(thump. thump. thump.)



Press your chest against mine.
Connect your heart with mine.
We are the same.
We are different.
We are nothing.
We can change.


(bang. bang. bang.)


Breath. Breath. Breath!




Where are you?
My savior.
Come help me.
Come change me.
Remind me.


(splatter. splatter. splatter.)

& discover our hearts.



Green eyes blinked open.





It was a deep voice that escaped through the large, black speakers that decorated the ceiling. The speaker's tone was as heavy as the air while it loomed through the prompt speakers above their heads. Every other second, it would snap an overused quote from their book.

Their guidelines.

(loud. demanding. harsh. cold. apathetic. dea—)

There was no sympathy, not even a hint of falter was present in that deep, monotonous—almost robotic—voice. It could compete with the coldness of the tiled floor below and it reveled in the same dead-like state that every other person held.


It was calm, but imperious. Somehow, it managed to hold no tone to where one could depict a single emotion—yet, you could still sense the warning it held.

(disobey and die.)

Emerald orbs shot open, a dull, inert stare—roughly, as dead as the voice.

(more. more. more.)

More eyes blinked into a dead stare, blankly gazing at the basic concrete wall in front of them. Each one seemed completely immune to the visual in front of them; a mix of crusted and slowly dripping blood-splatters on the wall, the dead—some even decomposing—carcasses that were scattered into random piles on the tile floor, and the random organs and limbs that were stuffed into large, black boxes that laid every fifteen feet.

(the boxes were filled to the rim.)

Each one of the men and women and children and young adults were formed into their orderly diagnosed lines—only a mere foot was given between one another.

In the very front row was a girl.

She had pastel pink hair, deep—dulling, dulling, dulling—emerald eyes, and plump, vermilion lips which formed into a straight line. Her long legs and thin arms were scattered with innumerable abrasions and bruises, and her chest heaved up and down in a steady pattern.




"Do you remember the last time you smiled?"

She vividly nods her head.

"When you're near."




In front of her stood a tall, lithe man. His eyebrows were knit tightly together and his almond-shaped eyes were slanted to the furthest degree. With every step he took, the room would impregnate with its harsh pounding against the tile floor.

(step. step. step.)

He would glance at each person and row he passed, look down at the small clipboard he was holding, and make a small—or if you were unlucky, long—note.


(and straight from the horses mouth, it was to be done.)

With her stolid expression remaining perfectly still, she let her pale lids slide swiftly down. Breathing in slow, controlled breaths she waited for her next action to be commanded. She took notice to a foreign emotion that she was feeling. It was something adjacent to fear; it lingered in the back of her mind and the pit of her stomach, but she successfully pushed it aside, clearing her mind.

Perfectly blank.

(abyss. bottomless. Hel—)

She heard that voice—that hardened noise—originate once again from the loudspeakers above.

Clear and emphasized.

"We must listen to 'Our Father', the one who has created our lives. We must continue our jobs, do as we're told—follow."

(follow. follow. follow.)

The words shall then be reiterated another 193 times.

















to such a brave new world.

"Emotions make us weak."


"Emotions make us weak."

Another 100 times.

"Emotions make us weak."

Keep going—


She kept her eyes closed for an extra second, pushing back any possible feeling she thought would be acknowledged. In that mere second where she refused to open her eyes, a crack permeated the room. She bit her lip in order to hitch the yelp of pain that was trying to escape and her eyes finally shot open.

She declined the urge to look at her arm, where the pain was originating from, and stared at the man.

"No. 1178, what do emotions do?"

She was hesitant and meek. Her teeth which were still grazing her bottom lip wanted to reject the idea of moving, she did not want him to see her ignorance. "I don't know." She finally mumbled through barred teeth.


It was like something clicked in her head. The torrential downpour of questions—who is this man? where am I? who am I?—that consumed her many thoughts disappeared in an instant. The only thing remaining—

"Emotions make us weak." She stated in a distance, robotic voice.

(that one she heard every night while she slept.)

The man nodded and asked her again. "What do emotions do?"

"I dunno, sir." Her hands shifted in obvious discomfort; they slowly formed into tight fists as her mind berated herself for not being able to answer his simple question. Her teeth retreated back to her habitual state, hesitantly grazing her vermilion red, bottom lip and she replied once again.

"I...don't know."





"When was the last time you've felt?"

His onyx eyes raise the slightest degree and he reluctantly replies,

"The last time I saw her."




"Emotions make us weak."

(Initializing sequence . . . ACTIVATED.)

Deep, obsidian eyes slowly rose to an open.

(Breathing . . . . CHECK! Vital signs . . . . CHECK! Memory . . . . —Processing— . . . . —Processing— . . . . CHE—!)

"I did not command you to wake." It was a heinous sneer that had passed the man's lips. He then struck the raven-hair boy with the back of his hand. "Unless you wanna die, you better start listening better, kid."

The man had gray hair that was tied into a spiked pony-tail, reaching a little below the shoulders. Large glasses were staged at the arch of his nose and gray eyes—ones which were almost identical to his hair—beamed through. He sat on a dull, leather chair, his legs were stretched out and they crossed at the knees. Crossing his arms in an unruly fashion, he finally quirked his mouth once again.

"Now, go back to sleep."

The boy gave the most defiant scowl, his effort placed into not listening. No matter how much determination and strength he put into it his mind dreamed of resistance, his eyes slowly dulled and faded, eventually lulling closed once again.

The man let out a frustrated sigh and the annoyed expression that soured his worn face merely grew with the seconds. Picking up a radio, the man lazily took a stand and pressed the large black button.

"No. 451 is corrupt."

He waited for the reply.




She sits there, a comb running through her cherry blossom locks, and hums the soft tune of her lullaby.

"Hush now, my baby..." Her thumb runs across his cheek, eventually lulling into soft, sensual circles on his cheek bone. "...be still love, don't cry."

And, for the first time in ages, he manages to drift into a deep sleep—

free of nightmares.




A long, hefty sigh was the only reply he had received.

Still irked from the boy's previous defiance, the man decided not to wait any longer than needed. He asked, "Permission to remove?"

The man on the other side of the radio mused, "He is efficient—"

"But, for lack of better term, unstable."

"—his eyes..." The sentence was lost in the speakers thoughts, drifting into some unknown territory.

"He may corrupt others."

The voice groaned, "Your permission is granted."

"Thank you sir—"

"Send him to Lab 719, they can remove his eyes."

The line cut off.

He then turned around to the boy once more.


The boy's eyes warily opened.

"Now, follow." He muttered.

(raven locks tumbled upwards and a pair of—devilish, sadistic, horrifying—crimson, blood-soaked eyes formed into a deathly glare.)

"Hn." A grunt escaped past the boy's thin lips.

The guard fought the wonder—

(the boy stalked after him, just as he was told.)

—why the boy spoke without reason.

(he shook it off, the boy was merely corrupt.)

Fly with me. QUICKLY!

(bang. bang. bang.)

She tumbles over rocks, the cliff mere inches away.

(pant. pant...—BANG!)

Her feet carry her and she makes her way off the ledge.

... ... ...






with me.



A boy sits there on the rickety swing. His ears perk as he listens to the soft, creaking noise that the rusty iron makes. Then, he looks up, examining the forming rain clouds. "And only in the springtime, have I truly seen your face."

He fades into the darkness.




"No. 1178, trial 13 belongs to you in Lab 719." The voice rang through her ears.

Her green eyes opened and the pale, pink bangs rose to the slightest degree—signifying that she was listening.


A radiant smile plastered onto her small face and she nodded with understanding. Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she began her small stride to the room for her next medical procedure.

("We must listen to 'Our Father', the one who has created our lives. We must continue our jobs, do as we're told—follow.")

His feet drifted in midair as his body sat limp on the cold, steel table.

(step. step. step.)

His head was slouched with the rest of his body. The boy's eyes were as black as midnight, staring blankly at the blood-stained floor. His hair resembled that of a raven—each strand tumbled messily, forming in some unsystematic pattern which could defy gravity—as it covered his pale, worn face. Only a quirk that tugged downwards at the corner of his lips was visible.

The steps grew louder.

(step. step. step.)

Her head held high, ready to take on any task that was thrown at her. But, when she entered the strangely cold room, something at the pit of her stomach lurched.

Her eyes widened to the slightest degree, but she did not understand why. She outstretched her right arm to push back one of her pink locks that had fallen onto her forehead. "Hello." She smiled and gave a small wave to the boy.

A silence greeted her.

(step. step. step.)

She was standing at the table, a deep frown plastered on her lips. Her eyes had been blatantly staring at the medical utensils, each one used, dirty, contaminated.

(with blood of the previous corrupted.)


It was the first words spoken from the boy.

"...you don't have to do this."

Sakura stood in front of him, wearily she rose her hand to his cheekbone and gently stroked a bruise. Obvious confusion was present in her expression as she cautiously asked a question, "What is 'Sakura'?"

A sigh surpassed his lips and he let his eyes lull into a slow close.


The roseate-headed girl blinked several times and pursed her lips. Before speaking, her breath hitched.

(Sakura. Sakura. Sakura.)

"Will you lie down on the table," She glanced down at the medical forms, "No. 451..—?"

He corrected her without hesitation, "Sasuke."


"My name." Sasuke stated in a matter-of-fact tone, yet it sounded more harsh than anything.

"I don't...—I don't...understand." Sakura's eyes widened, her fingers clumsily tumbled sheet after sheet, flipping through pages after pages of the medical report. "It says "No. 451"... I've never heard of a 'Sasuke'."

"Like you've never heard of Sakura?"


Sasuke effortlessly pushed himself off of the metal table, landing gracefully in front of the petite girl. The raven-haired boy slouched, his head hovering mere inches away from her left ear. Raising his limp hands, he grabbed her hand which had previously stroked his cheek.

Sasuke noted how she flinched at the contact.

"Don't you remember..—?" Sasuke began, his fingers easily lifting her thin arm.

(her arm followed his guidance without resistance.)


He pressed her fingers against his cold cheeks one last time.

"Aa," Sasuke nodded, "the past...—"




"We are so close to being the same." She breathes into his ear. "But, we are so far apart."

He can't stand the thought of losing her, so he finally speaks the words—the ones will say over and over again.

"I'll protect you."

It was not only a promise.

It was a fact.




Sakura beamed and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

(sadness. confusion. trepidation.)

"I think you should sit back down on this table No. 451."

("—...our past?")

"—...you don't." Sasuke muttered under his breath, finishing off his sentence. However, the Uchiha ignored her instructions and brushed past her. "Tell me where to find Naruto." He demanded, pressing down the buttons on the door's lock.


Sasuke hissed when the light flashed red.

"And tell me the fucking password!"

(patience never was his key virtue.)

The girl still stood there, staring at Sasuke. Her eyes were filled with confusion, with comprehension, understanding—trying to understand.

"Screw it." Sasuke cursed under his breath. "Just come with me."

Sakura opened her mouth to question—or maybe protest—what he was talking about, but was quickly hushed her by pressing the palm of his hand against her lips. "And just like before, you're going to be goddamn annoying, aren't you?"

"Excuse me?"

(for the shortest second, Sasuke could have sworn he saw that fire flash through her eyes like it used to.)

"No. 451—!"

"I hate repeating myself, Sakura. It's Sa-su-ke." He paused for the shortest second. "-kun."

"—...er...Sasuke-kun, where are we going?! I have to—I...I need to finish your surgery. I have to finish my job. I can't disappoint—"

"Che. Weak."

She must not have heard it, because no response was given. The pounding of her feet against the cool concrete reverberated off the enclosed walls.

"No—Sasuke-kun, I don't understand what is going on."



"Just shut up and take me to Naruto."

"But—I don't know a Naruto!"

He glowered at her ignorance and sent a small glare. "Blond-haired, blue-eyed, stupid, loud, obnoxious."

(Memory. . . . —Processing— . . . . —Processing— . . . . )

Sakura closed her eyes, envisioning the brief, but simple descriptions. "...Does he have whiskers?"

"Aa." Sasuke nodded in agreement.

"He's in the testing cell NO. 288." Sakura stated diligently, her voice sounded resembled a robot's.

(dead. dead. dead.)

A moment of silence ran between them.

Sakura figure he must have been thinking of a way to—

"Follow my directions."

Sasuke grabbed her by the wrist and tossed her against the wall to the right. Sakura let out a gasp of pain, but Sasuke clamped a hand over her mouth in time to hitch any protests she was about to make. He then buried his head into the nape of her neck, and his body pressed against hers successfully closing any gap that had previously been between them.




Her soul is unseen as she stands before him. She can only watch as a stream of continual tear drops free fall onto her limp, lifeless body.

It's the whisper in the wind.

"And, I will be your downfall."




The only breath that she heard was the warm one that tickled her bare flesh.

(a blush was forming onto her alabaster skin.)

"Someone's coming."




(Memory. . . . —Processing— . . . . —Processing— . . . . —Processing— . . . . —DATA CORRUPTED!)

A/N: Weird, I know right? It's interesting to write though.

Reviews make me write. (:

P.S. - (Isn't my new screen name, simply FANTABULOUS? :D)

EWHH its Kenna