InsaneJournal

Current mood:	unhappy
Entry tags:	sumire

Dyed in the Wool [seven years ago] [closed]
Tonight's victim was one Yamazaki Hidetora, a man about town that pissed off one woman too many and was paying for it. The woman who had paid for tonight's little festivities was an old flame with a deep grudge. Sumire could understand that, really; some men just didn't know when to stop and when they finally did, it wasn't ever on you. So she knew exactly why she knelt before him in that gauzy little gown, filled with a sense of nervousness and trepidation that came so unnaturally to a Murakami girl. Hidetora was a loud kind of man, confidence oozed from every pore. He had more charisma than a boat full of samurai.

Under her tongue, Sumire's saliva was quietly eating through the protective gel coating of her poisoned needle. She just needed one, for someone like him. He probably wouldn't even notice the stab, or the travel of the needle down his esophagus where it would eventually block the opening of his stomach and stab over and over as his body tried to reject it. Then, of course, was the poison to think about. One of her grandmother's homegrown specialties.

"Don't be afraid," his voice was smooth and pleasant, his hands warm. "This is your first time, Hina-chan?" Sumire nodded pathetically, lacing her fingers together. It was a lie, of course. It'd been three years, at least, since she made Matsuhiro fix that problem. Before some Iwa-nin could dispatch that little bit of flesh for her. And then dispatch her. Thank god, she had thought then, with the cold ground pressing sharply into her back and Matsuhiro's face and body laboring over her. Thank god, it's over. As she looked up at the pleasant-looking Yamazaki, she smiled.

Thank god. Thank god, it's gone. It wouldn't be long until the sweet-tasting needle would be on its last travel, Sumire knew this as she lay back. If there was a child from this, it would just be destroyed, she had the tincture for it in her pack already. Hell, she'd take it if she wasn't sure. And it wasn't that Yamazaki was a bad lover, either.

He just wasn't going to be making this out alive, was all. The needle passed without incident, and Sumire was still amazed at what one wouldn't notice when in the heat of passion. Even if it meant their life, men were silly enough to look over things. Women too. But those mission were reserved for more experienced kunoichi, not a wimpy, newly made chuunin like Sumire who couldn't stand the feeling of flesh as soft as hers pressed up against her with nothing between them but some pheromones and heat.

No, she just couldn't stand it.

Men liked her lolita-face more anyway. She had been thinking about it when Yamazaki choked, and Sumire moved quickly to roll him on his back, her face a mimicry of panic that faded into the real thing when he wouldn't let go. His face was red, his eyes bulged. Sumire did the first thing that came to instinct: she punched him. Again and again, until her knuckles opened and bled. It hurt. It hurt more than it should, but at least he let go, writhing and bucking in his final moments.

Make him suffer, had been the special request from the client. Make him suffer. She could do many things; suffering wasn't high on her list. Poison, murder, seduce, sure. What kunoichi didn't know the basics of the trade? But she just didn't understand how to make someone suffer.

Sumire resisted the urge to lick her knuckles clean, reminding herself that it was highly unsanitary, even as she watched Yamazaki reach for her, thick, masculine fingers reaching out, eyes wild with betrayal. How can you watch this? he seemed to ask. How can you watch me die? I don't want to die! How can you watch this? He was starting to gurgle red and yellow at her. Sumire slithered off the bed and watched him, drawing bare legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. What was it about these missions that made a woman feel five and an experienced kunoichi feel fifty?

Watch this, and learn. Sumire told herself without blinking. It's not the first time, it's not the last time, so watch and learn. Her knuckles stung, bleeding slowly across her fingers and onto her shin. For now, she ignored it, and crawled over to her clothing to pull a stiletto from her discarded clothing. "Yamazaki-san?" she drawled gently. "I am waiting until you die to finish this. I... I'm not that kind of person yet, you understand. And--"

He gurgled one last time and spit foam and blood and yellow liquid, falling still. Sumire swallowed and walked slowly towards the bed, the thin dagger in her hands was chilly, and felt good against the beat of blood in her palms. "And I don't want you to think bad of me, when you go to Paradise, or Hell or wherever your deeds have lead you. Namu." She knelt beside the bed and began the gruesome work of making a dead man look as if he'd been a regular kusabi.

It made Sumire's stomach flop uncomfortably. When she sat back to view her handiwork, the sluggish red lines cut upwards into his stomach, stabbed into his arms and face, genitals removed and placed beside the body. The young woman swallowed around the thickness in her throat, and could only taste blood rolling over tongue. She was messy now that everything was over.

Worst of all, she was alone now. Other people did alone well; she'd heard stories of people willfully going to hermitage. All alone? With just your thoughts to keep you company? Sumire couldn't stand it. She couldn't abide by it. Sumire needed someone with her. She was a Murakami before she was a ninja, she'd never been really alone in her whole life. There was always someone there. Her sister, muttering in her sleep, her mother sneaking in late at night, half-drunk on sake and tittering quietly, the soft snore that sometimes came from Aoi's room when he didn't lay flat on his back. Beyond the house there was always the sound of someone singing, someone laughing, the sharp tack-tack of a practice stick, the twang of shamisen and biwa. On a mission? There was Matsuhiro and Mio, laughing and joking with her stubborn sense of right and wrong. Arguing mission plans and who got to eat the best ration bar.

How could anyone stand to be alone?

Sumire wrapped the blade up for disposal later, and washed her hands, her legs, between her legs. There was very little on her face, the mirror told her, and practically nothing on her chest now that it had been thoroughly, roughly scrubbed pink. She was pretty as a picture, even with the still-childish face glancing uncertainly back at her. The mirror never lied.

Getting dressed wasn't a rush, nor was it when she slithered out the window and into the chill night air. She wanted to see Matsuhiro and Mio again. Visit and have a single sake with Haruka-sensei. Most of all, Murakami Sumire didn't want to be alone.