S T O R Y : Pendulous
C H A P T E R : Chapter One
R A T I N G : K+ this chapter.
P A I R I N G S : None (in this chapter)
S U M M A R Y : Turn Back the Pendulum to before Yoruichi's family promotion or Urahara's sudden climb to the top. They were only children then.
Kirio Hikifune lived through it all. She watched the Princess of one of the Four Noble Houses grow into the Goddess of Flash while keeping an eye on a talented blonde who has been brushed aside as Yoruichi-sama's side-kick for most of his life.
Did she know that nine years after her premotion that her successor would be the catalyst for Soul Society's future qualms?
Like hell she did.
D I S C L A I M E R : I am not Tite Kubo writing a piece to find out if it popular so I can put it in my award-winning manga, Bleach. I am painful tearing into his world and abusing the characters - s'all. Yes, and Kirio is a CANON-character. I didn't make her up, really.
Heck, for all I know if Kubo decides to bring her out she is probably a withered ol' hag. This is just putting some imagination into what has been touched on in the manga.

It was past nine.

He knew it was when it pushed his sore feet into his sandals and tied the band around his hakama, easing his frame into the worn fabric with the type of delicacy that she hated.

Take it slow, he scolded as he arranged and collected himself, smoothing down wrinkles along his arms, plastering his clothed socks against the flexible floor of his shoes; attempting to mask the worry lines that formed under the clump of blonde hair.

It had to be past nine.

A strange whine came to his throat as he exhaled a breath he did not realise he had been holding, sparked by the sight of the sun beaming through the gaps in his blinds and onto the dishevelled sheets of his futon. The scene made his stomach churn, his brow giving an involuntary twitch as a sign of what little resolve he could muster. It took all his willpower to turn elegantly on his heels, leaving his room with the bed in the state that it was with his chin tucked against his chest while his hands formed fists at their sides – almost in preparation for a preeminent blow.

But he walked, and he listened - listened to the servants pacing, busying themselves with cleaning with a few thumping around on the upper floors; the clink of ceramic resonating down from the kitchen while chef prepared breakfast. The thought of food quickened his pace, images of bowl after bowl stretched across a table – Mondays in the living room, unless it was commanded otherwise. His mouth was flooded with spit and he swallowed it thickly, pushing past his desire for a warm meal when he thought of the time.

It was past nine.

He was late again.

And he would be punished, again.

It took him minutes to muster his determination and seconds to destroy, sending him bounding down the corridors, dodging the odd maid who crept out of the rooms that lined his path, finishing a half-arsed apology to one before repeating it to the next person who blocked his way. The screen doors were a blur behind his flowing hair and the flutter of sleeves from his hakama. Pit-pat, pit-pat went his sandals on the expensive floor, deafened by the rhythmic breathing that was hitched in his chest, burning his throat which became dry.
He closed in on the entrance to the living room; to the twin white slides framed by the dark, lacquer wood he genuinely admired. There was no time for that now. He could hear the scrape of tupplewear on the table on the other side, the sound sapping at what pride he had left. His arms felt heavy, limp like wet noodles as he drew the partly only slide to one side, using both hands for the small effort of slamming the delicate entrance open.

Teal eyes were closed to block out the vision of a tanned fist darting towards him, his hands – sweating from clenching – already closed in front, beseeching.

"Yoruichi-san, I am sorry for being late... again," he said in one breath, creasing his forehead even more behind his flaxen locks. They were matted against the skin of his brow and cheeks and he hastily pushed them back with a hand when the feeling became irritating. Nonetheless, he didn't look up, rehearsing what he expected in his mind.

She would groan, punch him – one that he would block, two if he was lucky – before aiming one smartly on his arm or stomach. You sleep too much, was typically her first string of words, or the food is already cold – the main reason behind her anger. It was those few seconds on these mornings (one minute before nine was not late, one minute after was punishable) that the Lady Yoruichi was utterly terrifying. Bowed, he held his breath, every muscle tense in readiness for the sharp sting that could form on any part his mistress saw fit to hit. One hand twitched from its position, ready to defend his jewels if necessary. After all... he knew it was past nine; the area and strength of the blow depended on how many minutes overtime he spent lounging in his room. He had to be prepared for the worse.

But there was nothing. He had been holding his breath for so long that he wheezed it out in a long sigh, and his muscle cramped in his stomach where he had anticipated Yoruichi to strike. The boy did not dare open his eyes to witness a surprise assault, preferring to reach out with his senses to try and detect her presence in the room. Someone was definitely there. He had heard the scrap of china before he entered and in this stillness, the buzz of the bees and the symphony of nature outside dissolved behind the apparentness that he was not alone.

It was the low chuckle that shook the blonde from his closure. Even before knowing who it was his cheeks were rouged with his embarrassment; his eyes, wide and enlivened to stare at the floor. Seconds passed and the discomfiture manifested into anger. He should have been able to sense this presence when now it was so perceptible. Not even the distance gave reason for his miscalculation – the only factor being that he was so whipped under Yoruichi that his talents to perceive those around him were rippled and distorted by his own fear. Fear was not acceptable – not for something so inconsequential.
Unfortunately, not everyone understood his trail of thought or shared the knowledge of his humiliation. From the applause of girlish laughter he assumed he must have done something horrendously funny to receive such ovation. Again, he was torn between his anger and his embarrassment – but regardless of what he felt, his face was flushed so profusely that it could make a baboon's behind look pale.

However, it gave him the courage to glance up but to keep his gaze hidden behind his uncombed hair.

The room was dark, the curtains closed. He noticed that the windows to the terrace were open for the material would billow from time to time, letting light into the shadowed room and revealing the outline of the lone form in the centre. As a resident, the boy was used to end to end walls of open windows and drawn curtains so that every alcove and corner was vulnerable to light. Darkness at this time was unsettling and he had an urge to fling open the drapes. Nonetheless, the figure required his notice.

Behind the small, square tea cable the woman was poised – not the Lady Yoruichi he was expecting. The stranger's aura was new to his senses, tickling him with the alien touch of her reiatsu as if he was sampling a foreign flavour and saving it to memory.

First impressions would always be the lasting ones. A reiatsu is the map of one's person: an aura that does not change in content, even if it grows or develops, forever keeping a unique base that allows one to discriminate. He noticed her reiatsu before the contrast of the pale arm reaching out from under her sleeve as she held the cup; not the bronze complexion he was used to seeing. Yoruichi's short, plum-coloured hair was replaced, her sharp, golden eyes only visible in his mind's eye. He had 

grown so accustomed to her appearance that there was a feeling of loss and confusion when he did not wake to the sound of her voice, or watch her downing her morning tea and breakfast before their day long training. He stumbled on his words and was paralysed in a bend that had his lower back sore and stiff in minutes. Still, despite his discomfort, she laughed.

"My-my, Yoruichi-san does not like her friends being late, eh?" Her voice was laced with her laughter, making it hard for the blonde to make out much of what had been said. It had been his ambition to lip read rather than listen, however, the sight of the tea cup in her hand quivering from her chuckles demanded most of his attention. His eyes traced the flow of the warm auburn tea as it was swirled around the cup; his pupils narrowing whenever a wave of it seemed ready to flow over the tip, visible whenever the curtains flurried in the wind.

She did not seem to notice, her eyes shut in satisfaction.

"Don't worry - Yoruichi-san is not here. It seems she left just before I arrived which is just bad timing on my part."

There was a pause where she took the liberty to catch his gaze. He could not see her eyes – no colour or defined shape could be shown in such obscurity – but he felt them on him; cradling him in a long stare until he lowered them out of his own awkwardness, unsure whether the gesture was wise when you consider their lack of familiarity. Still, her comment sparked his interests and he spoke to ease his anxiety while he held her interest.

"Excuse me, ma'am, then how did you get in?"

It was a bold move on his part. After all, he had no idea who this person was and if she was able to infiltrate Shihōin Manor he was certain that one of the guards would have stopped her already. That or she was a beast of a machine set on an assassination, but that was a little farfetched - even his mind.

There was a pause; the ones you receive when something wrong or out of bounds has been said. The atmosphere was unmistakable, and it was then did he consider that this was another noble coming to visit Yoruichi; the most likely solution and the cause for this silence. The upper-class could be extremely picky about their titles. Judging by the silence he presumed this was the cause and waited for a formal introduction with his hands fixed at his side and sweat beading his upper-lip.

He cringed as he heard her nails rake the side of the tea cup; follow by a muffled slurp when the object was pressed to her mouth. She wetted her lips audibly and continued much to his relief.

"Oh, Tessai let me in this morning. I was fortune to see him when I did - Guards here are impossible to dissuade! I spent about twenty minutes trying to convince two gentlemen at the gate that I was not felon."

Do you know who, Yoruichi-sama is? He thought wirily, positive that he could make out a smile on the woman's lips. She seemed pleased at this fact and he finally began to ease into their conversation with the notion that the Kidō Corps Vice-Captain was willing to let her by. In the end, it was his faith in Tessai's skills as a Demon Magic wielder that convinced him that she could not have forced her way into the estate.

He took a step back to leave.

"Sorry to interrupt you, ma'am-" The noisy chink of china distracted him from his phrase. He looked up, sure that she must have broken something. The quiet that took over was meant to be the prelude to another awkward pause, but the guest took the initiative to stop before the air became painful once more.

"Arararara," she began through a chuckle, (he could tell it was a nervous one) shaking her head in refusal. "Call me, Hi-Uh..." She stumbled on her words and he cocked a brow suspiciously when he was not given an answer.

"Ma'am makes me feel... older." He did not want to believe that this was the case – he wanted to believe there was a less trivial reason for her to be called by something else – nonetheless, instinct had taught him by the sound of her voice, she was not joking; she did feel old.

"I'm Urahara Kisuke," he informed her politely and wished instantly he hadn't from the vehement stare he knew he was receiving.

"So you are the boy that is living with, Yoruichi-san?"

He did not enjoy being called a boy, but he nodded all the same.

"She has told me quite a few things about you, although I never managed to meet the infamous Urahara-kun in all the times I have come to this house."

"You've been here more than once?" he said without masking his surprise, finding it strange that he was not able to detect her reiatsu were she telling the truth.

The mistress gave an odd simper which she hid behind the rim of her cup. "Like I said before, I have an affinity for bad timing."

Now empty, the mug was placed onto the table, the thud stifled by the extended pinkie she used as a cushion, a feat that he would have to teach to Yoruichi when he had the chance.

"Please, take a seat. I don't think you've had breakfast and I wouldn't want chef's work to go to waste!"

Urahara wanted to reject her offer – he honestly did, but the moment his stomach gave a low grumble was the end of the discussion. He did not have enough pride within him to refuse the proposal when his body had already given him away. Still, the darkness was a lingering irritation and he looked desperately towards it, knowing that she would be able to read his expression.

"Do you really want to open the window?"

She had lost the gentleness of her voice, now whining a little in the same fashion that Yoruichi did when she tried to weasel her way out of one of his games. It was enough to stop him for sure – hearing a grown woman giving such an undignified protest to his actions. Luckily, she recognised it as well and waved a hand, turning her head away from the sight.

"Only a sliver, if you must," she mumbled grudgingly, "I have a splitting headache from the most unfortunate hobby."

Sake.

He knew that was the answer and grinned inwardly. Of course, he was tempted to 'accidentally' draw the blinds rights across the window, but there too much undiscovered about the guest that it was too bold a move to make so early in their meeting. In the end, some light was better than no light and his spirits were lifted as the crack on the wooden floors grew larger and larger, stretching into the far corner of the room and growing in width until over half the table was covered in light. He cheekily tugged the string an inch lower, catching the wan-colour of the woman's arms and the black of her robes in the golden perimeter. The bridge of her nose was revealed for a second before she tucked her head back into what remained of the dark. He knew he had reached his limits, but was pleased that he could now easily make out her features in the shade even if they were not in full view of the sun. He seated himself opposite the woman quickly, paying more attention to organising the cushions for his behind than examining the guest.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked him mockingly.

"Hai! These pillows can-be-a-hassle!"

Finally, when he crossed his legs of the mountain of silk of plush padding, he gave the woman the attention she required. "Ma'-... Mrs... Miss? Is it alright if I knew your name?" he mumbled, eyes peering hard into the umbra to identify this masked marauder while he sat in full view of her.

"I don't exactly want to offend you by making you feel... aged..."

Those eyes he had felt focusing on him were now perceivable; vivid (like he imagined) jade with a thick ring around the iris and equally prominent pupils to match. Nonetheless, unlike Yoruichi they were gentle – or at least he interpreted it to be. His best friend always sported a look of such determination and ardour that it was rare that he had a glimpse of a peaceful stare. Despite this, there was inquisitiveness about her; he saw it in her firm gaze and the way her small lips were pouted, tight against each other so that lines marred the skin of her upper lip.

Her nose was crinkled at the bridge, petite and upturned to display the splatter of dark freckles that spanned across to her cheeks, dying out above the curve of her cheekbone.
She was younger than he had allowed himself to believe – mid twenties he assumed. But he could still find the truth behind the declaration of her age. Her youthful features contrasted with her ill-kept appearance: while her hair was not streaked with grey, it was unkempt and frizzy – her chocolate locks ready to spill from the thin ribbon that held up her mane in a pony; so scruffily done that even as a boy he took notice. The fringe had to be cut. It had grown so long that it had lost its distinction for direction, some strands falling into her eyes while the rest made up a veil around her oval face, too short to be tied up.
She voiced her name – Kirio, he made out by reading her lips as he studied the sight of the square teeth that lined her mouth. Urahara was too busy to catch anything else and stared shamelessly at the visitor.

Her untidiness was nothing – the bags beneath her eyes, forgotten, at the sight of the Shihakushou: the Shinigami uniform. Kisuke gaped.

"You are a Shinigami?" he interrupted in the middle of her story. He was certain that there was no mistaking the white undershirt beneath the black kimono; the precise, fitted cut to her lithe build could not be bought at any old store. It was a little unorthodox. Her furi were the longest he had seen, passing beyond the reach of her fingers where the wide mouth had folded over. She had obviously adjusted to the ridiculous length and flipped and fluttered the excess fabric whenever she reached for the tea, though one hand was hidden from sight under the crease of the kimono's opening.

For a moment she was pleased, glancing down through the line of her lashes at the blonde who had called her bluff.

"Ara! I have been found out! It is very clever of you to have picked on that!"

It was not a real compliment. He would have to be deaf, blind and dumb if he could not distinguish a Shihakushou from a copycat living here in Seireitei. The only problematic feature was her reiatsu. Her hakudou was steady; the fluctuation of her spirit power being so minimal that Urahara resorted to leaning over the table to pick up a closer sample of Kirio's energy, which, like an obliging older-sister, allowed. He had his doubts, naturally. In spite of seeing her zanpakutou resting by her side within its ornate sheath, her appearance confused him to the point of disbelief. Living with someone as different from a noble as one would expect had failed to teach him that appearances and positions did not always correlate – especially with Shinigami. They always looked so orderly; even the drunken officials he had seen down in the town felt composed in comparison to an ordinary soul. He knew his thoughts were unjustified, but he was hopelessly infatuated with the prospect of becoming one of them; earning his place in Seireitei as an elite warrior. It was a goal he and Yoruichi were aiming to obtain.

He shook his head frantically, sending his hair bouncing from side to side.

"What squad are you from, Kirio-san?" he asked expectantly, both hands clamped around the thickness of the table, lifting him from his seat. Wide-eyed and bushy tail – that was what he was; a boy, despite his mental objections. Kirio could not resist and watched him begin to speculate as he knew he would. "Are you under Captain Kuchiki Ginrei of the 6th Division – or Captain Shunsui Kyōraku – or -"

"Maa-maa," Kirio butted in, overwhelmed – yet pleased – with the young boy's expansive knowledge regarding the current Captains and their Divisions. It was refreshing to see such a young, capable mind and she scratched her neck thoughtfully as she anticipated her next move. "I am not under any of those ol' men."

Urahara bowed his head in apology. "Gomen. I get carried away at times."

"There is no need to say sorry for being enthusiastic!" Kirio told him sternly. "It is wonderful that you know so much about the Gotei at your age." From the look she received, Kirio knew this was not the case. Kisuke pouted, rubbing the back of his neck as if he had something unbearable to admit. Kirio found that the matter was easy to interpret. "You are not as young as you look, ne?"

He gave a grin. "I'm not that much younger that Yoruichi-san, actually. I just have a baby face."

When she observed him closely it was foolish of her to consider him a child. He was growing well for his age; lanky and awkward as most boys were when they came to their growth spurts. It was that he had not grown into his face yet and retained a soft, cherub visage with plump cheeks and swollen, ruby lips. He would be handsome – she was sure of it and did not hesitate in telling him so.

Urahara was taken aback when he felt a weight on his head, followed by the ruffling sound of his hair as it slipped through Kirio's digits. Her fingers were cold, the palm worn; with the skin over each pad rough against his scalp. It might as well have been a man patting him on the head. He blushed, nonetheless when she leant over and tried to catch his gaze.

"You're a good-lookin' one – I can tell! And smart too! Yoruichi-san was pretty reliable when she spoke so highly about you!"

"About... me? Kisuke answered quietly, searching the woman's face for the signs of a lie inscribed on her skin. She was serious.

"Of course! Kisuke-kun, Yoruichi-san is very proud of your progress and expects great things. I have heard all about how you love to build and create – and she even touched on a few of your idea for the future that coincides with your dream of becoming a Shinigami." Kirio spoke as if she knew him for years; like a mother who was exceptionally proud of her son for doing well in class. It was the warmth that he felt whenever he blocked a sneak attack from Yoruichi, or impressed her with an idea that she had difficulty wrapping her head around. Her compliments were a condensed form and offered the same amount of satisfaction.

"Kirio...san?" He had already grown accustomed to the hand on his head and sank into his shoulders like a contented cat.

"Hmm?"

"Your name is Kirio-san, like Captain Hikifune Kirio, ne?"

The cold rush of air replaced the fingers caressing his scalp, and Kisuke watched as Kirio retracted her hand; her features contorted in an expression that was two-parts impressed, one-part expectant.

"So, you know about the Taichō?"

"Well... a little bit." His blush deepened and Kisuke stared at the table as an outlet for his embarrassment. "She's the Cap'n of my favourite Division!"

"You speak about these Captains as if you have never seen them," Kirio observed, finally showing her surprise.

"I think I have seen Captain Shunsui Kyōraku when we passed by the Eighth Division Headquarters."

She threw one hand over her eyes. "Yare-yare, that is not saying much, now is it? He is the most flamboyantly dressed man in all of Soul Society. If you have not seen him you have been hiding under a rock for your entire life."

"Heh, well living like a noble is pretty much the same thing." He thought she may have taken offense over the comment but her boisterous laughter erased his fears of being reprimanded. While she enjoyed herself, Kisuke took the opportunity to delve into the Shinigami's life. "Then... are you a member of Hikifune Taichō's Division?"

"I am... but... what makes you think that I am not Hikifune Kirio herself?" Unexpectedly, the one hand that had been idle within the folds of her kimono was made of useful. He had only a second to register the burst of white as her hand flashed from under the fabric before the fan was flipped open, hiding Kirio's features from view save for the eyes that peered over the lace of the fan's edge.

"I don't think you are," Kisuke said with as much confidence as he could muster. He hoped that Kirio had gone back to thinking about him as a mere child. It was preposterous to think that this woman was a Captain of a Division – and not just any division, his favourite one! However, Kirio's probing did not end there.

"How can you decide that with such resolve? You have never seen her before, have you?"

"Ano... well... no-" he replied stiffly, folding his arms over his lean chest.

"Then why are you so certain?"

He huffed, giving into her taunts. "Because you are not wearing a white haori with the rhombus 12 written on the back."

"So Ka?" she exclaimed, flicking her wrist so that her hair billowed back from her face before slamming the instrument shut with an audible snap. She nodded, and accepted defeat. "You are right. I haven't got one on, have I?"

It was the way she said it that made Kisuke doubt himself. Her eyes were heavy-lidded while she peered over his head, seeing beyond the manor with the same imperialness and poise he expected from a Shinigami. Her unkempt appearance melted away behind the stalwartness of her stare to the point where Kisuke was prepared to renounce his victory. Maybe he was wrong.

But there was no time for that.

Kirio drew back, her eyelids fluttering over her irises to clear the haze of thought from her gaze. A smile was etched on her lips.

"Yare-yare. She is late."

T R A N S L A T I O N S :

Arararara : oh my, my, my
Furi : sleeves of the kimono after the armhole.
Hakudou : changes/movements in reiatsu/spiritual energy
Maa-maa : calm down/now, now
Gomen : sorry
Hai : yes
Gotei 13 : the 13 Divisions
Ne : right?
Taicho : Captain
Yare-yare : well well
Ano : Um.
So ka : that right?

A U T H O R ' S . N O T E : 'Lo! -bashful-
Yeah, this is my first Bleach fic (the first of a few to come hopefully). The idea sprang to mind after I read the Turn Back the Pendulum Series from the Bleach manga,
to delve into the mindset of the only 'special division' characters mentioned in the manga.
So this is all fictional really - not even speculation.
I am just playing around with the tools Kubo gave us.
Hope you enjoy it!
R&R