Information

Akasuna
Legacy Name: Akasuna

The Bloodred Jollin
Owner: Mudnight

Age: 12 years, 5 months, 6 days

Born: December 2nd, 2011

Adopted: 11 years, 7 months, 6 days ago

Adopted: October 2nd, 2012

Statistics

• Level: 14
   
• Strength: 24
   
• Defense: 23
   
• Speed: 23
   
• Health: 34
   
• HP: 34/34
   
• Intelligence: 10
   
• Books Read: 10
• Food Eaten: 0
• Job: Register Clerk

Art, Amaranthine

"Where there is no life, there is art. Art is in the absence of decay, the futility of erosion. Art is amaranthine. The clawing hands of time cannot tear it, nor can the fires of harsh generations incinerate it. The tempestuous winds of old age may blow, but true art will endure it with grace. Art is something beautiful that lasts forever, to be shared with generations far into the future."

So the Puppeteer sang. There were those who listened, and there were those who did not; and there were still more who knew the truth. He had the most beautiful, everlasting down-turned eyes, the color of burnished gold -- how could he be anything less than art?

Icy chills round your heart -
a heart that's made of stone.
It seems like life is out to get you,
to destroy what you want...
With fingers as thin as bamboo reeds he went about his art, his forever-childlike face luring potential candidates into his web. Those who knew the truth were careful to stay away, and those foolish enough to fall for his charms found themselves face-to-face with an agonizing death. It was slow and torturous: three days of complete numbness and paralysis while the Puppeteer carefully strung out their organs like the branches of a great tree. They couldn't scream, they couldn't struggle as he meticulously separated tissue from tissue, a placid half-smile perpetually on his blood-spattered lips: he knew they were watching every cut of his scalpel, and somewhere in the deep recesses of his poisoned heart, it delighted him.

His intimate knowledge of the human body told him exactly where to position his scalpel for the cleanest cut; this was art, after all, and must be kept pristine. As he drew his scalpel over sinew and mesentery, his victim hung as though crucified from cables above, his everlasting down-turned eyes strayed up to the face of his next creation. The head would always loll to one side, and the mouth always hung open, the corners of the lips drooping ever so slightly; and despite being in the throes of his specialized paralytic poison, their eyes were always open wide, glassy and detached as they stared down at him. The Puppeteer was curious, intrigued, mesmerized.

I know that, that you blame me
for all that you go through;
it could be so different
if you would just let it go...
He tried so hard to remove himself from them. Feeling the sting of remorse, rejection, sorrow -- it wasn't worth it to cling to humanity. He never wanted to be a part of them: the wants of the flesh had cost him too much. The Puppeteer had poured his heart and soul into his unfeeling, undying creations, his precious art, to rid himself of the sting he was all too familiar with. He craved love, touch, comfort, belonging -- all things he was destined to search for and never find. It was a poison he could never replicate, a damning ache that forever pursued his heart, no matter where he ran to. Desperate for solace, he had turned to his Father and Mother, but a puppet's faithless embrace could never remove the thorn from his side.

Tortured by grief, he escaped into the body of his own artistic prowess, transforming his ligaments and muscle tissue into those of his creations. Puppet parts were immune to the pains and stresses of the human world. His blood had long since run dry; poison now swirled through his plastic veins, ebbing and flowing through his dark heart like the black tides of the ocean. Where his intestines once lay, a great cable tipped with his namesake's stinger was now draped, coiling round and round like a mamba ready to strike. Great five-bladed wings swept out from his back, shrieking joyously as they spun like well-oiled propellers. He was eternal, undying, immortal: it was beautiful.

Put me to sleep, evil angel...open your wings, evil angel...
But there was one problem: without his heart, he would just be another puppet, to be used and controlled for someone else's gains. His heart, drowned in venom like the rest of him, still thudded hollowly in a container bearing his name; the deep recesses of his heart still felt the ache of loneliness. Though he was now part of his art, his own coveted collection, he could still register the faintest, most meager human emotions, and if he took that away, he would lose control of himself. He was still incomplete.

You're all alone,
running out of ways to hold on to hope
and it always slips away.
You're all alone,
but you don't have to pretend to cope -
there is a brighter way!
Now, he spent his time trying to understand them. For twenty years, he had been an incomplete puppet, capable of moving on his own and fending for himself but incapable of chasing the sting of the human world from his poisonous heart. 'Monster,' they called him when they saw him. Needless to say, they wouldn't live much longer, nor would he show them mercy; he lived up to his heartless reputation, though his heart still thudded coldly in its lake of poison, unable to register anything above the smallest vestiges of curiosity. And the Incomplete Puppet's curiosity was insatiable: why would their eyes remain wide open and staring when they should have been closed by the paralysis of his toxins?

Unable to beat them and unwilling to join them, he spent his endless days observing them, trying to understand their relationships, their emotions, their hearts. Maybe if he could understand them, he could understand how to rid his heart of the small but damning emotions it was still able to feel. He had dissected hundreds of them in his quest for answers, but gleaned nothing but an unmatched knowledge of human anatomy. He went out of his way to observe them in the streets, watching them clamor and bustle along while safely swaddled by his puppet armor, Hiruko; all he gathered from this was the loudness and selfishness of humanity, the very things he sought to escape. Confused, he turned to the only person he could.

If you would change your perspective,
you'd see that it is true.
Life is not always what you want;
sometimes it's hard to bear!
He could spend hours at a time observing his partner Deidara, watching his mannerisms, listening closely to the lilting tone of his voice as the cocky blonde spat at his art. Despite his treacherous belief that art was ephemeral and not eternal, Deidara taught him things, things other humans hadn't. The Incomplete Puppet learned from the Sculptor the ways humans carried themselves, the way their emotions came out when they spoke, the way their eyes narrowed when they were angry. The Sculpter was very expressive, he found, and was a great teacher of human emotion, which he had known so long ago that he had since forgotten. His lips stretched upwards when he was happy, something Deidara called a smile, and curled downward when he was troubled, which Deidara called a frown. He knew of these things well, but could not perform them himself, and so could not see the point in performing these actions. The Incomplete Puppet's logic-based mind was boggled.

He was perplexed further when the blonde taught him the meaning behind tears: he'd seen Deidara cry many times, and it was at these times that the placid surface of his countenance was broken by a small frown, something that had taken him months in front of a mirror to master. At first, he hadn't understood: why was there water coming from his eyes? What was the point of leaking from the eyes? Soon enough, his human memory kicked in, and he remembered how he'd leaked water from his eyes for his parents, his loneliness, his want of a family. Though his heart ached dully in his chest, he could no longer connect to those intense emotions brought on by tears. Was his body even capable of producing them?

Fly over me, evil angel...why can't I breathe, evil angel?
The Incomplete Puppet is left to wonder. To this day, he continues his quest for answers to the mysteries of the human condition. Deidara continues to fascinate and irritate him, and he keeps on dissecting any humans unlucky enough to fall into his trap. He remains baffled by the eyes of his victims, why they stalwartly hold themselves open when they should droop shut. He has yet to unravel the mystery of his heart and why it aches so much when he watches people cry, or families holding onto each other. And so he watches on with muted interest, trying to place in his own heart what is happening in theirs. Maybe part of him doesn't want to let that feeling go; he's lived with it for so long that he's learned to tolerate its presence. Incomplete or not, Sasori of the Red Sand is destined to walk the fine line between being a weak, fleshy, lonely human and an ageless but powerless puppet, leaving him as nothing more than an empty but poisonous half-breed and nothing less than eternal art.

Put me to sleep, evil angel...open your wings, evil angel...
Fly over me, evil angel...why can't I breathe, evil angel?

Theme Songs:

All Alone -- Kutless
Evil Angel -- Breaking Benjamin
Sasori (Theme) (Official)

Allies and Enemies:

Haruno Sakura -- You meddling wench. All I wanted was the Kyuubi, and you and old lady Chiyo got in the way...however, I am grateful I did not have to face your fists a second time.
Inner_Sakura -- I will take that as a compliment. I am, after all, one of the few things Orochimaru fears...
Kankuro -- I'm grateful to you for recognizing my talent, and for your words of wisdom. Take good care of my body...and Mother and Father.
Temari -- Though we hail from the same moth-eaten, sand-swallowed village, I feel nothing towards you. It is your brother I am interested in.
Byakugan -- ...I have heard many things about your Kekkei Genkai and your ability to attack chakra at its source. I must be wary of you.
Kakashi Sama -- I will speak to whomever I'd like however I'd like. Have you forgotten who I am? Are you underestimating me?
Tenzou -- ...tricky, tricky, ANBU. I can see through your disguise...
Lady Tsunade -- I understand that troublesome bitch Sakura is your apprentice...it's no wonder she can combat my poisons. Well-played, Konoha.
Gaara -- My meddling grandmother brought you back. Well...I suppose that's all well and good. You remind me a bit of myself when I was young...
Bombshell -- Old? Hah! Don't make me laugh. True art crosses generations, marking them with its beauty...true art is eternal twilight, casting a shadow over centuries; it is a dance meant to linger on past the deaths of our forefathers, bearing them and their children into neverending bliss! You, you uncouth brat, bereft of common sense and an eye for beauty, couldn't hope to understand that.
Deidara -- You pesky brat. You couldn't hope to understand REAL art. Art is eternal, undying, immortal.
Kabuto-kun -- ...Orochimaru won't spare you in the end. You know that, right?
Orochimaru-sama -- If immortality is what you seek, why not let me transform you into a beautiful work of art? It would certainly suit you better than that pest of an Uchiha...
Itachi Uchiha Shujaku -- You were right about the Kyuubi. I was wrong to underestimate you...
Zetsu -- ...I am not for eating.
Uchiha Madara -- My replacement? No...you aren't the same dopey masked figure as Tobi, are you?

Art & Credits:

{ Being a REAL BOY is too mainstream...I want to be a PUPPET. }
Fanpet for Akasuna no Sasori from the manga/anime Naruto; I don't own the character, just the changes made to suit Subeta.
Overlay by Shinga.
Ref by Charles.
Story, layout and coding by Charles.

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