Let's drink—someone says before the corpse at his feet has the chance to cool.
There's little enough to celebrate these days.
Nobody's ever accused him of being sensitive or any of that touchy-feely bullshit but he's got a distinct feeling that his predecessor wasn't too popular, even less than a fucking nobody taking command of their precious eleventh division.
But as soon as he sets foot inside the barracks, he knows that beneath its veneer of respectability and honor, Seireitei is rotten to its core. At least on the streets, people are honest enough to look you in the eyes before slitting your throat. They try to kill you because you looked weak, took from you because you were.
Here it's all put-upon airs and poetry that pisses him off. He doesn't care if people speak shit behind his back (he can kick them around if they get too annoying) unless they're his subordinates (those he can press into babysitting) but the ones on top shy away from him like a battered wife or they've got something big to hide. There is no shame in power—you got it, flaunt it. That's what it's for.
Already, he can pick off the ones who won't last their tenure and those who just might. MissPriss over in the sixth may look like a wuss but he's got a temper. The freak over in the twelfth isn't above playing dirty and the bitch from the second's got balls. But he hears the weakling from the ninth jaw about justice and the path of least bloodshed but where's the fun in that?
Fighting is living, fighting is breathing. Just ask her, wasting time learning to fix people just so she can prolong a fight. The old man might be strong, packs a hell of a punch for sure, but he's about as fun as striking his sword against the broad side of a mountain. Pointless.
She's the one who taught him that fighting could be more. Because under all that prim and proper, smell of astringents and crushed herbs, she's just as bloodthirsty as he is. She hasn't forgotten how to hold a sword, she just hides it better.
Fighting is fun.
He's had good time with Ichigo and maybe four-arms talked a good game. But she's different. She's the only person he never wanted to defeat.
Her bankai paints the floor in slick red, more blood than he knows what to do with, enough that he can fucking bathe in it. It's as though her sword just vomited up everyone she's killed in her lifetime and the next.
The scar at her sternum is a guiding star. His heart skips a beat when he sees it. He's seen this woman raise the dead, glue two halves of a person together and have it bounce around the next day. He doesn't know why she kept it but he's happy that she did.
He doesn't hesitate but it doesn't stop him from trying.
Kenpachi Zaraki only begs once.