Work Text:
A man appears in the outskirts of the Village that would be Hidden in the Leaves, but is not quite fully there yet.
He has wooden eyes that stare impassively as he is dragged before the office of the Hokage, almost as bland as how he answers Tobirama’s questions:
“Yes, I am a shinobi.”
“No, I am not loyal to any existing villages.”
The way he specifically words this is odd enough for Hashirama to glance at his advisor, taken in by the sight of leaves in his red hair.
Foreign. Possibly Uzumaki in origin, barring the cyanide-almond glare reeking of the desert nomads. Tobirama immediately concludes he is too quick to anger and too unlucky in love, and recommends—with a shake of his head—that the prisoner be sent to be reconditioned.
Love.
What an odd thing to think of, at a time like this.
His name is Sasori, or so the interrogators tell him. He thinks himself an artist first, a scholar second, though, chief Yamanaka reports, his mind has yet to produce anything that is not grotesque.
“These creative types,” she shrugs, and hands him a scroll. The story of Sasori, squeezed out of ink-stained memories and penned on a meager piece of paper.
He left his tribe seeking “beautiful things,” and wandered past the Land of Rain, finding them habitable but too waterlogged for any decent library. “The Land of Stone is filled with rock heads,” Sasori claimed, so the next logical destination was the Land of Fire, notable for its open door policy towards unaligned shinobi.
“If allowed to emigrate to this village,” it was written, “I will work in Research and Development. My talents and interests would be best suited there.”
There were some additional comments about the natural beauty of the land, supplemented by charcoal sketches of moonlit forests and clay-fired sunsets, drawn in person if the degree of realism was to be trusted. Notes draw his attention next, more philosophical than scientific, pondering the lines of life and death with little thought given to ethics besides an aside, “would he forgive me?”
This line scratched out multiple times, but not destroyed. Either Sasori planted it as a show of sympathy, or never intended to be captured with it in hand. Both options are probable, and it is equally likely that both are at least partially correct—or Tobirama is wrong, and both are false. The memory of wooden eyes reveals nothing but bored recognition.
Sasori knew who Tobirama was, before anyone even named him.
Curiouser and curiouser, his heart thuds. Candles grow short as he digs deeper into Sasori’s experimentation with art, summons, seals, death. Transferring souls to inanimate objects, bringing men back to life and using them in battle—
—things they said were impossible.
Mineral-derived pigments, stain the most of Sasori’s possessions brown, ochre, tawny, and—most prominently—red. More sketches lay underneath the powder: Spotted sunlit grottos, diagrams of opened bodies, telling of a childhood spent in war games and ruin. And boredom, Tobirama thinks, lifting his hand to inspect the red clay dust on his fingers.
Exotic.
The same hand moves against his better judgment, picks up the Hokage’s official seal. In minutes Sasori is freed and summoned to his quarters, leaves freed of his blood-red hair, and properly washed of prison filth.
“Six days per week, from sunrise to sunset, you will research,” Tobirama tells Sasori. “You get one day off, like the rest of us. I expect you to be on time.”
The redhead twitches.
Tobirama’s mouth draws up, barely noticeable, in as much of a smile that is allowed for icy men like them. Then it is gone.
“Of course,” Sasori says, face still once more.
Tobirama is amused. He reaches over his desk—over the drawings of sand and dusk, all signed with a scribbled scorpion in the corner—and takes Sasori’s hand as he would an equal, stomach curling at the sight of hidden shock. “I look forward to working with you,” he says.
“Likewise.” Sasori squeezes his hand, then drops it. Recovering from his surprise, he brings his attention to the walls of scrolls, wooden eyes smoldering with dry heat.
It becomes obvious, then, that this man hails from the desert, and even more obvious what he wants:
To pick and pick at his brains, until there is nothing left.