Continued from here.

@thenagaraja: As they took their leave of Nakatomi, the careful facade of humble politeness which had plastered itself over Orochimaru’s features for the better part of an hour were dashed by the rising tide of foreboding he felt welling in his chest. While there was no direct reason to give him such suspicion about old man’s motives, his cruel intimacy with violence and the people who engineered that violence left him with little hope that he would not once again be spending his nights crouched in damp, muddy trenches sooner than he would have wanted.

Wars cost money. But wars also made money, and it seemed to him that Nakatomi was biding his time and waiting to see which path would prove the most profitable.

It’s all about the coin, he thought, unable to suppress a frown of disgust that traced weary lines of cynicism at the corners of his mouth. Never mind the lives that bring it to him. It’s numbers. It’s who has more numbers in their account books at the end.

A small warmth enveloping his hand pulled him down from the heavy clouds of his thoughts and turned his attention to the dispirited shuffling of his wife beside him. The distant, inward look which haunted her expression spoke of a wandering down paths which none could hope to follow…save for those poor souls who had survived is first journey.

Urging her gently forward he hastened them back to their quarters, making certain that there was no one nearby who might overhear them, bolting the fusuma and guiding her down to one of the silken pillows that had replaced their futon. His hands shaped themselves about her face, stroking down her waxen cheeks in an effort to break her from her terror.

“Darling,” he murmured, bringing his forehead to rest against hers. “What is it? Tell me.”

She sits still, a prisoner to her past and her fears. The pained cries echoed in her ears and then the terrified screams. No matter how many months had passed it, the memories were fresh for her. How couldn't they be? The last whispered words? The stench of rotten flesh. It had clung to the survivors for days. Had never truly been washed away no matter how many baths they took once returning home.

It started when a bird took to the air, cawing in aggravation when she, lost in her meal, realized she wasn’t alone in the forest. 

The fluttering birds and forest critters that scuttled about the greenery didn’t count as company; this presence was far different, and it was typically--definitely--something she’d always sought to avoid. Human.

She had decided long ago that other humans were nothing but trouble, the confusing, massive bipeds that they were. She kept all four limbs on the ground and avoided them whenever she could help it, and now due to her own distraction, one had made its way up close. 

The five year old paused, head lifting with widened, piercing eyes as she crouched atop a fallen deer, surrounded by shredded leaves, mangled underbrush, and upturned soil in the wake of its desperate attempt to thrash its way free before it finally succumbed to fangs and claws. (And, to note, her appearance was no less bedraggled than mess around her) She’d come down on it like a snarling beast from the trees, and the hapless creature didn’t stand a chance the moment they collided. 

A grumble sounded in her chest, Rita hesitant to abandon this long-anticipated catch as a little pink tongue darted out to swipe at the red that stained her lips, and dribbled down her chin. It pooled down to her shirt, only blending into the multitude of darkened stains from years before, just a sparse few of these patches belonging to her own injuries.

“Lord Orochimaru,” Viper greeted the other as he crossed through the opening in the barrier. “I thought you were out here.” Not that he was surprised. He glanced over the weapon Orochimaru was working with and the damaged sand bag.

“Lookss like target disstance issn’t a problem.” Viper mentioned, more thinking out loud than anything else. Well... Maybe a problem depending on target density and thickness. If there’s any protective layers... Viper shrugged those additional thoughts off. He was tempted to pull the bag back and look at the trunk of the tree now that he had thought of them, though.

“Iss that the firsst model you’ve made? Sso far?” Viper asked, eyes returning to the weapon. He was aware that Orochimaru had been working on recreating some form of the firearms Viper had brought into this world, but Viper had departed before his research partner had gotten too far.

ooc;

[ OMG NO PROBLEM, seriously, a pleasure, I’ve already creeped on so many of your threads and I’ve rummaged through your page and I love following bad boy muses, I really do, it’s probably a complex, and you’re a neat and talented Orochimaru. But anyway before I ramble thanks for following back.

Naruto Asks || @thenagaraja15. Favorite Naruto fan fiction?

;;  I have...so many. I’ll try to only list a few.

The Bijozakura Seal by megyal. (K.akaIru) -- literally just all of her work.

The Beginning of the End by lovesrainscent. (Sannin)

Dirt on my hands and knees by eternalshiva. (K.ibaI.no)

Turn, Turn, Turn by sowell. (K.akaSaku)

His ear still throbbed from where she had snatched it, twisting in that terrifying grip of hers. Her claims that he deserved it were severely unfounded, a misguided notion from her own thoughts. Her mind had conjured the details of the joke he so carefully avoided speaking; it was a punishment completely undeserved.

Still, the bar was calling their name and from a glance at the time, their missing teammate was surely waiting for them with annoyance growing by the second. One of these times, Jiraiya would actually arrive on time for Orochimaru. Maybe. When it was no longer entertaining to rile the man into a peeved snit. Worked well enough that it was always at a bar even though he was well aware how much Orochimaru despised such places.

Continued from here.

@thenagaraja:

Orochimaru did not hear from her for the rest of the day, which was just as well. As soon as his lunch period ended, his mind slipped back into white coat of cool, clinical detachment as he ventured back into the world of the dearly departed. Body after body passed over his table, measurements were taken, notes recorded, reports were filed. Like a cold stream against a stone, the routine of it all wore you down after so many years until you found yourself teetering on the edge of forgetting that these piles of stiffening flesh had once been people. Living, breathing people with friends and family who were, even as his fingers pried at the disfigured shell, quietly suffering the all too real and all too ruthless sword-piercings of grief. You had to keep that in mind, you had to knock on its door when it became tempting to see another white-sheeted pile as yet another object for cataloging and disposal. It was, at the end of the day, the only thing that kept you sane. The only thing that kept you human when you finally went to turn off the lights and go home.

It was only when he’d closed and locked his apartment door and shuffled off his coat along with the cares and concerns of the day that he even thought to check his phone. There, amid a few notifications of new email, he saw the lone black text of her reply. Floating against the flat white sea of the screen, it seemed to him that this particular entry did not carry the same lighthearted teasing as her previous texts; indeed as his eyes skimmed it once, twice, three times, Orochimaru had the impression they were chosen from a mind affected not by the inherent melancholy of Poe, but by something much more real than the depressive meanderings of a long deceased poet.  

Frowning, his fingers immediately went to tap out a reply:

You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream;

He hesitated for a moment then, fingertips uncertainly poised above the keys as he considered whether or not to leave his message as it was and continue the game as if he hadn’t noticed the quiet undercurrent of sadness tucked behind the folds of her words, but a moment later he was typing again:

Something’s happened, hasn’t it?

She is the lone occupant of a gloomy corner in the hidden little Italian place she has been in love with since college. Few venture there because of the shabby appearance from the outside but the inside is another story altogether. Its seen her through some of her best and worst days.