Ed cracks the door open, and let his gaze sweep the hall beyond. He coolly observes the ebb and flow of people dressed in shades of tan and brown clustering here and there within his limited range of vision. He notes a great many gather about what looks to be a desk at the end.
He widens his eyes at weird headbands upon the foreheads of those suddenly rounding the corner, and eases himself back into the closet. A few heartbeats later, he hears the rustle of paper and catches a bare glimpse of rather hurried strides. He lets out a breath.
Good. He thinks. They didn't notice me.
He swallows his bile and tastes a supremely awful flavor. He makes a face. His mind helpfully supplies that the nastiness in his mouth is from one thing. He wrinkles his nose and reasons that the tube in his nose had to have been filled with the stuff, especially if he hadn't been eating for a while. It's only logical, he thinks. Feed someone milk when they've been starved.
But... Cow juice?!? They fed me cow juice for how long..?!?
He spits the flavor out and shudders, roughly pushing the thought away as too nasty to think about. He then leans the back of his head back to rest on the wall, and winces at the painful complaint of his many wounds.
The sound of metal shattering to a hallow nothing where he feels the very real solidness of his right arm fills his ears with a ghostly whisper. He flexes his right hand and feels his nails bite into his palm over and over. Faint visions of unkind metal rods sticking through his left biceps follow, and he finds he can't breathe. As though he is pinned down, his heart flutters, then pounds in his chest, and he longs to just--move!
He takes in a startled breath at the phantom sensation of the stabbing, restraining, pain, and with a feral growl, pushes his arms free away from the flat surface at his back.
He stumbles, kicking a metal pail with an unfeeling left toe. The empty container clangs noisily against the wall, and in his panic, he backpedals past the unresisting door.
Stunned at his own stupidity, he barely manages to stay upright on his wobbly legs in the hall. He peers about its brightness with hunched shoulders. He sees startled eyes rising to meet his. The one behind the desk only lifts his gaze slightly before taking another sheet from a great pile set before him and looking to the group standing there with a blithely bored expression on his face.
He glances at his unfeeling left leg, searching the dead limb for any hint of the shine of metal through the bloody bandages. Finding none, one corner of his mouth rises.
"Bakka."
He stiffens at the venom of the tone more than the unfamiliar word.
He darts his eyes to the voice and sees a girl sitting on a bench. Her dark eyes flare coldly as she folds her arms, and she leans back against the bench. He's watching her familiar mouth frown, allows his shoulders to relax slightly. His mind supplies a name for her, and he narrows his eyes as he tilts his head.
"Sheska..?"
She says something he can't decipher-- Quite a lot of something actually, said in a hushed angry whisper. He thins his lips in a brief friendly gesture and slides eyes across the weird headband tied at her neck, and feels ice wrap about his stomach. He shakes his head slightly at the nonsense filling his ears, and raises a clumsy hand to his head to adjust the draping head piece he had found in the closet back over his scalp. He breathes in, getting a noseful of the alcoholic reek soaking his own garments.
"Matsuri desu..!" She finished at last in a hiss, and he turned his attention back to the girl. He shrugs and waves a hand over his shoulder as he turns.
He is awarded with an immediate unladylike snort. By the corner of his eye, he saw the girl turn her head away and return her attention to the papers on her lap.
Satisfied with the strength of his disguise, he raises his eyes and reads the scribbles at the top of the arch down the hall. With a lurching sort of stumble worthy of a drunkard, he makes his way to the promising warmth beyond the egress.
---ooo--
Matsuri grumbles to herself in irritation, scratching the pen hard against the visitation papers as she wrinkles her nose in disgust. She watched the weaving strides of the departing blond. Not only was the boy obviously staggering about, but his forehead protector cloth wasn't even folded properly. Instead, it was stupidly draped over the boy's head, nearly obscuring a loosely bound, long blond pony-tail.
The nerve of some nins, she thinks, falling into the vices at so young an age!
Finally, the last of the forms filled in, she rises to her feet with a great cleansing breath.
"Can't be helped. I suppose there's no man like Lord Gaara." She says softly in admiration of her teacher.
She dutifully hands the forms to the med-nin at the desk as the need to report the drunkard burns hot in her belly. She schools her face into a polite smile, putting a tight reign on her raging emotions. She knew the med-nin didn't want to deal with her irate mood, and besides, she is here to cheer up her injured friend with a surprise visit.
"What room is Sari in?" She asks.
"Room 156" comes the reply.
"Thanks."
She is halfway down the hall when she realizes she can't really place where she has seen the offensive drunkard nin before. Matsuri well knew that Hidden Sand is not that big of a place, having lived within it all of her short life. She certainly had not met all the nins residing in the village personally, as she is only a genin, but she is sure knows the boy somehow. She puzzles over the enigma, mind turning in slow circles which revolve about the boy's briefly seen, yet distinctive features.
A step away from her recovering comrade's door, she stops with a sudden burst clarity. She takes in a sharp breath as she turns to look over her shoulder, back to where the drunkard had gone.
"Golden irises.. " She breathes. "He had golden irises...!"
Sent via Blackhole
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