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All things considered, this isn’t the most annoying situation Sasori has ever found himself in. It probably doesn’t even make the top five… maybe the top seven, now that he thinks about it. That one battle in the Land of Tea against a rogue ninja from Kiri wielding corrosive poison, and the botched Akatsuki mission in Ishigakure were definitely more bothersome.
However, being back in his old, meatsack of a body complicates matters more than he’d like. Bones and sinew are so very fragile and limited, which might push today’s predicament a few ranks higher on his list.
On the other hand, this world’s soft morals mean he’s probably safer here than in any backwater teahouse in Hot Water. As far as he knows, official law enforcement here strictly avoids torture, and he hasn’t even been thrown into a dungeon yet. Quite a sloppy work ethic, in his opinion, but it works in his favor.
A loud clearing of the throat. Sasori drags his attention back to the man sitting across the metal table. With boring brown hair, a black and blue uniform a size too big, and an unremarkable, middle-aged face he is an ugly specimen, an utterly unsalvageable creature, even through Sasori's artistic vision—unworthy of his time and attention.
“Young man, I think you do not understand the severity of your situation,” the eyesore says.
Sasori is inclined to roll his eyes, though any physical movement feels unfamiliar after decades spent as a consciousness and a coil of pure chakra contained in a hollow puppet. He still forgets now and then that he has to actually move his muscles for his body to do anything, rather than just command his chakra to do his bidding. It's bothersome.
“Accusations ranging from theft to unlicensed quirk usage and assaulting police forces are on the table. Don’t you want to at least make an attempt to defend yourself?” the man asks again, shuffling the messy stacks of papers and files on the table in an attempt to highlight the severity of his words.
Laughable. Most of them are nonsensical scribbles or empty sheets. Sasori knows they have nothing on him: no name, no “quirk,” not a shred of personal information. Only a vague eyewitness testament—a sloppy mistake on Sasori's part, he has to admit. This world’s subpar standards of espionage have made him careless, even during the few months he has been here. An issue he will correct promptly after this ordeal is over.
The interrogation room he’s been brought into has dim lighting, a dull grey tiled floor, uncomfortable chairs, and a pair of potted plants flanking a sole steel-reinforced door. There are no chains hanging off the walls, no rusty bloodstains dried into cracks and crevices, no mold clinging to damp corners. Throw in a rug, and the room could pass for a living room. Remove the handcuffs tying Sasori’s wrists to the table, and he might even consider it a pleasant stay.
If this is the world's standard of interrogation, it’s a disgrace—a truly impressive display of incompetence. How the police manage to extract information from those villains they chase all day long in such conditions is a mystery Sasori, for once, has no desire to pry apart.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, officer,” Sasori finally says, his voice as dry as Suna’s endless plains of sand and just as lifeless.
The officer pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing long and miserably. They are nearing the four-hour mark of this “interrogation,” and while Sasori, being a shinobi, is used to waiting, he is not a patient man. In fact, he is getting fed up with these people and their nonsense, throwing question after question at him with the sole underlying method of asking in different shades of nicely. If they don’t at least bring out a knife to stab him, he might fall asleep soon—curse this organic body’s needs; exhaustion especially is a nuisance to deal with.
If it weren't for that offense to human beauty slouching in the corner of his eyes, Sasori would have been out of here without a trace hours ago.
‘Eraserhead’—what a hideous name. Give the man a haircut, a shave, and a week's worth of sleep, and he might make a passable subject for his art. Until then, he is of little interest to Sasori.
Still, the man's ability has its uses, Sasori will concede. Stripped of his chakra during his stumble through dimensions by whatever god had it out for him, Sasori now has to rely wholly on his ‘quirk’. And with just a single glance, this offshoot Uchiha can nullify even that.
This whole ordeal—being caught by Eraserhead and manhandled into the police station—only happened in the first place because the hero managed to surprise Sasori with his Erasure quirk. Another stupid mistake on his part. Deidara would have a positively unhinged fit over it if he were here, and that thought stings more than it has any right to.
You chose to leave it all behind, Sasori reminds himself. You chose to accept death. Now deal with the consequences. Wallowing in self-pity is beneath you. Take control. Adapt. Create.
How fitting it is for him to evade death when he was finally ready to embrace it, only to be revived in this world. How ironic on so many levels. Did he truly find the key to immortality by dying? He might spare a laugh if his situation were not so deeply frustrating. The world always seems to act contrary to Sasori's wishes.
With a scoff, Sasori buries the old melancholy deep inside where he knows it can’t reach him.
Take control. Adapt. Create.
“Kid, we are only trying to help you here.” Eraserhead pushes himself off the wall, slumping down in the chair beside the exasperated officer. “You are in trouble, I'm not going to lie, but nothing that can't be fixed if you let us.”
Now Sasori musters the energy to roll his eyes. “Kid? How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know, you tell me,” Eraserhead replies. “But you can’t be an adult yet.”
Sasori raises an eyebrow. He will not, in fact, tell them anything. However, this new (old?) body of his is at least sixteen—far from a child.
Tsk, all this trouble for a few stolen mechanical components he didn’t even manage to get away with. He needs to build up a network of goons to procure his art materials soon so he doesn’t waste his time like this again.
“We’re getting nowhere here. How about a break?” the officer suggests, standing up with a screech of his chair. “It’s dinnertime anyway.”
Eraserhead nods in agreement and follows suit, but much more quietly. “I’ll bring you something from the cafeteria, kid. I’ll be back in a minute.”
With that, the heavy door clicks shut behind them. Finally.
Sasori lifts his left leg onto the table and pulls out one of the senbon hidden in his boot. They didn’t even search him for hidden weapons. What a joke.
A few calculated flicks of his wrist, and the cuffs fall away, freeing his hands.
Sasori wastes no time sitting around idly. There are no windows, and the only door is soundproof, leaving him with no other option but to pry it open and hope no one is standing outside.
The door cracks open without issue—it's unlocked, unlocked—and luck seems to be on his side. The hallway is empty. In a blink, Sasori has turned the first corner, clinging to the sparse shadows offered by the overhanging halogen lamps.
He regrets that he didn't bring one of his puppets with him, but carrying them around without sealing scrolls available to him is a hassle and a half, and not worth it most of the time. Had he known he would end this day by breaking out of a police station, he would have considered the extra weight worth it. Hindsight is always 20/20.
Before long, he finds a window that can be opened. Small and slim as he is, he has no trouble squeezing through. He sticks his chakra threads—he refuses to call them a quirk; he’d rather drown in acid—to the brick wall outside and abseils down into the alley below.
The sun is setting in the distance, painting the horizon in a soft orange glow that reflects off the countless skyscrapers erected from glass and concrete.
Sasori could appreciate the scene's beauty more if he weren’t so annoyed. What a waste of time this day has been.
A frigid breeze crawling underneath his thin clothes reminds him to get moving. He should have worn more than just a shirt and windbreaker.
He quickly weaves through alleys and back streets until he is a reasonably safe distance from the police station, but even then, he doesn’t let his guard down.
A wise decision, as it proves to be, when a dull thump resounds behind him milliseconds before a whistling flapping sound.
Sasori dives to the side on instinct. A sharp wind grazes his ear as the capture weapon whirls past him, missing by a mere hairsbreadth. Sasori lands in a roll and uses the momentum to spring back to his feet, whipping out a kunai from his boot.
He crouches low, blade poised and fist raised high, arms tight at his sides. This time, he is prepared to be met with glowing red eyes. He knows he can only rely on his body and wit—good old taijutsu and strategy.
Eraserhead lands in a smooth crouch at the other end of the alley, his hair afloat, capture scarf whirling around him like angry twin snakes.
“We don’t have to do this,” the man says, a deep frown on his tired face.
In response, a nasty smirk twists Sasori’s face into a deranged grimace. “Oh, on the contrary. I think we have a score to settle.”
Never let it be said that Sasori isn’t a prideful bastard. That an old hobo past his prime managed to defeat him stings, to say the least. He takes pride in the reputation he has built for himself and the fear it instilled; he is the one who dyed the desert red, the one who commanded an army of his own creation. Reduced to feeble flesh and blood or not, stranded in a strange world or not, he refuses to be bested by a hero.
Said hero sighs, frustration tinging the sound. Then his scarf lashes out again without warning, fast as arrows. But Sasori had anticipated this. He twists his body to the side with practiced ease, nimble fingers grabbing the weapons hidden on his lower back.
Sasori throws a flurry of shuriken, forcing Eraserhead to dodge, then uses the brief distraction to close the distance between them, feinting a high strike with his kunai before dropping low, aiming a sweeping kick at Eraserhead’s legs.
Eraserhead leaps back, narrowly avoiding the kick. He counters with a flick of his scarf, redirecting it to ensnare Sasori while he is balancing delicately on his toes.
Sasori doesn’t bother trying to cut the scarf; he had tried that unsuccessfully last time. Instead, he whips out a second knife strapped to his forearm under his jacket and throws it at the scarf to redirect its trajectory. The weapon grazes Sasori's skin but fails to capture. Utilising the window of opportunity, Sasori delivers a powerful punch aimed at Eraserhead's sternum while his scarf is airborne.
It stuns the hero long enough for Sasori to have time to sprint to the end of the alley and around the corner, out of sight of his quirk. A faint tugging sensation in his abdomen lets him know he has retained control over his chakra strings.
Sasori sends the strings out, sticking to the facade of the building. Knowing he has only a tiny timeframe, he hurls himself into the air just as Eraserhead skids around the corner, red eyes locked onto him. The chakra strings attached to his fingertips instantly dissolve into nothing, but Eraserhead is too late; the momentum Sasori gained is enough to carry him onto the rooftop in a smooth arc.
Eraserhead is quick to follow, using his scarf to propel himself into the air, landing a mere second after Sasori. It doesn’t matter; Sasori got what he wanted—an open fighting ground without any high ground to be gained, without any grappling anchors, making the capture weapon much less effective and neutralizing one of Eraserhead’s biggest advantages.
The smirk on Sasori’s face stretches. “Let’s end this.”
This time, Sasori rushes him, and Eraserhead is smart enough not to bother using his capture scarf.
Ereaserhead redirects Sasori’s first punch with his forearm, but the force is enough to push him back a step. Sasori pressed the advantage, launching a flurry of strikes, each aimed with deadly intent. Eraserhead only parris and dodges, trying to immobilize rather than seriously injury, his glowing eyes never leaving Sasori’s.
For a moment, they seem evenly matched, Sasori making up for his deficiency in raw strength with agility and at least a decade more experience. But Sasori knows he can’t maintain this pace indefinitely. His body, despite its conditioning since early childhood, is still pathetically human, still developing, and easily tired, and he has no puppets to fall back on.
With a surprising burst of speed, Eraserhead suddenly moves inside Sasori’s guard, his hand striking out to grab Sasori’s arm. Sasori feels the grip tighten, but instead of pulling away, he steps in even closer, locking Eraserhead’s arm and twisting his body. Eraserhead’s eyes widen behind his goggles as Sasori leverages his weight and throws the man over his shoulder.
Eraserhead hits the rooftop hard but rolls with the impact, mitigating most of the force and coming back to his feet as quickly as a cat. Sasori is already on him, kunai swinging down. The hero barely manages to deflect the blade with a knife pulled from his belt.
Sasori's smirk turns devilish. With a flick of his wrist, he releases a small vial from his sleeve, smashing it hard against the rooftop.
A cloud of thin purple smoke erupts, obscuring half of the rooftop. Sasori moves entirely unconcerned within the toxic cloud, his silent footsteps making no sound. Eraserhead, on the other hand, is coughing as he stumbles back, his eyes stubbornly held open.
The toxin is fast-acting; Eraserhead is already swaying on his feet.
“What is this?” he croaks.
“An anesthetic agent,” Sasori graciously informs the hero. He hasn’t had the time to get his hands on any more potent poisons yet, nor the resources to build up his own immunity to them.
Sasori approaches Eraserhead slowly, knife poised for a killing blow. But Eraserhead is quicker than expected. Sasori’s blade misses its mark, slicing harmlessly through the air and Eraserhead’s fist comes up, striking Sasori’s ribs with a force that knocks the wind out of him.
Sasori stumbles back, his vision swimming for no more than a second, but by then Eraserhead has already disappeared.
Smart, to retreat before the poison knocks him out entirely. Sasori could chase the hero. The chances of catching a sluggish Eraserhead are high, but he knows reinforcements will arrive soon. He should leave before more heroes swarm this rooftop.
Nevertheless, he takes a moment to exhale deeply, letting his shoulders relax as the adrenaline fades from his veins. The maniacal grin on his face slips into a blank expression, his wide eyes dulling into half-lidded indifference.
Dusk has darkened into a starless night sky. The city below roars with activity, but Sasori stands far removed from it, alone on the rooftop. He watches detachedly as life takes its course on the streets below. The absence of adrenaline leaves him with that dreaded emptiness. He refuses to call it despair.
After a minute he notices the blood lazily running down his arm, dripping from his fingertips and forming a puddle at his feet.
Ah. The capture scarf must have cut him. That thing is sharper than one might expect for a piece of cloth. His jacket is ruined in any case, but that is an issue for later.
Where to now?
Sasori searches his mind for a place to go but comes up empty. Everywhere is the same; everywhere is mind-numbingly boring. He isn't expected anywhere. No one is waiting for him.
With a sigh, Sasori turns away from the skyline. He might as well—
An ear-shattering boom resounds across the city. The night lights up in a bright flash as the air vibrates with the force of it.
A rush of warm wind carries the biting smell of chemicals and soot.
People scream, the streets rumble in aftershock, cars blare, and dust rises in a pillar somewhere in the distance.
Sasori freezes, his gaze fixated on the distance from where the explosion resounded. He would recognize that particular offense to the senses anywhere. There is no mistaking it.
Perhaps he is not as alone as he had thought in this world. Another series of explosions goes off, closer this time. Sasori is already racing across the rooftops, heading straight to ground zero.
Despite himself, a clumsy smile tugs at his lips, quickly hidden in the shadow of his pulled-up hood.