A/N: Entry #1 of trope-related tumblr fic prompts. Out of a list of classic fic tropes, this was a request for Ichiruki Espionage AU
Full disclosure, I think Ichigo would make a terrible spy. He carries his emotions on his sleeve so openly, that I honestly cannot ever see him successfully slipping in and out of aliases with the required ease. Rukia, I think, would fare better. But either way, the point was that it took me a while to find a way in which I could see Ichigo actually working as a spy, when it occurred to me: why not (partly) make this a fic about the very fact that Ichigo isn't suited for espionage? Et voilà.
Cultural Notes:
Tokyo University: The most prestigious university in all of Japan. Entrance exams are notoriously difficult and the acceptance rate is very low. It is the university of choice for aspiring politicians, with graduates often immediately entering a career in national bureaucracy, the most elite career path in the country.
Gambling in Japan: With few exceptions, gambling (as in casinos and the like) is illegal in Japan. Among the few legal gambling ventures are racing, pachinko and lottery. There have been many efforts to legalize casinos in Japan, with no success yet.
JRA: Japan Racing Association
Kansai-ben: The Kansai accent and dialect has certain connotations in Japan, and it's also highly prevalent as a trope in anime. There are distinctions, like the Kyoto accent vs the Osaka accent, with the latter being seen as uncultured and often transcribed as a Southern drawl in both subbing and dubbing. It's only a stereotype, of course, but it is true that anyone who comes to Tokyo and keeps their Osaka accent is seen as something of an idiot. Look up 'The idiot from Osaka' on TVTropes.
Jika-tabi: Footwear with soft, flexible rubber soles favored by construction workers and the like. They look exactly like tabi, the traditional Japanese split-toe socks, except they're designed to be used as outerwear.
Sumida River: A river that flows through Tokyo. Kachidoki is one of the many bridges over the Sumida.
Operation Deathberry
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In the long list of people whose memory he was least likely to summon at any time ever, Ichigo's Third Grade teacher easily made the top five. An acrimonious man with a disposition as hairy as his forearms, he had once earned his place as reigning emperor of Ichigo's childhood nightmares when he'd casually informed him that adulthood was the place dreams came to die.
In a typical display of the resilience of children the world over, it had taken the warmth of his mother's embrace, her soothing voice and all of a week for him to forget all about the callous remark.
But it had taken a decade and a half for Ichigo to feel any sort of sympathy for the bitter old teacher, to gain an understanding of where he was coming from. And it was all happening in the back of a luxurious limousine, of all places.
He'd never attempt to convince himself a career in espionage had ever been a dream of his; more than anything, it was a thirst for answers that had driven him down this path. Still, Ichigo would be lying if he claimed he hadn't expected his chosen profession to be a touch more exciting. Not so much exciting in the sense of exploding pens and million yen cars, but it had never occurred to him that there would ever come a day when choosing the proper cummerbund and bowtie would be a vital element of an operation.
The damn thing kept trying to squeeze the air out of his throat, too, like a silken boa constrictor taunting its captured prey. Letting out a huff, Ichigo hooked a finger beneath the bowtie and tugged, wishing he could at least roll down the tinted windows to stare at something other than his irritated reflection. The passenger compartment didn't offer much in the way of a distraction, not unless one had any particularly strong opinions on leather quality or fancied a drink. Worst of all, it seemed to have shrunk at some point during the last few minutes.
As a bead of sweat rolled down his temple, Ichigo had a horrible mental image of his hair dye leaving a black trail along his feverish skin. He assumed Rukia would have alerted him to such an occurrence, but at the moment, she was busying herself with checking her reflection on the small mirror of her handheld compact.
His eyes travelled the length of her body. He had no name for the cut of the cocktail dress she wore, and he normally wouldn't have cared for such minutiae, if not for the distinct shift in her usual style. The dress flared out gently beneath her bust, the black silk flowing freely past her midsection, concealing the dressing on a wound he knew had not properly healed yet.
She should be resting in bed right now, he thought. Not taking unnecessary risks in a critical mission, prancing along atop a pair of stilettos that should by all means be destroying her ankles step by step, wearing a dress that left her entire back uncovered in the middle of winter.
Not that he had given much consideration to her sartorial choices, or anything.
Perhaps sensing his intense scrutiny, Rukia looked up from her compact, catching him in the act of averting his gaze.
"Aren't you…? Aren't you gonna be cold in that thing?" he muttered, adjusting his bowtie again.
"It'll be warm enough indoors," Rukia said. If she had felt uncomfortable by his gaze she didn't reveal it, though there was an edge of hardness in her voice. Then again, she had been in a bad mood for days now.
A glint caught his eye, and Ichigo turned to watch her adjust her earpiece. Golden light sparkled as her fingers swept past her ear, the wedding band on her finger reflected off the diamond stud glittering upon her earlobe.
Not for the first time, he marvelled at the ease with which she slipped into the skin of a stranger. If he hadn't already seen what she truly looked like, he would have no trouble believing the amber eyes and long, upturned blonde hair were one hundred percent genuine.
His own disguise –hair dyed black, green eye contacts- was equally convincing upon first glance, but it wasn't the quality of the props or the carefully applied makeup that made her so successful in erasing all traces of Rukia when shifting into Yōko, Maya, Setsuko, Megumi and a dozen other personas. What made Rukia a true master of disguise, was her uncanny ability to suppress her own emotions, to lock away every morsel of her true self into a dark corner of her mind and carry out her duty under the guise of her choice.
Ichigo, on the other hand, was well aware that this particular skill was easily his greatest weakness. And no amount of experience could ever teach him something Rukia seemed to possess naturally. For all his progress over the past three months in the field, he feared that he might never be able to truly leave his own self behind and become someone else.
Working alongside a more experienced operative like Rukia meant his skills had yet to be truly put to the test. He didn't know whether he should be grateful for that or not; perhaps relying on her so much had held his own growth back.
Ichigo tugged at his collar again. It was no use second-guessing himself right now. This wasn't a mission a single operative, even one as talented as Rukia, could carry out on their own. And tonight, he was determined to be the one she could rely on.
Rukia closed her compact shut with a snap and slipped it back into her purse. "We should be arriving soon," she said. "I think it's a good idea to go over the details once more—"
Ichigo let out a groan. "Yes, yes, I know; the data is stored in an airtight computer—"
"Air tapped."
"Fine, whatever, air tapped—"
"Not to interrupt this highly technical conversation," said a high-pitched voice coming straight out of Ichigo's ear. "But the correct term is air gapped." It was the voice of Urahara Kisuke, their handler.
Ichigo had to wonder what it might be like, to be an operative whose handler didn't find it fitting to make his presence known at the least opportune times. More pertinently, he had to wonder what it might be like to have a handler who didn't ascribe such blurry lines to his job description and stuck to his expected tasks, instead of sticking his nose into every single aspect of their missions.
But Urahara was… Urahara. His many eccentricities were simply a Thing that was Tolerated.
A living legend not only in their agency, but in their entire profession, he was the sole operative to have ever managed an early retirement from active duty out of his own volition. If rumors were to be believed, no-one had ever given chase. Ichigo didn't know the particulars, but apparently two other agents had been involved, and one day, Urahara had simply showed up, requesting he be relegated to handler status, even abandoning his post as CTO. His demands had been met without a modicum of resistance.
Ichigo wouldn't have believed a single word if he hadn't it seen for himself, what the mere mention of Urahara's name did to people. He didn't think he would ever forget the pallor on Ikkaku's face the day he had revealed the name of his handler when prompted.
If he were being entirely honest, Ichigo felt no small amount of pride at having been personally handpicked by someone who commanded that kind of respect. As odd as it was to think of ol' Sandal-Hat as someone people respected in the first place.
Ichigo certainly hadn't when he'd first met the man, stunned to discover that no-one had ever even conceived of that nickname before him: Sandal-Hat, a moniker Urahara had earned for his penchant to walk around in a pair of flip-flops be it summer or winter, as well as a highly distinctive striped bucket hat. Not really one's expectation of what a spy, let alone a notorious one, was meant to look like.
It had taken all of two minutes into their first training session –yet another way in which Urahara insisted on micro-managing his operatives- for Ichigo to fully grasp why no one dared openly mock his mentor's disastrous fashion sense. Thinking he could easily dispose of the old man within that timeframe, more or less, Ichigo had soon found himself hugging the ground, jaw throbbing, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
"My, my," Urahara had drawled, flip-flop pressed up against Ichigo's cheek as he held his arm twisted behind his back. "I do believe that was just about two minutes, indeed, Kurosaki-san."
And that had pretty much been the end of him doubting Urahara's abilities. Still, their handler gave both him and Rukia ample opportunity to secretly –and often not so secretly- wish they'd been assigned to someone with a tighter grasp on reality.
"And I'm inclined to agree with Kurosaki-san," Urahara went on. "There is no need for you to go over the details again; you're both ready."
There was a twitch in Rukia's jaw at the sound of those words. She didn't bother responding, reaching instead for the sealed envelope by her side on the seat. She ripped the top open irritably, and two burner phones fell on her lap. One of them –Rukia's, Ichigo assumed- had come with a decorative case. Judging by the pair of pointy ears up top and the fake whiskers, it was meant to resemble a cat.
Rukia held the phone up in front of her, her face contorted into a mask of utter betrayal. "What the hell is this, Urahara?"
"You asked for a cute—"
"A bunny, I asked for a bunny," Rukia growled. "Not this ridiculous Hello Kitty cra—"
"Don't—!" Ichigo's warning came a second too late. Urahara had already heard her.
There was ringing silence on the other end of the line. "Well…" Urahara said after a long pause. "I do apologize for the misunderstanding, Kuchiki-san. I'll see about finding you a suitably non-ridiculous case for next time, shall I?"
The transmission was summarily cut, and Ichigo sighed, knowing what was about to come.
Whenever he was upset or wanted to avoid any particularly pointed questions, Urahara had the annoying habit of terminating the transmission and punishing them by inflicting his horrible taste in music upon them, knowing that removing their earpieces during a mission was not an option. The first time it had happened, Ichigo had tried to turn his off, only to find the function had been remotely disabled.
The best thing about having Urahara as a handler, was the fact that he took it upon himself to provide both the tech and the live support.
The worst thing about having Urahara as a handler, was the fact that he took it upon himself to provide both the tech and the live support.
They groaned in unison as the guitar solo swelled, both of them slumping into their seats.
If you wanna see some action
Gotta be the center-of-at-traction
Honestly, Rukia should've known better. She had been an operative for much longer than he had, and by the time he'd become part of the team, she'd already had many months of first-hand experience with Urahara's many idiosyncrasies. "You know how he gets about cats," Ichigo said, shaking his head.
Rukia's only response was to let out a sound that could have come from an angry cat, ironically enough.
And you believe that, this-is-what-you've-waited-for
And it's-you-that-they-all-a-dore
While they rode the rest of the way, he and Rukia facing opposite directions, Ichigo grudgingly admitted that, like Urahara himself, his deplorable taste in music was beginning to grow on him. As he found his foot discreetly tapping along with the rhythm, he acknowledged that at the very least, he was no longer obsessing over his bowtie.
So baby now you feel like number one
Shining bright for everyone
Living out your fantasy
The brightest star for all to see
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' `-' `.-' `-' `-' `-' `-.' `-' `
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The first true test for his alias came upon sight of the estate. Rukia, damn her, treated the visual with the same enthusiasm one might muster when watching paint dry, while he had to fight every instinct not to gawk. Not that it mattered, really, while they were still safely ensconced within the confines of the limousine. However, perfecting his façade even before exiting the vehicle was imperative.
With the partition rolled down, Ichigo watched as the limousine came to a stop before the intricate wrought iron gates. Another town car was temporarily parked ahead of them, its passengers having been whisked off to the side vestibule for the required search.
As Urahara had warned them during their first briefing, any electronic devices, save from cell phones with no cameras or uplink capabilities, would be confiscated at the security checkpoint and only returned to their respective owners upon departure. When Ichigo had asked why their target would go to such lengths instead of simply increasing physical security, all Urahara had said was: "Because he's clever."
Ichigo scooted forward until he could drape his arm over the partition and scope out the way ahead.
Renji, a fellow operative and their designated driver for the night, turned to face him. "We're up next," he said, tilting the rim of his hat upward. For all the grief he'd given Ichigo about his three piece suit, he, too, seemed to have taken his disguise seriously tonight. From up close, Ichigo could now see he had even deigned to brush his long, usually untamed mane of red hair, the hypocrite. "You guys ready?"
"I guess," Ichigo said, taking in a deep, bracing breath. "How sure are we the phones aren't gonna get confiscated anyway?"
It was Rukia who answered. "Why would they be?"
"Isn't this guy supposed to be paranoid about security?" Ichigo said.
"Yes, which is why only old gen phones are allowed," she said. Her eyes, still disconcertingly amber, regarded him with naked disbelief. "What's with the last minute doubts? I know you know the operation file inside out."
That he did; she'd made certain of it when she'd relentlessly quizzed him on it. "That's just the thing; why allow phones period?" Ichigo asked. "If he's so concerned about theft, why not just ban them altogether?"
There was a wry grin on Rukia's scarlet-stained lips. "Because every single person attending this party is far too full of themselves to spend a whole night out of reach," Rukia said. "Tech pioneers, bankers, politicians, stock brokers… They all think the world is going to end if they don't answer a phone call for a few hours. And tonight, that includes you, too. Make sure you're seen checking your phone every now and then."
"Okay, kids, show's about to begin," Renji said, turning to face the windshield. "Turn off your earpieces."
Most likely eager not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the elite, the security guards were exceedingly polite and discreet during the search. Once cleared for entry, Ichigo and Rukia bid Renji farewell and set off toward the estate on foot.
Rukia's nails dug into his bicep imperceptibly, her free hand keeping the short fur coat tight around her shoulders. It was a short walk from the driveway to the front door, but the crisp night air brought an urgency to their gait. Judging by the staccato sound of many heels clicking against stone, they weren't the only ones in a hurry to get indoors.
A ribbon of cobblestone cut through the freshly mown grass, only sparsely lit with low-hanging lanterns that ran across its length. Ichigo had no doubt the minimal lighting served to direct attention toward the luminous estate that spread before them.
Two stories high and featuring the wood and glass combo so popular in modern architecture, the breath-taking residence nonetheless had a decidedly Japanese feel to it. Large banks of full-length windows and wooden lattice screens coexisted harmoniously with naked concrete walls, in a successful marriage of tradition and the contemporary.
A wide stone staircase led up to the entrance, where two uniformed members of the staff awaited to greet the guests. The double doors at the top of the staircase were held open by a pair of large vases –Chinese by the look of them- that held beautifully trimmed topiary. Ichigo felt Rukia let out a pleasurable shudder next to him as they stepped into the estate and over to the entrance hall, where a small gaggle of guests awaited to check their coats.
Ichigo tried not to let his gaze dwell on the glistening, onyx-topped table, or the four-foot tall arrangement of intoxicating flowers that stood nearby. Instead, he summoned forth the distinct blasé expression he had practiced over and over during the past few days, hoping it matched that of the rest of the crowd.
With their coats handed over, there was little left to do but follow the sound of the party noise ahead. Her weeklong testiness for all appearances forgotten, Rukia ran her fingers through her hair once and hooked her hand around his proffered arm, her smile radiant. A long Oriental carpet ran the length of the hallway. At the end, a server decked out in the uniform of the catering company in charge of the event supplied them with drinks. In Rukia's case, a long flute of sparkling cider, given that alcohol and antibiotics didn't mix well.
The assortment of partygoers ran the gamut from politicians right down to famous entertainers. The buzz of conversation interlaced with the soft sounds of a jazz quartet filled the room, and Ichigo surveyed the scene, unsure of how to go about joining the revelry.
Small pockets of guests peppered the hall, some chatting as they surveyed the art pieces adorning the walls, others strolling about aimlessly. In a corner by the main staircase leading upstairs, an actress was surrounded by a throng of men, regaling them with some sort of anecdote while they breathed in her perfume and stole both subtle and blatant looks at her plunging neckline.
Rukia dove head-first into action, taking the initiative and leading him across the room. While Ichigo watched her engage in lively conversation with the other guests, he suspected that by the end of the night, he would come to be thankful for his chosen identity more than once. As the alleged newcomer to the Tokyo social scene, he had the luxury of simply smiling and nodding along unless directly asked a question. Saddled with all the heavy lifting, Rukia had to repeatedly fake a familiarity with their interlocutors. Ichigo had been fearful her alias would not hold under the first sign of scrutiny, but never once did any guest appear to doubt the sincerity of her words.
The general consensus seemed to be that they made a charming pair, with her stellar pedigree and his aw-shucks demeanor.
Every now and then, an eagle-eyed guest would call attention to Rukia's choice of beverage and make a well-intended, but ultimately nosy inquiry as to the possibility of a future addition to their modest family of two. By the sixth time the question had been raised, they had perfected the coy non-responses and glowing smiles down to a T. Ichigo might've grown tired of the repetitive performance, if it didn't also present him with an opening to place a gentle hand on her naked back.
Every time he did, her skin would erupt in goosebumps, and every time he felt a rush of gratification at the knowledge that not even Rukia could keep up a perfect act all the time. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that she had yet to admonish him for it. Or the fact that he couldn't seem to stop himself from tracing the smooth contour of her spine with his fingertips.
"So what's the game plan here?" he said, after they'd spent nearly half an hour waltzing about the hall. "Do we mingle for a little longer and then look for our table?"
"It's a dînatoire," Rukia said.
"Oh, right. Of course. A dee-na-tour, that explains everything."
She breathed out a soft chuckle, wearing the first genuine smile he'd seen on her in days. If not for the colored contacts, he knew it would've brought out the flecks of violet in her eyes. "Din-ah-too-ahr," she said. "It means there won't be a sit-down dinner, only drinks and appetizers you can eat on the go while mingling." To illustrate her point, she plucked a dainty canapé out of the tray of a passing server and plopped it into her mouth. "There will be enough food to count as a full-course meal, but the idea here is to avoid a seating chart."
Ichigo decided against pointing out the fact that he'd need to wolf down about a hundred of those bitty things to feel even remotely full. Instead, he pressed on. "Why?"
"When a social event includes guests from different backgrounds," Rukia said. "You run the risk of offending certain parties if you seat them with someone they consider… let's say below their station. A dînatoire solves that problem easily. Clever move by the hostess."
"Are you telling me—" Ah, what the hell. He'd try one just out of curiosity. "—there are people here who'd be offended if we sat at the same table as them?" Ichigo said, tongue rolling around the combination of cracker, a fancy-tasting cheese and some sort of cured cold cut. He had to admit, it wasn't half-bad.
"Well, not me, I'm supposed to be Old Money," Rukia said after taking a sip of sparkling cider, then pointing her flute at him. "You on the other hand… It's why you 'married' me; you provide the obscene wealth of the gambling business, I provide the bloodline. Everyone in this room automatically considers you tacky, but they're willing to give you the benefit of the doubt because you had the good sense to choose a proper wife."
Ichigo met her grin head on, silencing any follow-up questions behind his glass of red wine. As much as he appreciated the insight into the world he meant to inhabit that night, there was another, more pressing inquiry that tugged at the back of his mind.
Where he might've normally credited part of their success to Urahara's prowess in crafting a solid, indestructible alias, he was beginning to feel that this wasn't the case tonight. What was even more interesting was that he knew for a fact his partner had never before been assigned a similar mission in the past; he'd read her file. Curiously enough, Rukia's deft touch in navigating through the minefield of potential pitfalls when it came to this crowd seemed to be the result of experience, indeed. Only not the field kind.
"None of this was included in our intel," Ichigo said.
Rukia hurried to break eye-contact, raising one delicate shoulder in a shrug. "I did some extra research," she said, almost downing her drink. Her stare lingered at the rim of her glass, and Ichigo had to wonder if she wasn't wishing it contained actual alcohol.
"I wasn't complaining; I was impressed," he said. And apparently, he wasn't the only one.
"Weren't we all?" said Urahara, and there was something about his voice that piqued Ichigo's interest. "By all means do continue filling us in on the predilections of the Beau Monde, Kuchiki-san. The missus is out and tonight's episode of Mythbusters is a rerun; I'm starved for entertainment."
Rukia seemed to have spotted the shift in tone as well. "Oh please, as if anyone would ever marry a sociopath like you," she hissed under her breath.
Commonplace though it was for their handler to speak with the confidence of a man who knew something –in his case a lot of somethings- you didn't, hearing him issue what had sounded like an open challenge was a first. Everything about the exchange rang false to the laid-back rapport the three of them had developed. And it made Rukia's increased hostility toward Urahara as of late even more intriguing.
If he hadn't just witnessed the flash of genuine anger in her eyes, Ichigo might've been willing to believe he had misread Urahara's tone, but it was becoming increasingly clear he was playing third wheel to a situation developing between his partner and his handler.
"Tsk, tsk, such cruel words, Kuchiki-san…" Urahara said. "But speaking of sociopaths who bafflingly managed to wed, have you located our host yet?"
The call of duty dispelled any further ruminations on what his colleagues might be keeping from him, and Rukia joined him in observing the room.
"He's making the rounds now," she said, spotting their target first. "Should be on us shortly." The already poised Rukia straightened up her posture, making a show out of drawing his attention to face the approaching couple.
Back to work, Ichigo thought, suppressing a sigh and putting his game face on as he redirected his gaze.
Aizen Sōsuke and his wife gave the impression of having jumped straight out of the pages of a lifestyle magazine. A stunning pair by any conceivable measure of attractiveness, they radiated charisma and seemed to naturally part the crowd as they glided about the room.
The hostess, a tall, beautiful brunette with hazel eyes, was dressed in the understated luxury Ichigo had come to associate with what Rukia had called Old Money. Her pale gold dress was classy, perfectly fitted and probably cost more than the average person made all year. Her job, as per the norm in her circle, was to be in charge of philanthropic and entertainment matters that served the interests of her husband, a tall, brown-haired man whose intelligent chestnut eyes sat behind a set of plain, thick black frames.
The target himself, a Tokyo University alum currently employed in the upper echelons of the Ministry of Finance, was –like any self respecting bureaucrat- a rising politician on the lookout for backers for his upcoming campaign. A successful man of his own accord, but one who had both been born and married into money.
Though apparently not enough, Ichigo thought as he braced himself for the encounter, the collar of his shirt growing uncomfortably tight again. Given the intel they had on the host, it was difficult not to feel intimidated. Any man Urahara himself chose to describe as brilliant and shrewd was a man Ichigo would normally have no hope of fooling. As such, his identity for the mission had been chosen for its proximity to his true personality.
Considering the identity in question, it had been difficult not to feel a little insulted.
The Aizens came within breathing distance and Ichigo forced a lax smile on his face, remembering what Urahara had said: Aizen Sōsuke had to buy his alias, then proceed to judge him bad for business and count him out of the running for prospective backers at once.
Mrs. Aizen graced them with a dazzling display of alarmingly white teeth. "Sōsuke, dear, this is the young gentleman I mentioned earlier: Kanzaki Makoto," she said. "His father is a very successful businessman from Osaka. Highly ranked member in the Kansai division of the JRA. Got his humble start running… pachinko parlors, was it?"
Her perfect manners made it almost impossible to detect, but Ichigo's well-trained ears had picked up the way her voice had wavered as she spoke the words pachinko and Osaka. It was the tone one might adopt when speaking of a very specific bodily function.
Ichigo raised his glass to Mrs. Aizen, hoping his exhaustive –and exhausting- lessons in mastering Kansai-ben were about to pay off. In an honest-to-goodness Pavlovian response, he felt a twinge of pain at the back of his nape when he opened his mouth to speak, as though Urahara was physically there, pacing around him, ready to give him a sharp whack with the curved handle of his umbrella every time his accent slipped.
"Exactly so," Ichigo said, grinning. "But we're all about the horses now. Ma wanted me to return home after graduation an' all, but I gotta say, Tokyo was a hard place to leave behind," he said, wrapping his arm around Rukia's shoulder. "Pa had no objections; I could still get into the family biz right here in the Tokyo division."
Rukia smiled brightly, a flush creeping on her cheeks at her husband's brazen display of affection, and Mrs. Aizen hurried to make further introductions.
"And this, of course, is his lovely wife," she said to her husband. "Kanzaki Mai, formerly Tanaka."
"Charmed to make your acquaintance, Kanzaki-san," Aizen said, giving Rukia a bow. "My wife tells me you're quite the accomplished equestrian. Even considered joining the professional leagues?"
With their target's focus trained on Rukia, Ichigo was afforded the chance to study him, however briefly.
Part of him wondered how he might've perceived Aizen Sōsuke is he wasn't already predisposed to mistrust him and be on his guard. Would his voice still come off like honey laced with poison? Would Ichigo be paying such close attention to his eyes and notice the counterfeit affability?
"Aizen-san is far too kind," Rukia said. "I've always had a great love for the sport, but no, I never aspired to make a career out of it."
"I'm surprised, given your husband's line of work," Aizen said.
"Hell, I was all for it!" Ichigo said. "Don't let the heels fool ya, she's even tinier than she looks! Perfect jockey material," he said, giving Rukia's arm a playful squeeze. It was a risky move, going off script like that, but it had felt true to character and the Aizens fell into refined tittering at his comment, keeping up the pretence that they found him delightful. In other words, polite code for utter moron.
Rukia proceeded to give him a forced grin and a cold, girlish giggle that was both in character and also plainly stated: I will destroy everything you cherish at my earliest convenience.
Her laughter trailing off, she composed herself and addressed Mrs. Aizen. "I wanted to thank you for the invitation, Aizen-san. My mother always spoke highly of your impeccable taste and I can now see she wasn't exaggerating."
"Oh, think nothing of it, dear," Mrs. Aizen said. "Sōsuke and I have always enjoyed the company of young entrepreneurs."
"Indeed," Aizen said, his eyes shifting over to Ichigo. "One can't help but admire a man who's already built a respectable reputation and fortune long before his thirtieth year of age."
Ichigo had to muster all of his composure to suppress a shudder at the dissonance between the silken voice and a gaze that cut like obsidian. Perhaps the sight would've been less disturbing if it didn't carry such a strong resemblance to the disposition of another man: that of his mentor and handler, Urahara Kisuke.
It was tempting to down his glass of wine, steel his resolve with some liquid courage, but Ichigo resisted the urge, knowing it would be a gesture that Aizen would see through at once. Instead, he followed Rukia's past advice and let the character take over, allowing Ichigo to hide behind the mask of Kanzaki Makoto. And for the first time that night, Ichigo was immensely grateful of the fact that Makoto was an oblivious, privileged moron with no sense of decorum.
With a wink and a chuckle, Ichigo gave Aizen's abdomen a playful, conspiratorial pat. Their contact only lasted a fraction of a moment, but he felt it, the tightening of Aizen's muscles beneath his touch, and saw the pang of cold fury at his unabashed familiarity. "Now if only we could get someone ta grease the wheels on that pesky legislation," Ichigo said. "Pa's been talkin' my ear off about the missed opportunities what with the Olympics comin' up and all, and he ain't wrong. Lotsa fortunes to be made if we play our cards right while there's still time, don't you agree?"
Before Aizen could compose himself enough to offer a response, Rukia reached out for Ichigo's wandering hand and gave it a yank, forcing it back in place by his side. "This is a party, darling," she said through gritted teeth. "Perhaps ease up on the shop talk?"
The sharp squeeze she gave his hand before releasing it was the signal to move forward: time to go in for the kill.
"Right, right…" Ichigo said, chuckling. "And whatta wonderful party it is. Congrats on the food choice, Aizen-san, everything is delicious. Compliments to your caterer and all."
Mrs. Aizen's smile became decidedly more strained at his deliberate faux-pas. "How kind of Kanzaki-san to say."
Right on cue, Rukia swept in to salvage the situation. "Goodness, you'll have to forgive him, this is his first real event—"
"Wha—? What'd'I do?" Ichigo protested.
"If you'll just excuse us…" Rukia said, dragging him away from the couple. Though the Aizens were dismissing the awkward encounter with superficially gracious smiles, it was clear as day they were relieved to be rid of their company. "I can't take you anywhere!" Rukia hissed at him once they were a short distance away.
"Oh fer cryin' out loud, you're the one who always makes such a huge deal outta nothin'!"
Even when carried out in hushed voices, their rehearsed argument was drawing the attention of the guests. It was time to change venues. Rukia stalked off in high dudgeon, making a beeline for the corridor, Ichigo hot on her heels.
With the main hall and the party behind them, he had no way of knowing if their ruse had been successful. In an operation where working and cultivating an asset had been deemed far too risky and near impossible, they only had audio to rely upon as of this moment: the bugged outfits of the servers. Ichigo could only hope they'd managed to pick up something useful.
"Did they buy it?" he muttered into his earpiece.
"Mrs. Aizen gives you six months," said Urahara. "Her husband was less generous. Good job."
Though still clopping her way forward with purpose, Rukia slowed down until he had caught up with her.
"I'd like to reiterate how much I hate that you had me be the idiot of the pair," Ichigo grumbled.
Rukia chuckled, patting his arm condescendingly. "You did wonderfully, dear. The delivery felt very genuine."
"I can hear you laughing!" Ichigo hissed into his earpiece at the similarly chortling Urahara.
As irritated as he was with their ganging up to taunt him, it was a welcome respite to the undercurrent of antagonism that had been lately brewing between them. He had no time to dwell on the intricacies of their group dynamics, however, as they reached the end of the corridor. Moving forward in any direction meant entering territory that would be under heavy surveillance, so Rukia made a sharp turn and yanked the door of a nearby bathroom open.
Ichigo hurried after her, locking the door behind them as she flicked the lights open.
"We're going dark," Ichigo whispered into his earpiece.
"Got it," Urahara said. "Talk to you again in… twenty minutes. Tick, tock, children. Good luck."
Barely a second after they'd switched their earpieces off, Rukia's scoff filled the small room, bouncing off the pristine, tiled walls. "Talk about a rousing speech."
Ichigo chose not to engage, all too familiar with how such discussions had a tendency to spiral off into whinging marathons over the shortcomings of their handler. Whipping the burner phone out of his pocket, he navigated through the menu over to the ringtone folder and pressed play. A recording of himself and Rukia arguing blasted out of the speaker, surprisingly clear for the expected quality from such an outdated device. Clearly, Rukia's phone wasn't the only one Urahara had tampered with.
Ichigo placed the phone over the porcelain sink along with their glasses and swiftly wiped them down with his handkerchief. He swivelled around, only to find that Rukia had already stripped out of her dress and heels, now stuffing them into the woven hamper underneath the sink. Knowing he had only a moment before she met his eye, Ichigo allowed himself to appreciate the fact that she had complemented her outfit with a matching pair of black lace underwear, when she knew full well that no-one would be none the wiser if she had chosen comfort over style.
No-one save for himself, that is.
Forget gambling, it's black lace that oughta be illegal, Ichigo thought, gaze raking over the gentle flare of flesh peeking below the rim of lace. His mind was assaulted by the sudden mental image of him biting into a soft, ripe peach. By the time Rukia had straightened herself up, his eyes had travelled a few inches to the north and over to safer pastures: her midsection.
"Don't even start," she said in warning when she caught him staring at her dressings, her whisper barely audible over the blare of the recording.
"Wasn't gonna," Ichigo whispered back and shrugged out of his jacket.
Rukia tossed it into the hamper along with her own clothes and reached around to help him unhook his cummerbund. Ichigo let out a sigh of relief as the extra two layers were peeled away, and Rukia retrieved the small, grey bodysuit he had been concealing for her and the two pairs of jika-tabi. Slipping into his own camouflage was only a matter of undressing and putting on a new pair of shoes, but Rukia was bound to have a harder time with her bodysuit.
To his dissatisfaction, he saw that she had foreseen the issue and had likely made arrangements for a larger size, judging by the ease with which she squeezed into it. She finished up by pulling the zipper shut by her side and for one long, breathless moment, he wondered where exactly she planned on securing her cell phone. Rukia disappointed him yet again by tucking it into her jika-tabi.
Stop ogling her, he chastised himself as he pulled the grey mask over his hair. She's your partner, not eye-candy.
Still, it was difficult to keep his eyes away when the matte outfit clung so tightly to her body, if not for the pleasant visual, then for the gnawing worry that the snug one-piece couldn't be the best attire for someone with a relatively fresh abdomen wound.
For her part, Rukia betrayed no discomfort and hurried to the window, carefully pushing it open. She ventured a look outside and then signalled him forward, then slipped through the small opening. Ichigo followed suit, coming to land with a soft thud onto the grass beside her. While she stayed on lookout duty, Ichigo lined the window frame with a piece of adhesive tape and pulled it shut.
Though the back of the estate was not nearly as well-illuminated as the front, there were still patrol guards making the rounds along the cool, moist grass. They would have to move quickly and silently.
Hugging the wall, Rukia sped away, Ichigo right behind her. It was only a short sprint to the drain pipe snaking down the length of the wall by the corner, but they couldn't afford to loiter. Rukia lost no time once they got there, and immediately began to climb. A little less trusting of the bearing capabilities of the skinny duct, Ichigo gave it an experimental pull. The pipe remained rooted in place. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he began his ascent after Rukia, heart thrumming in his chest.
The climb was short enough that he wouldn't have normally doubted the state of his own physical condition, but with Rukia moving at a decidedly slower pace than usual, Ichigo could feel his muscles throb and protest under the pressure.
Breath heaving in and out through his flared nostrils, Ichigo mentally growled at her and her pig-headedness for the thousandth time over the past few days. Why didn't you pass on this mission, you idiot? Urahara would've understood; you didn't have to lie about your current state. At one point, he had even briefly considered outing her to Urahara, but he had understood that to be a breach of her trust that she wouldn't have forgiven in a million years.
Motivated through sheer force of stubbornness alone, Rukia pulled herself up by the window leading into Aizen Sōsuke study and tightened the grip of her thighs around the pipe. With her unoccupied hand, she withdrew a small, laminated card out of her breast pocket and began to pick the lock.
Hurry, hurry… Ichigo thought, surveying the grounds below for any onlookers. The security guards continued to pace about the lawn, chasing the shadows away by beaming their flashlights on every dark corner of the grounds. It was only a matter of time before one of them would look up and see though their camouflage.
Ichigo looked up, frowning at the grunts and tense breaths that escaped Rukia's lips as she tried to unlock the window while holding herself in place. Tightening his grip around the pipe, Ichigo climbed higher, until his shoulder bumped against Rukia's thigh. Head snapping at his direction, she ceased her efforts at once.
"I can take it," Ichigo whispered to her. "Just focus on getting the lock picked."
Even with most of her face obscured by the grey mask, he could tell she was hesitating. Warily, she loosened the clutch of her legs on the pipe and allowed him to slip his head between her thighs, but she still refused to rest her entire weight on him.
Ichigo freed one hand and gripped her shin tightly. "Trust me, Rukia."
Her chin dropped into a curt nod, and Rukia let herself relax, locking her ankles together behind his back. Ichigo braced himself for her added weight, the tension on his shoulders mounting the longer they stayed exposed. Without the added strain, she was able to work quickly and efficiently, and within seconds, Ichigo was finally able to breathe again when he heard the tell-tale click of the lock surrendering to her ministrations.
Rukia dove in through the window at once and Ichigo followed suit, slumping down to the floor to stay out of sight. Rukia joined him, back against the wall, yanking her mask off and struggling to catch her breath as Ichigo shut the window behind them.
Moonlight filtered in through the half-closed drapes, doing little to dispel the pitch-black darkness of the study. Ichigo pulled off his own mask as well, allowing his eyes to slowly adjust to the darkness. An ornate desk lay a few feet ahead, Aizen Sōsuke's personal computer perched on the desktop. Anything else was difficult to make out, but ultimately unnecessary. The terminal was all they needed.
"Friggin' Urahara," Rukia said in between steadying breaths. "I swear—"
An exasperated growl rumbled out of Ichigo's throat. Just when there was some light flickering at the end of the tunnel, the glimmering hope that they might just pull this mission off against all odds, she had to go on and waste time complaining yet again. "Oh, will you lay off, already?" he hissed at her. "You've been ragging on ol' Sandal-Hat for days now. He hasn't done anything—"
"This mission is a charade," Rukia shot back. "My identity was carefully crafted over the course of months, yours was a dirty hack Urahara had to half-ass over the course of ten days."
Ichigo turned to face her, blinking. That was it? Was this the reason there had been so much tension between them lately? Had Urahara not told her the full story?
"The slightest background check and we're done for," Rukia went on. "And Urahara knows this, yet he still—"
"He didn't assign me on this. I asked to join."
There was an almost comical drop of Rukia jaw as she gaped at him, eyebrows arched sky-high, an expression of utter confusion painted on her features. "What? Why?"
"Because he was going to send you in solo," Ichigo said.
"…And?"
"And… I… You…" Ichigo gestured vaguely, trying to buy himself time to come up with something, anything that would make for a suitable response, but came up short. Honesty it was. "Well, look at you, you moron! You're still in recovery!"
He might as well have taken a picture of her shocked expression, because he wasn't likely to witness it ever again. Rukia's eyes narrowed into slits, her jaw tightening. "Are you insinuating—?"
"I'm not insinuating anything, I'm flat out saying it: you needed the help."
"Remind me who the hell keeps saving your ass time and time again, because you can't act worth a damn?"
…Touché. "That doesn't change the fact that you should've sat this one out."
Cheeks flushed in anger, Rukia pointed a gloved finger at him. "If I needed the back-up I would have asked for it. And for your information, if I had, it wouldn't have been you! You had no business—!"
"You took a bullet for me!"
And with those scant few words, Ichigo succeeded in something he hadn't been able to accomplish in three whole months: shut her up.
Eyes resolutely trained on the hardwood floor, Ichigo busied himself with some invisible lint on his knee, mentally revisiting a scene that easily ranked as one of the worst moments of his life. He hadn't even seen the shooter, too drunk on adrenaline, too confident of his –evidently- meager abilities. He had pressed forward, blind to the danger. Two seconds later and she had launched herself at him, pulling them both out of sight and back under cover. By the time he had gotten his bearings, a crimson flower had bloomed into being right in her abdomen. The bullet had missed her kidney by sheer miracle.
The rest of the night was a blur, a cacophony of nightmare fuel, of her sweat-ridden face, blood-stained hands and his words becoming a desperate mantra over her fading body: Rukia, Rukia, Rukia…
"I don't… I haven't forgotten this," he whispered, still not meeting her gaze. "I messed up big time. But you had my back. And I… I got yours. Whenever…" The rest of the sentence died on his lips as he dared to look up again. Not content with being outdone, Rukia managed to shut him up without a single word, enlisting nothing but her own eyes for the task.
There was an emotion reflected in there, in her parted lips and dilated pupils that he couldn't place, and as much as he'd have liked to sate his curiosity, they were, as always, pressed for time.
His hand flew up to his nape and he motioned toward the desk. "So are we gonna do this or what?"
Snapping out of her reverie, Rukia nodded and stood up to a crouch, scuttling her way over to the desk. Ichigo hovered behind the chair she occupied, eyes flitting from the crack beneath the door to the window.
The computer flickered into life and Rukia quickly pressed F8, entering BIOS mode. She handed Ichigo the phone, while she went about setting up the computer to boot via disc or special drive. Ichigo yanked the back cover off the phone, retrieving two tiny thumb drives and slipping them over onto the desktop, then put the phone back together again and turned it on.
Rukia slipped one of the mini drives into a port and restarted the computer. Instead of the familiar login screen of the operating system, the monitor lit up with a plain, DOS-like environment screen:
==== myKungFu1$t3hb3$7 - Edit User Info & Passwords ====
|RID -| - Username -| Admin?|-Lock? -|
|01t4| Administrator | ADMIN | dis/lock |
|03f1| pwn ge | | *BLANK* |
|01f5| Guest | | dis/lock |
Select: ! – quit, . – list users, 0xRID - User with RID (hex)
or just enter the username to change: [Administrator] _
"Good lord, pwn ge…" Ichigo said, shaking his head. "Could he be more of a loser?"
"Not possible," Rukia said, grinning. "But his Kung Fu is the best, admittedly." She typed in the word pwn ge and pressed enter, then exited the program. Once removing the drive and resetting the computer to boot from the hard drive, they were presented with the OS login screen, which they could now bypass, courtesy of the newly reset password.
Rukia slipped the second mini drive into a USB port, then loaded up the sole file stored into the drive:
In his mind's eye, Ichigo pictured Urahara's specially designed malware spreading its web like a spider, allowing their modified phone to work its –alleged- magic on Aizen's computer. As Urahara had explained to them, gaining access into an airgapped computer was easy enough. The true challenge lay in data exfiltration, which was nigh-impossible without leaving a significant trail behind and slow to a crawl at the best of times.
Enter Urahara's specially modified phone.
Ichigo hadn't even bothered pretending he understood the theory behind the hack. All he knew was that the malware they'd just installed was supposed to allow them to transmit the data they were after, using cellular frequencies.
Once the program had been launched, Ichigo held up the phone experimenting with various locations: Urahara had mentioned something about the make of the chassis affecting the SNR –whatever the hell that was- so they would have to do a bit of repositioning in order to achieve the maximum possible bitrate. On the computer screen, a counter fluctuated between 100 to 300 bits per second.
"There, there!" Rukia hissed. "Back to the left, you just hit 500!"
"No shit, Urahara said even 300 was optimistic," Ichigo said, shaking his head. Trust Sandal-Hat to prep for the worst and hope for the best… He tried to lock in on the previous position again until the counter indeed hit 503 bits per second. "Eight minutes? Holy hell, it's only a tiny file, isn't it?"
"Thirty kilobytes," Rukia said. "Guess he was right when he said exfiltration was the hard part."
The wait was sheer torture. Both sets of eyes glued on the screen, they watched the progress bar as it moved at a steady, but glacial pace. Ichigo dared not moved the phone again, lest the bitrate drop lower and thus extend the already excruciating process.
For the longest time, he had assumed Rukia's haggard breath matched his own out of pure stress, but when his eyes flitted down, he saw that she had one hand draped over her abdomen. Blood had soaked through her bodysuit.
"Rukia…"
Startled by the sudden sound, she glanced at him once before following the trajectory of his gaze. Her fingers tightened against her wound, as though the gesture were capable of wiping his memory clean from what he had just seen. "I'm f—"
"You're not fine," Ichigo said, kneeling down before her. "For fuck's sake, your stitches—"
"It's almost done—"
"Why didn't you say anything, you idiot?"
"Forty seconds left."
Rukia refused to let him anywhere near her wound, and once the transfer was complete, they packed their equipment swiftly, reset the password and hurried out the window. Ichigo was about to protest that she was being unreasonably stubborn, but Rukia brushed off his offers for help and slipped out into the cool night once more. She gave Ichigo one last defiant look, then slid down the pipe with ease.
Struggling to stifle the shriek he could feel barrelling up his throat, Ichigo followed suit. She won't even have time to bleed out on her own, I'm going to fucking kill her myself when this is over.
It was only once they were back into the safety of the estate bathroom that he rounded up on her, gripping her arm and forcing her to face him. "That was the stupidest fucking—"
He never finished his sentence, his words faltering along with Rukia's steps. Under the glare of the bathroom light, the bone-white pallor of her skin was unmistakeable, and he only barely managed to loop an arm around her back to keep her from tripping over her own two feet. The front of her grey bodysuit now sported a dark splotch of color that reached down to her pelvis.
"I'm fine, I'm f—"
"Sit your ass down," Ichigo said, trying to inject some hostility in his voice, but failing miserably. He helped Rukia onto the toilet seat, then quickly set down a towel on the naked tiles before her feet. Getting blood on the floor or anywhere inside the bathroom was the last thing they needed right now; concealing a blood-stained towel would be far easier, should the need arise.
In between helping her undress, it occurred to him that the bathroom was awfully silent. The recording he had left playing had long ago ended, which meant that with no noise coming behind the bathroom door, people were far more likely to come barging in. The process of getting back into their formal clothes would have taken far less time if he didn't have to be so careful not to spill Rukia's blood, but they could not afford such a grave mistake at the last leg of an otherwise successful operation.
Without a first aid kit to help redress Rukia's wound temporarily, they'd had to make do with a plain washcloth, which was not only a terrible idea, it was also far too bulky to conceal properly under her thin dress. But beggars couldn't be choosers. We're gonna have to make our exit with some pretty creative camouflaging, Ichigo thought as he yanked his shoes on.
Rukia had managed to shimmy into the lower half of her dress with no accidents and was testing her balance on her heels, her face still clammy. Gingerly, she began to lift the top half over her dressings, trying to get her wrists through the armholes without moving too sharply.
Ichigo unlocked the door, quickly surveying the room for anything they might've missed. There were no traces of blood left anywhere, the towel was back in place, all their clothes had been retrieved from the hamper, the glasses had been wiped clean of prints and DNA and the phone was back in his pocket. They were good to go as soon as—
Rukia looked up in alarm at the same time he did upon the sound of footsteps. There were no other rooms in the vicinity; whoever was approaching was coming straight for the bathroom.
Ichigo's eyes fell on Rukia's half-naked torso. Hers fell on his unzipped pants and fully undone shirt. They would have to move at the speed of light to get dressed in time.
Shit, shit, not now, when we're so close— Calm down, think, think—
All this preparation, all this effort, the stress, and they were going to fail now, by being caught in such a compromising position? He refused to accept it, to give up— Wait. A compromising—?
With barely a second before the intruder walked in on them, Ichigo reached for Rukia, a manic glint in his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he mouthed at her, then swivelled her around until he was seated atop the toilet seat, pulling her down with him to straddle his lap.
Catching on, Rukia's eyes shot wide, redness spreading across her chest as he pulled her flush against him by the hips, her dress riding up to expose her thighs. "Oh my god, oh my god…"
He supposed both her exclamation and the deep blush they both sported was fitting for the occasion. It certainly seemed to make the scene more believable when the door was wrenched open and they were confronted with the stunned face of a plump, middle-aged woman clad in an exquisite green dress.
"Occupied," Rukia whimpered in a mortified voice.
"Oh my gosh, I— I'm so sorry, I didn't— I thought— Excuse me!"
The dumbfounded guest slammed the door behind her before they could get a word in edgewise, and Ichigo could've sworn he heard the sound of muffled giggling.
.
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.
"The hell's up with you two?"
Both Rukia and Ichigo avoided Renji's eye as the car rolled into the driveway. Ichigo could feel Renji's eyes on them while he helped Rukia into the limousine, every part of him that was still attached to her burning.
Making a dignified exit had been a futile effort to begin with. By the time they'd left the bathroom, the entire roster of guests seemed to have been clued in as to their alleged tryst, and Ichigo had never before felt so many pairs of eyes locked upon him when entering a room. In retrospect, the gazes locked mischievously upon their expressions had served as a distraction from the fact that for the whole journey through the hall, Ichigo had kept Rukia's side plastered against his, trying to conceal the bulky dressing on her midsection.
Rukia hadn't said another word, and Ichigo hadn't dared seek out her eyes, assuming she was just as embarrassed as he was. Half way along the cobblestone path, however, he realized that she was leaning her entire weight against him, her hand gripping his coat tightly.
When he helped her into the back of the car, she fell limp across the seat, her breaths short and shallow.
"What the fuck hap—?"
"I'll explain on the way to the agency," Ichigo said, hurrying into the passenger compartment.
Renji waited until they were out of sight of the security outpost before well and truly stepping on it. Ichigo heard the whirr of the compartment being lowered down, and out came Renji's voice. "Oi, Rukia, you still with us?" He was trying to sound casual, but there was no mistaking the edge of hysteria in his words.
"You're not… getting rid of me that easily," Rukia said in between pants. "Dr. Unohana will patch me up, no problem."
Renji said nothing, merely changed gear and gave Rukia one last glance over the rear-view mirror. Kneeling before the seat, Ichigo felt the engine's roar reverberate down to his very bones. He shifted his gaze back to Rukia.
"Don't look so worried, rookie," she breathed out, grinning up at him. "The operation was a resounding success."
Ichigo tightened his clasp around her slippery hand. It didn't once occur to him to let go for the duration of the trip, and Rukia never did, either.
.
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.
The rain had not let up for days.
The Sumida stretched ahead of him, nearly overflowing, the blue and green lights of Kachidoki Bridge reflected upon the dark, rustling waters.
Ichigo hurried across the street to the foot of the bridge and under the shelter of Urahara's umbrella. Even he seemed to have conformed to the weather, clad in a heavy dark coat –flip-flops notwithstanding. He acknowledged his presence with a nod, then returned to taking leisurely drags off is cigarette as Ichigo buffed his soaking hair.
"How is Kuchiki-san faring?" Urahara said. His voice remained even as ever, barely audible over the roar of the rain.
Ichigo stuffed his freezing hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Recovering. You're not gonna—?"
"I believe she's more than earned an extended vacation," Urahara said. "She needs time to heal properly before she's back in the field." Upon sight of Ichigo's withering stare, he seemed to grow almost apologetic. "If it were up to me, she wouldn't have been involved in the Aizen operation, either. But a lot of time and effort had gone into setting it up; we couldn't afford to send in a scarcely prepared operative."
"You sent me."
"Yes, well…" Urahara trailed off, a smirk on his lips as he balanced the cigarette between his lips. "You asked." Digging his hand into his coat pocket, he retrieved a small piece of paper and held it up between index and middle finger. "Memorize this."
Ichigo took the proffered note, brow creasing. Under the green haze of the brightly lit bridge, he held the note open and glanced at its contents. It took repeated readings for him to realize the phrase written there was not a coded message of any sort, but rather a simple, round of the mill phrase.
"What's—?"
Urahara cut him off, repeating himself. "Memorize it."
Ichigo chose to hold off on challenging the order. At least not until he had done as asked. "What was that?" he said, handing the note back to Urahara.
Urahara withdrew a lighter out of his pocket and set the paper on fire, watching as the wind began to blow the glowing cinders off toward the river. "Your exit strategy," he said, dropping his voice even lower.
To his surprise, Ichigo heard him loud and clear. Perhaps it was the shocking turn of phrase, or maybe the rain was letting up. "Why do I need an exit strategy?"
"You don't," Urahara said, turning to face him. "Not yet, at least. But when the time comes, that's how you'll let me know."
Ichigo stared at his handler, the pit of his stomach tightening. When, not if. Urahara was a man of carefully chosen words, and Ichigo understood his sentence to be anything but accidental. Was there something going on behind the scenes that only he knew about? "What makes you think I'll need one in the first place?"
This time around, Urahara's grin was downright cheeky as he held his cigarette between thumb and forefinger. "In my day, we used to call it the Fake Out Make Out."
Despite the cold night, Ichigo felt heat creep up on his neck and ears. There was no point wondering how on earth Urahara seemed to have a fairly good idea of what had taken place in the bathroom of Aizen's estate. The only relevant question was what his and Rukia's… unfortunate interlude had to do with him ever needing an exit strategy. "That wasn't— It didn't mean—"
Urahara's pale eyebrows disappeared beneath the fringe that fell across his brow. His smirk spoke volumes of what he thought the interaction had truly meant.
Looking away, Ichigo shoved his hands into his pockets with gratuitous vigor. The last thing he needed right now was people making assumptions about his relationship with Rukia. Developing a bond with one's partner was not only encouraged, it was essential. And yet forming any sort of lasting attachment was considered a weakness. Ichigo didn't understand how he was expected to compartmentalize his feelings in such neat little boxes without allowing any sort of overlap: for him, trust and friendship had always gone hand in hand.
And Rukia… well.
He was conflicted enough about the situation with no need for Urahara's snide comments. He didn't expect a man with his handler's ever-cavalier attitude to understand something like this. "How would you even know?" he muttered, still avoiding eye contact.
Urahara made a soft noise as he expelled his breath, and out of the corner of his eye, Ichigo saw him drop his cigarette to the ground and put it out. "How do you think I met my wife?"
Ichigo swivelled around to face him again. Normally, he took everything Urahara said with a grain –nay a pillar- of salt. The man was prone to exaggeration and deception even when the situation didn't call for it, but this time, his tone was candid, his grin amiable and just a touch wistful instead of mocking.
Whether he was playacting or not, the result was highly effective. Ichigo could only stare at him as Urahara held one hand out in trial, then pulled his umbrella back.
"Ah, would you look at that. The rain has finally stopped," Urahara said, smiling. With a jerk, he shook the excess water off the umbrella and closed it shut, turning on his heel.
Ichigo watched him walk away, stunned. Had he honestly set up a meeting only to give him that cryptic message? More to the point, what did Urahara stand to gain from his possible defection? And Rukia—
"Why would you help me?" Ichigo called out toward Urahara's retreating form.
Urahara came to a stop, casually leaning onto his umbrella as he looked over his shoulder. "Anything for Isshin-san's boy."
To say that Urahara's words were unexpected would be the understatement of the century. Ichigo felt his knees grow weak at the mention of his father's name, his first name, no less. The idea that Urahara knew more about his past than Ichigo had ever revealed to anyone in the agency was, quite frankly, not that great a surprise.
And yet for all the time he had known his handler, Ichigo had never heard him address anyone with familiarity, as though speaking of a friend.
Infuriating as ever, Urahara said no more, merely inclined his head once. "Until next time, Kurosaki-san."
.
A/N: To be continued… not xD I just thought it was a good idea to end this on a bit of a cliffhanger for dramatic effect, make it seem like a chapter taken out of a lengthier fic.
I briefly considered having Momo be Aizen's wife, but that was way too cruel, so instead, Mrs. Aizen is just some random high society lady chosen to give Mr. Aizen the appearance of normalcy and his own ticket into the world of high society.
Using a GSM (ie 2G) phone to access an air-gapped network is perfectly legit, by the way. It's a very new technology (the paper was only published in 2015), which is why I felt it would be something Aizen wouldn't have known and thus worried about. This also felt like exactly the kind of hack Kisuke would come up with, using obsolete tech and hardware tweaks to penetrate a state-of-the-art network (the code actually fucks with the target terminal's CPU, it's freakin' brilliant). Secondly, the true genius of the tech isn't so much penetrating the network, it's all about data exfiltration, which is normally extremely slow even when gaining access.
My apologies to the brilliant men and women who came up with this technique: in this universe, it was a lone troll who did it just to fuck with his nemesis. Also because there was a rerun of Mythbusters on TV that night and getting laid was not an option.
And yes, ever since I got the idea to include "Number One" I've listened to it about a thousand times. That and the FGT version ("Chokkaku"). The anime nostalgia is real :'(