In truth, she didn't know what to expect.
Entering the soul reaper academy was not an easy process, not least because Rukia's background caused consternation amongst the shinigami. With no family and no memories of a life on earth, she could provide them only with her forename and was told bluntly that she did not exist. When her perseverence encouraged them to believe otherwise, she was branded ryoka, a spirit that had entered the Soul Society without the escort of a death-god: a wild card, a danger. While Renji Abarai appeared on their census, there was no Rukia to speak of in their records, and, since their records were meticulous, it became necessary for her to undergo a series of checks before she was finally back where she had begun, registered as a soul within the Seventy-Eighth district of Rukongai. Only after that, would they begin to consider her application to the academy.
A full seven years had passed by the time they entered the Shino.
For two kids from Rukongai, the Court of Pure Souls was a different world, and Rukia's first impressions were of wealth and decadence. The people in Inuzuri had held the death-gods in high esteem, but that had never stopped them speaking bitterly of the riches they'd accrued. The Sereitei was home to the four noble bloodlines of Soul Society. Each could be traced back to the Soul King and they, in turn, were the wellspring of a dozen or more branches of lesser nobility. Tradition had it that the Gotei Thirteen, the thirteen active divisions of the shinigami, were drawn from these noble lines. Yet the actuality was different. The Shinoreijutsuin, their training academy, had been forced to open its doors to any souls possessing a high spiritual pressure. It was considered dangerous to allow them to roam, unchecked, in the streets of the Rukon. And so it was with reluctance that the death-gods began to let outsiders into their ranks.
Rukia felt their reticence keenly. Knowing that she would be out of place here was part of the reason she'd hesitated to join their ranks. And there was her pride too.
She saw no shame in having grown up in Inuzuri and it jarred with her that others did. Worse still was their assumption that she should be grateful for being granted entry into their world. It never once occurred to her fellow students that, though she now slept in a warm bed with the trappings of luxury, their steadfast belief that her life, up until that point, had been without worth only broadened the gap between them.
But it really was a warm bed. And a room, in the academy dormitories, with a roof that didn't leak. Clean, new clothes. A library full of books. Food and drink that she no longer had to fight for. And, of course, there were the other students: hundreds of young men and women who shared the same powers that had made her and Renji pariah on the streets of Rukongai. It didn't matter if she didn't fit in yet, she told herself; she felt certain that she would find a place here.
The training programme was strenuous, a combination of lectures and practical, physical training of a sort that she could not have prepared for. She knew how to defend herself, but these were martial arts, which required discipline and concentration: things she had never had to learn in Inuzuri. The lectures too were strange for her. She knew how to read, which was something, but she'd never before been asked to absorb information, and there was so much that she was meant to remember, from the history of the organisation to scientific theories on the union and tranfer of spirits. Through it all, the Gotei Thirteen instilled in their recruits a sense of purpose and duty, which did not exist in their lives outside the institute. They were promised a chance to see and touch something so much larger than themselves: the constant stream of souls between worlds. They were promised powers beyond their wildest dreams. And, as much as it was tempting to dismiss this as empty talk and the promotion of a set of rigid values, something crept in between the cracks in their philosophy: something insistent and instinctive. For Rukia, it was the notion that her life, up until this point, had not been a mere series of haphazard events culminating in coincidence. She wanted to believe she had been brought to this place for a reason, driven here by the power she'd possessed since birth. There was a reason, she thought: there had to be a reason.
The classes were rigorously streamed.
She and Renji at once dropped to the very bottom of any seminars where they were expected to hand in assignments. Written work was not their forte, but at least it meant they could attend those lectures together. In contrast to Rukia, however, Renji excelled in martial combat and was streamed into one of the most prestigious classes. They now spent most of their time apart. Within weeks, Rukia felt herself changing.
She'd never been this quiet. She'd never cast her eyes down before as she walked through the corridors, or held back when there were words on the tip of her tongue. But she knew now that she was neither particularly strong nor particularly clever. Her classmates saw a girl from Rukongai. An aberration in their world. When she opened her mouth to speak, she could taste their expectations: that she would give herself away; make another mistake. And she made many in those first few weeks, proving to them what they already knew: that a girl from the streets was incapable of competing with them.
In one lecture, the tutor, a shinigami dressed in a black shihakusho, asked a question and Renji rose out of his seat, one hand in the air. He was four rows back from the front of the class. He called out the answer and a terrible silence descended. Rukia felt it like a punch in the gut and shrank down in her seat, looking hard at the papers before her. Renji glanced from side to side.
"Correct," said the teacher: "But perhaps the young man would care to learn some manners before he springs out of his seat."
Renji sat down. All around him, the students were laughing, all save for Rukia who, seated several rows behind her old friend, found herself staring hard at the back of his neck. He had flushed, and he kept his head down for the rest of the class.
When it finished, he didn't move. He let the other students file out around him and sat, shuffling his papers. Rukia descended the stairs in the middle of the lecture theatre, checked they were alone, and then spoke quickly:
"I like the old Renji. I like the Renji who puts up his hand and stands up and answers a question. I like the Renji who shouts out."
He stared at her, then he barked out a laugh. It was a harsh sound:
"What's gotten into you?"
"I just wanted to tell you."
She studied his face. Since starting at the academy, he had acquired tattoos: dark lines that ran along his hairline. She wasn't sure she liked them. She'd grown used to his features framed by his mane of long red hair. The tattoos made him seem to scowl a little:
"Well, I can't be hanging around here," he said, picking up his papers: "Because, unlike you, I am in the special class."
He was joking, she knew. He had no compunctions about teasing her, yet something in his tone made her feel as if it was she who had spoken out of turn.
She watched him leave.
Thereafter, it became apparent to Rukia that Renji's experiences in the academy were wholly different to her own. His talents, as a fighter, earned him the respect of his fellow students. She rarely saw him now without the company of at least two others: a small woman who wore her hair under a demure cap, and a man with a flush of blond hair that hung always over one eye. Neither of them bore any resemblence to the friends they had had in Rukongai. By the way, he held himself, she guessed the man was a noble. There was something tentative about him too: a darting, nervous look in his eyes. Nothing could have been further from Renji's own demeanour and she couldn't help but wonder what had set them off on the path to friendship.
Renji still came looking for her. On their days off, they would return to Rukongai or, more frequently, to the foothills of the Rukon where the open fields and forests offered sanctuary from the pace of life at the academy. On such days, she could forget the strange weight of the choices she'd made. They would go climbing together and the only reminder that she was no longer a child was the new strength in her body.