| [May. 31st, 2009|07:26 pm] |
Asuma would've traded his eye-teeth for one decent trap scroll. Hell, for enough chakra to make a decent trap, forget the scroll. But all he had was wire and weapons and a fistful of hope.
Natsumi's vote of confidence in letting the bleeding guy hang back to do his own thing was nice, though. Or a definite sign of serious injury.
The evening wind shushed through the fallen tree's branches, carrying a breath of fresh pine and the faintest female gasp of pain. One pretty girl, still breathing. Asuma corralled his bleaker thoughts, stamping them down so far he couldn't even see the edges, and got on with using the remaining four of his five minutes.
One to stand and not shake.
Two to string up four invisible tripwires and one snare.
Three to arm them with kunai and the spark of chakra he could force into a fire seal.
Four to bury Natsumi's shuriken blade-up beneath the leaves, scattered through the clearing, waiting for unwary footsteps.
Five to call for one more minute and sweep their prints away.
Six to spread out his own makibishi, lining the shadows and crags of tree branches with the tiny, razor-sharp tacks--designed to pierce soles, but he didn't care if they bit fingers.
Seven to lean against the rough bark of a weather-blasted tree, feel the sword grip pressed between the trembling angles of his shoulderblades, and buy eight seconds to breathe. Now his side hurt, drawn hot and tight down the arch of his ribcage, like someone had tried to jam a blistering butterknife in there. The slow seep of red warmth was the only thing keeping feeling in his left hand. His vision blackened at the edges.
Natsumi called a question. He roused himself, rasped something about really wanting a cigarette right about now, and ducked down to crawl into their shadowed tree shelter.
Where Natsumi was half naked.
Asuma blinked, dragged a crimson smear over his forehead with the one hand not braced on dirt, and found a slow, crooked smile. "Changed my mind. Best mission ever."
Natsumi's mouth fell open, darkly bruised hands flying up to cover herself. Slim brows snapped down, blood flushed ice-pale cheeks, staining right down to blue-black collarbones. Asuma kept his gaze at blush-level, decided that was his favourite expression so far, and didn't even feel it when his eyes started to roll up.
Or when the ground leapt up to greet him. |
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