.
Picking up the disguarded match he slipped it into the broken seam of his pocket where a small collection of them had already amassed. They could be useful some day.
xXx