Hello
Summary: Hello, Deidara. Why are you so shocked? You surprised to see me? Oh. I'm supposed to be dead… not anymore.
I don't own Naruto.
Hello Deidara. It's been such a long time, hasn't it?
Why are you so shocked? You're shaking your head in fear, kind of like what happens when you hear those horror stories. I'm not that hideous, not a corpse oozing blood, maggots devouring the flesh at every possible interval; I assure you, I won't eat your brains—there isn't enough for a snack, anyways. I have made sure I do not look monstrous—I'm a puppet, and I am my own puppet master, after all.
Vomit pours down your chin at my description of a monster, are you that terrified? Scared? But why would you be scared, I'm your 'danna', aren't I? Partners for the Akatsuki, acquaintances, and if you really push it, friends: And friendship lasts forever, right? So why won't you be my marionette? It will only hurt until you're dead…
As I advance, you scramble frantically towards your bag, deliberately ignoring the fact that it's empty—I had the Third Kazekage empty it out, don't worry, you can't put yourself under the illusion that this will be bad for you. Immortality isn't bad.
Do you want to keep your consiousness when I kill you? It's just a question. Do you want your soul when you die? Because then we can have lots of fun, and the 'you' you would still be alive. It's just an inquiry; why are you crying?
You're struggling to put your hands together, trying to form seal to get the hell out of here! —But it's for naught, because I had my puppets take care of your chakra, too. Do you hear that, Deidara, my only friend ever? You'll have plenty of other friends to play with, and I'll give you even more friends—won't that be fun?
I particularly like making my puppets. Just a small fact you probably knew, but it seems you need to be reminded, as you're mouthing 'why?' But don't worry, I'll make it relatively painless: You hate pain almost as much as the ghost stories, right? But remember, my dearest friend, I'm only doing this for you. You have special dying privileges, for being my comrade.
I love the blood oozing out of them, the intestines pouring out of my to-be puppets as I make room for weapons—did you hear that Deidara? I'll make you a weapon. Wouldn't that be nice?
You are sitting still as I cut your fake eye out of your head—not only is it useless, but it's incredibly tacky, and thus it must be removed. I carefully place the organic one down, and I smile—I'm doing you a favor, and I'll be nice about it—into the hollowed-out depths of your eye sockets, blood carefully matting your long bangs so as to be out of the way.
It's the first time you speak this fine evening, this glorious night—why wouldn't it be any less? You are going to die, but live Deidara. Immortal. Does that get through to you? The prospect of ruling all, simply by having the patience to wait, and gather forces for the attack: But don't worry, Deidara, being my friend will make you second in command. All that power—yours! Could you truly give up that opportunity? Could you?
Getting back to the point, you spoke.
'W-why?' You stutter, tears still pouring out of voids of blankness. I, disgusted, covered them up by inserting new, prettier sapphires.
'Why are you alive!?' You finally shriek, and I suppose I might've inserted the scalpel a little too deep, but you're the one with the jerky movements, so it isn't my fault that you might truly die.
'Oh… I'm supposed to be dead?' I remark to my hysterical friend, a let-down really, a response to his scream, 'Not anymore,' and I hurriedly peel your flesh off inch by inch, and your screams don't hurt my ears—I'm a puppet, remember? —And so I gut you, replacing your internal organs with weaponry of the unimaginable kind, or more like the unbeatable kind—Deidara-danna gets special privileges, after all.
Now you're whispering, a last attempt of denial, and you're saying stuff about being different, and I'm replying with a cold, 'No. This will work.'
You're starting to get on my nerves, you know. I'm doing all of this for you… and you're ranting about the inhumanity of it! I'm helping you—and you're calling me a monster!
I pause, momentarily thinking about leaving you here. If you're so ungrateful, why should I do you a favor?
'Do you want your soul?'
And you don't answer my inquiry—I suspect you might've passed out.
So…
I kill you.
From the twisted mind of theinsane, whom wishes for reviews.