I don't own Bleach; said manga belongs to Kubo-sama. This OC belongs to me, though. Hands off.

The lonely first chapter to this fic has been sitting neglected in the dusty corners of my profile; I'm continuing it, and for now am resubmitting it. Second is mostly done, as well as fragments of third, fourth and most of fifth.

I really love this premise, so here's to hoping I don't screw it up in my first multi-chapter (because, yes, this was developed before When Plot Bunnies Attack). All I can say is to be prepared for constant chronological shifts in this section.

I could remember only two things: voices. Voices and and an intense pain.

That's what I told them, at least. I told them I don't remember what the voices said, or who they belonged to. I don't think they believe me.

The truth is, the whole incident is carved into my mind to the point that I couldn't let them go if I tried. Not if I used a dozen dosages of memory replacement, or induced amnesia. Not even if I died. The terror, the hellish pain will carry on over to the afterlife to haunt my reincarnated self.

"She's awake, Aizen-sama."

"Ah, that's good." A figure leaned towards me in the dark. "How are you feeling, Satsuki-chan?"

I shivered in a corner, as far away from the voice as I could remain. The words felt like a knife against my throat.

"Don't be afraid. I just want your help with a little project." I shook my head jerkily. "I promise, Satsuki-chan, we won't hurt you."

I couldn't see, but rather felt him kneeling in front of me, holding out a small object. It shone in the dark, emitting a foreboding light. I packed as much of my starved frame as I could into my corner, but it was descending...

"Aizen-sama, are you sure we should attempt this outside of a contained premise?" the other voice asked nervously.

"It's not like you to be this anxious, Szayel." It was said in good humor, but I could detect an underlying sharpness to it.

"It's—it's just, the way we've prepared this, Aizen-sama. Tempering her reiatsu, scraping her mind clean, opening it until it's become hyper-sensitive to external spiritual influences. This all has the potential to go terribly wrong."

I held my breath. What did they mean?

I saw a flash in the corner of my eye. Before I could respond I felt something hard and edged pressed against my forehead. It was warm, like a diamond left in the sun.

"Taichō..." I breathed.

"Don't worry... it's fine..." the voice soothed. It was anything but. I tried to make my body respond.

Move! Move!

But I couldn't. I couldn't move. It felt as though my body was shutting down, suffocating, and couldn't do a thing about it...

My mind fuzzed over, too hazed to recognize the bands of reiatsu restraining me. I was already drunk just from being close to the man. The sheer quantity of his reiatsu was terrifying, yet it increased still. He was pouring it into the strange object, fusing with it. My foggy mind couldn't fathom it.

Terror consumed me to the point of blind panic. I wasn't curious, not curious at all about that—that thing in his hand, the thing that so resembled a piece of star.

Stars... I could see the night sky. Pretty stars. I tried to reach for them, but found that my arms were weighted down with bricks. I looked down, saw the inky water rushing up towards me. I screamed.

And... I saw it creeping towards me. A white flash.

Burning, burning. An intense, all-consuming pain. It shot down my spine and fried each nerve, flayed my skin, shattered my bones. It shredded my muscles and gouged out my eyes until I couldn't see, so torn I was by the pain. It felt as though something was clawing its way into the very core of my being.

It could have been years before it died down, but eventually I found myself on the dirty floor. I was too exhausted to even pant. The voices were gone.

That was the last I saw of the men. It turns out that the very next day Soul Society had prepared an ambush from the inside of Las Noches, with the assistance of arrancar dissenters. I was rescued in the raid. Aizen, his two lieutenants falling around him, attempted to escape, but a certain substitute shinigami by the name of Kurosaki intercepted him and fought him in a daring battle to the death. Shortly after he was awarded a white haori and the keys to the fifth division.

From ryoka to hero to captain. I tell you.

Of course, I'd wanted to know every juicy detail of the fight to embellish and spur the rumor mill, but the details were kept quiet. Odd.

"Think harder, Aida," they urged. "What do you remember?"

I always assured them that, no, I couldn't remember a thing. I'm not sure I've convinced them, but it got them off my back for the time being. They still keep a close watch on me. "For your protection," they always insisted. I don't believe them either.

I was returned to my squad, where I requested extra schooling back at the Academy to improve my abilities in hakuda, hohō and kidō. Zanjutsu is out for me now. This is the present day.

I was nobody special.

I held no rank, no title. After graduating from the Shinigami Academy I was cast into the lower orders of the shinigami, the foot soldiers who carried the asauchi—the nameless zanpakuto. The tests initiating me into the Academy revealed me to be bright for my age and proficient in the arts of kido, but my swordsmanship was lacking.

I was average. I materialized in the thirty-sixth district, I was taken into an average family; I led an average life in the Rukongai as a tailor, skills that carried on over to Soul Society.

Yes, I have some memories of my past life. Just fuzzy snippets and emotions in addition to some skills based off of muscle memory. My name is also given.

My life continued in an average fashion. Eventually one of the recruiting patrols tracked my greater-than-normal reiatsu and pulled me out of my average life in the Rukongai, only to be tossed into an average life in Seireitei. I joined the fifth division and took my place as a sub-seated shinigami.

My true zanpakutō had manifested, but I had yet to learn its name. I meditated each day for it even though I still had not even gained access to my inner world.

Oh, how I miss that life.

I was ejected out of that mind-numbing routine faster than one of Shiba-san's fireworks, right into a terrifying battle.

You see, Yama-jii (as we lower-downs have taken to calling him) had needed all the swords Seireitei had to offer.

And so, eventually, we found ourselves in the thick of battle, a whirlpool of violence. We fought for our lives, something we'd never done before. We were always boasting about our skills in sparring, felt that it taught us everything we needed to prepare for battle. So naïve.

My friends were dropping like flies around me. I can't remember much. At some point my zanpakutō shattered, hilt and all, and I found myself more naked than I had ever been in my life, even more than when the guys at the Academy had raided the girls' shower room.

I had tried to flee. Tried. Tried so hard, and the next thing I remembered, I was in that cell...

It's true that a zanpakutō is a manifestation of your soul, the core of you made solid. Theoretically you should be able to rematerialize it. After I was liberated from the dungeons of Las Noches I tried, and failed. But they'd done something to me. They didn't wall it off, or block me from entering; it was as though they'd dug it out of me and scraped it bare. Like a pumpkin. It couldn't grow back.

I know my zanpakutō is lost to me forever. Dead, like an infant, before it even had a name.

Sorry for the lack of action in the first chapter—I needed to prepare the set for the story.

Here's a noob writer begging you to R&R! Suggestions? Comments? Flames? I'll take anything you have to give!