incandescent (adj.): 1) white, glowing, or luminous with intense heat, 2) strikingly bright, radiant, or clear, 3) marked by brilliance especially of expression, 4) characterized by glowing zeal (Merriam-Webster online)
She leaned back in the rickety chair, willing herself to keep her head. If this report was correct, this was quite possibly one of the worst things that could have happened. It would be catastrophic for the movement, to say the least. The rebellion was already facing a steep uphill battle, and any new setbacks would undo the few gains that they had managed to make in the past several months. She stood up, clasping the paper tightly in her hands, as though her grip could crush the very words and force them from existence. She was very short; her raven-colored head did not brush the low ceiling as most others' did, but she still made her way carefully through the dilapidated shack, careful not to step upon the littered glass or trash that decorated the thatched dirt floor so well.
Her violet eyes scanned the rooms ahead of her, and seeing neither of the two men she was looking for, she continued on, her pace picking up steadily. She really needed to share this news with them sooner rather than later. Finally, in the very back room of the unofficial compound, she spotted the second man's vivid red hair and intricately tattooed arm, which was gesturing profusely at one of his subordinates.
"Renji," she greeted, glancing at him for a split second, "Have you seen my brother recently?" He glanced back at her, shaking his head as he did.
"Not for a while," he began, turning around to face her completely. He looked exhausted, or perhaps it was just stress that rimmed his formerly stubborn face. He thought for a moment, scratching his head absently as he did, "Actually, I think he said earlier that he was going to try to get a message to the southern half of the organization." Rukia nodded, barely listening to what he was saying.
"Well, we have to find him and gather everyone together," she said, "I just received that report that we've been waiting on, and it's not good news." She glanced back down at the paper that was still tightly bundled in her small fist; unfortunately, the writing upon it remained the same, obstinate as ever. Rukia scoffed before thrusting the unwelcome paper into her tattered pocket. She glanced up, wondering why Renji had seemingly misinterpreted the urgency of her message. He had gone very still above her, and his eyes were staring at her with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity.
"Which report?" he asked, his voice low, "Not the one on…" She shook her head, cutting him off before he could even conclude his sentence. She looked away from him, staring at the floor as an unpleasant pit formed in the depths of her stomach.
"No," she said, even more quietly, glancing around as she spoke. No one seemed to be standing too close to them, but still. The king had spies everywhere, and this was the one thing that they did not want to get caught talking about at all. "I still haven't found anything. And at this point, there's nowhere else to check. We've looked everywhere. I guess everyone's right, Renji. He is dead. We just have to move on, to focus on bringing down the king." Renji laid a hand on her tiny shoulder, the closest thing he could muster to a comforting gesture at the moment.
"Rukia…" he began, opening his mouth without knowing what he planned to say. But his words were no longer needed; Byakuya appeared behind his sister, the strain of leading the apparently fruitless rebellion visible in his dark grey eyes.
"I was told you had received the latest intelligence," he said in his usual monotone, staring down at Rukia with an indecipherable look, "We've convened many of the operatives at the other compound, and we don't have long before some of their absences will undoubtedly be noticed." He finished speaking, his eyes boring into Rukia as he took note of her pale face and drawn features. "Is something wrong?" She looked up at him, glancing at Renji for a split second.
"No," she replied flatly, thrusting the crumpled paper from her pocket at her brother without further comment. She strode away from the two of them, but Byakuya's voice reached her before she could leave the dingy room.
"Rukia," he called, his voice barely a whisper, yet inherently commanding nonetheless. "He is dead, gone. There is no other possibility. We must focus all of our energies on destabilizing the Spirit King's regime. Sosuke Aizen has proven to be a more formidable opponent than any of us ever estimated, and this rebellion needs you at your best. So come, we cannot be late." He walked past her, his hand gripping the report even more tightly than hers had. Rukia watched him mutely for a moment, before following him silently, her thoughts still wandering to the supposed impossibilities that remained. Renji was left alone in the small room for a moment, and his thoughts drifted to the same impossibilities, the same unfeasible scenarios that everyone else continued to shoot down. But he shook them off quickly and followed behind the two Kuchikis, dreading the news that the crumpled report was about to share.
He lay flat on his back, staring at the grey, cloudless sky with a practiced resignation. The sheer futility of his actions seemed to echo in the eternally empty space, and the clouds were almost mocking him as they drifted along to some predetermined destination. Shifting his head only slightly, he glanced at Zangetsu in furious annoyance. He could only see the hilt of his zanpakuto from his current vantage point. It didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered, it seemed. At least not here, in this inescapable abyss. The terrain was unforgiving and rocky, the sky perpetually cloudy, as though a storm were always brewing just beyond the realm of his vision. The crumbling black rocks and the dark, sticky dirt that stuck to his back were lightened only minutely by the dim light cast upon them from the silver-grey sky above.
It was truly the physical reflection of misery, and Ichigo accepted it as such. He turned away from Zangetsu, choosing to shut his eyes instead. This momentary sojourn into his head would not bring the conversation he so desperately craved. Neither Zangetsu nor his hollow side had spoken to him in what seemed like months. In the beginning, they, as had he, had tried everything to escape this hell. In their usual flawless cooperation, they had debated any analyzed every possible method or means or escape. But the utter helplessness had turned to furious snappishness, and the dire nature of the situation had brought about one unpleasant exchange after another. Ichigo had, in a moment of admittedly unfair hotheadedness, left Zangetsu, ignoring his calls as he implored his wielder to return. It had taken several days of alternately roving the strange wilderness in a belligerent funk and apathetically wondering why he even bothered, but Ichigo had finally returned, ready to acknowledge his mistake.
But there had been nowhere and no one to which he could return.
He was stuck here, watching as the grey burned itself into his eyelids with uncomfortable persistence; his own subconscious had rejected him. He still had the material representation of Zangetsu, yes, but like everything else, it didn't matter. There was nothing he could do. He felt even more powerless than before, so now, after placing the gleaming zanpakuto in a sturdier patch of the gummy dirt, he reverted back to one of his apathetic phases. He was powerless, alone, and trapped in a hell that seemed unlikely to ever yield or even allow him some small measure or semblance of sanity. It was maddening, but Ichigo sighed, uncharacteristically cognizant of the fact that anger got him nowhere. As he stared at the unfortunately familiar sky, he wondered, as he had perhaps a million times, what was going on outside of his newfound prison, both in the Human World and the Soul Society.
The Winter War had probably concluded by this point; he wondered how much time had passed since everything had happened and if the shinigami had successfully protected Karakura Town. His thoughts cut away from the last part with a rapid unease, and he shifted in discomfort, rolling over so he didn't have to look at the sky at all. He missed the feel of his reiatsu enveloping him in effortless precision, and he missed the calm, steady tenor of Zangetsu's voice, guiding him as he fought, battle after battle, enemy after enemy.
Ichigo sat up slowly, the familiar hatred for Aizen and his comrades building. Without their petty quest for power, there would be no war, no threat to his family and friends, and (most pressing to his current situation) he wouldn't be stuck in this purgatory, cut off from news, waiting as the debilitating thirst for a scrap of news threatened to eat every fiber of his being. So he curled up, hating himself as he drifted back to his mind-numbing apathy. As his mind babbled incoherently at him, he stared at the clouds, relaxing his comfortably rigid position with a loathing submissiveness. The grey, the clouds, the rocks, the dirt, the silence of the abyss itself… All of them would be the very things that wore the fiery, unstoppable Ichigo Kurosaki down to a nub, a shadow of the incorrigible Substitute Soul Reaper that he had once been.