Ordinary

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. Imagine that.

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One…two…three…He's lost count for the sixth time of how many have been killed by the single kunai gripped so tightly in his hand that it's now drawing blood from his knuckles. This is why he hated war. He was one, and they were many.

Driving to the hilt of the already-bloodied kunai into another mist-nin with no name and wrenching up so that everything from his heart through his head was sliced in half and as innards went flying, he recalls the days when killing was only a competition, a game, to the young men of Konoha.

But now that he's older and seen much more than he's ever wanted to see, he wishes he didn't have to kill at all.

He dodges a stray shuriken, sending one of his own into the fray. A dismembered scream chills the night, but he tunes it out. Another story is about to end.

He had begun to wonder about the true worth of life. If it was so precious, why were there over two hundred people in this field, all trying to take it away from one another? He hardly notices the fact that he had allowed a mist-nin to get close enough to cut the sleeve of his right arm and draw blood. The ninja is not experienced; he can't have been more than a low-level Chuunin. Without thinking, he stabs backwards and feels the enemy's blood spill over his hand as the body falls bluntly onto the crimson-soaked ground.

As far as he knows, that boy had no name and no face. Maybe he had family and friends at home, waiting for him to return. Maybe there was quite a bright future in store for him, had not he been stabbed through the chest and his life ended abruptly. Maybe he would have survived if he had been more extraordinary; if he hadn't been just another ninja. Or maybe his story was destined to end a tragedy.

Thinking about his life, Asuma realizes that his about as extraordinary as the boy he just killed. Even if they were on the same rank, he realizes that the loss of his life would be little compared to the loss of, say, Kakashi, who had carved his name into the history books since age six. Even his death might not be a death of much significance; any ninja, even a genin, could end his life with a lucky throw.

Exhaling deeply, he vaguely wishes that he had his cigarettes with him. Even though his fellow jounin often tried to dissuade him from smoking any more of those cancer sticks, he still sought them as a source of strange comfort; a lasting reminder of his old man.

Despite all this, though, Asuma thinks that he's better off as ordinary. No one needs to know his name or see his face. No one needs to be known as the one who finally ended Sarutobi Asuma's story.

It's all he can do for all the nameless faces he's destroyed.

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If you are scratching your head and saying "WTF, mate!" I can attest to that. I meant to make this fic completely incognito, but it just screamed out "ASUMA!" And well...my muse has never steered me wrong yet.

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