A/N: This was borne from insomnia, and a grueling study session on Parasitology. So here you go, a little experiment with what the Master would have done with his victims before he turned them into puppets.

Also... I am aware that he starts chopping parts off her before all of her blood is drained lololol XD

[Written while listening to Andy Prieboy's Tomorrow, Wendy (is going to die) on a loop 8D]

A sinister smile breaks out across his boyishly handsome face as he watches her twitch and gasp under him. Her mouth opens and closes shut a few times, almost inaudible yelps escaping those quivering lips. Fingers tremble, twisting in their joints at angles almost biologically impossible. She struggles to release her legs, the only part of her body she still has full control over, but he holds on to them, palms pressing painfully into them as he pushes down on her.

She opens her mouth once more but almost immediately feels her jaw lock, both rows of teeth crashing into each other and catching the tip of her tongue, severing it off in the process. Soon she can feel warm liquid spread across the groove in between her lips, trickling off down the sides of her face. There's a soft plip as a drop of blood lands on the table right next to her ear.

He watches, enthralled, as if he were capturing the slow trickling of red across pale flesh and putting it to memory. Those condescending eyes look down at her, almost lovingly, as he watches her struggle futilely. But she knows it isn't love that is in his eyes; it isn't love for her, but for what she would become. And now, the mere thought of what was to come sends her into a panic, eyes darting from side to side, cries reverberating from her throat muffled against her clenched jaw.

Her fingers stop writhing, and his smile grows wider: he is satisfied. The first stage is almost complete. In his mind's eye he can see the poison travelling slowly, but steadily, around her body, drifting through her veins and pulsing through her arteries. He can see the chemical diffuse across her capillaries and take effect in her nerves, shutting down each and every voluntary muscle, one by one.

Soon, he finds he has no reason to push his weight down on her thighs any more, and he lets go, sitting up straight and letting his eyes scan her supine body. She stares up at him, eyes pleading. He only stares back. Her toes are still twitching.

Leaning forward, he places a vial of colorless fluid right next to her ear. It settles down on the table with a soft, dull thud, and she blinks. "You won't be needing this," he drawls. It is the antidote. "But perhaps I'll just leave it here for you to consider the numerous predicaments you could have avoided if…" - he pauses, smiling, for effect - "you had been successful in taking it from me." He leans back and gingerly climbs off the table. "It'll give you something to think about while we step into phase two of our little… project."

Ignoring the muffled noises coming from her, he picks up a ball of cotton and dips it in sterile alcohol, squeezing it just right to expel the excess. He brings it to her face, carefully dabbing at the rivulets of red, cleaning up her pretty face. At one point, he removes the severed tip of her tongue with a pair of forceps.

When he looks at her again, it is with that same expression, except that the smile has now receded into a thin line.

Wordlessly, he begins to undress her, nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on her shirt. He brings the tip of his blade and pushes it under the fabric, lifting it up and letting it rip through. He can't be bothered to pull her arms out of the sleeves. Her breasts spill out, naked under the shirt.

She goes quiet, the muscles in her throat now refusing to work as well. And that is just how he likes it: quiet. So absolutely silent that he is brought closer to his masterpiece with every passing moment. To him, the silence was sacred.

He makes quick work of her skirt, ripping it apart and pulling it away from under her. And just when he is about to cut off her panties, there is a gush of fluid, darkening the fabric and spreading. He pulls his hands away and stares at it with disgust, watching as her bladder continues to expel its contents. When the steady stream of urine stops, he cuts off the last remaining item of clothing and pulls it free, letting it drop into a nearby steel bucket with a soft splat. "And it amazes me as to why people still cling to their bodies when they are nothing but vessels of shit and piss." He looks up at her, repulsed, and moves to bring a wet cloth. She can only look up at him, helpless, her consciousness constantly reminding her of her inevitable demise.

He begins to clean her swiftly, but carefully. He has no regard for her modesty: the human body was a vulgar abomination in itself. So imperfect. So impermanent.

She knows it is the end when he punctures her right jugular vein with that needle. She can feel the blood inside her drain out into a bag he has hung up high enough for her to see. Her eyes are the only muscles she can still move, and they stare straight up at the transparent bag, watching as it fills up with her blood at the same rate her life drains out of her. She tries to keep her eyes closed, but her mind refuses to comply. And, watching every drop of her life bleed out, she cannot fathom the cruelty in this man who was now bent over her body, carefully spreading her limbs.

He is not a patient man, even with his masterpieces. There is always a sense of urgency, a yearning to reach completion. He is meticulous, but never unnecessarily slow. Not a single moment goes wasted as he begins to make incisions, blade cutting through flesh and sinew with perfect precision, peeling her skin, severing her digits… taking her apart. She feels everything as long as her pain receptors are intact. When they too are severed, she can only imagine what it would feel like. Perhaps he isn't as cruel as she thought…

And yet, even when she knows she has no feet or fingers, she can still feel them: ghostly entities clinging to the memory of herself before she met him.

At one point, his blade stops moving across her skin. He lifts his gaze to the plastic bag hanging just above her and smiles. It was a little past two pints, and he knew she wouldn't hold out much longer. Carefully placing his tools beside her on the table, he leans in, looking straight into her eyes.

She can only stare back as her body slips into hypovolemic shock. He is smiling, eerily so.

And in her final moments of consciousness, she is made aware that Death has a face. And a name, she reminds herself. Sasori, of the Red Sand.

"Be happy." He murmurs. "Tonight, you will live forever."