Ukitake had been kind on that first afternoon. He was the opposite, in every respect, of the Sixth Division captain, opening his house to her as if she were an honoured guest. There were paintings on the walls and divans hung with silken drapes. He offered her a cushion, tea and food, and she knelt and listened as he told her about the divisions and how her life would change as a shinigami. His reiatsu, she suspected, was at least equal to that of her brother, but he kept it in check so skillfully that she was able to overlook his power and speak to him simply as if he were a man offering her a position of employment on his staff.

He asked about her studies, about the time she'd spent at the Shinoreijtsuin. She'd learnt not to offer up too many details of her past, but he accepted her foreshortened answers smilingly and told her that she would fit in well with Thirteenth Division.

She returned that night to Byakuya, satisfied that she had made a good impression. A servant took her to the door of his quarters where she knelt and slid back the screen:

"Nii-sama."

"Rukia."

"I have been accepted into Thirteenth Division."

"Good. What seat have you been offered?"

"I – oh" – The words turned to dead leaves in her throat and with her next breath, she found herself making the first of many excuses. Because Byakuya, she would discover, had an extraordinary talent for making her apologise: "With my level of training – and I haven't even graduated – They couldn't – I mean, it wouldn't be appropriate for them to offer me the rank of a seated officer."

He had paused over the page of calligraphy he'd been working on as if to give her free rein to stumble over her words. Now though, he resumed:

"Very well then."

"I'm sorry."

"It's late."

That was all the dismissal she would get, she realised. After a moment, she pulled the screen door to, but remained there, breathing hard. She couldn't remember feeling this way before: so angry that she wanted either to scream or cry.

She did neither. She stood up, went back to her room and sat for a long time staring at the sword and uniform.

They were a part of her. The shihakusho and the zanpakuto were both manifested from a shinigami's own soul. Both were inseparable from their physical person. It was one thing to read about these things in a text-book. Quite another to be able to feel them. And she could. She sensed them in the same way that she sensed the souls of living beings, except, with these items there was an element of familiarity not present when she looked at other spirits. Moreover, she could feel her own powers in them. It was like waking and suddenly finding yourself in a different body: one toned, fit and ready for a fight. Her powers had always been there, but, until now, the universe had not given them form.

She stared at them and, after a time, she took up the sword and crossed the room. The weight of the weapon was right. It balanced against her muscles.

The moon leant a dull glow to the paper screens that divided her room from the garden outside. Dreamily, she took her stance, shifting her weight on bare feet. The wooden floor felt warm.

As soon as she stepped into one of the martial art forms she'd learnt at the academy, her body came to life, tingling with awareness. She tensed, concentrating on an imagined point before her. Then swung the sword.

Without a sound, it cut through the paper, catching briefly on the thin slats of wood supporting the screen. But only briefly. These too split, with a soft hiss, as if the blade were sweeping through water. She balanced herself easily on her toes.

The line she had cut was perfectly straight, starting in the top left of the screen and ending in the bottom right. It was clean, almost invisible. And then, as if giving way to chaos, the paper suddenly spilled inwards, torn edges rippling in the evening breeze.

She stepped back, surveying the damage. Beyond the ragged hole she had cut, the nighttime garden was limned with silver. A shaft of moonlight caught the blade she held and she glanced down, her face illuminated briefly in the reflected light.

At least this felt riight. It might be futile: a gesture as empty as it was petty, but right now, the one thing she understood was the sword in her hand.

The shinigami she had seen, all those years ago in Rukongai, the one who had knelt and explained to her what made her different from the other children; he had not been a seated officer. Regardless of Byakuya's expectations, she was still a soul reaper now. She had come this far.

By the following afternoon, somebody had mended the torn screen. She didn't see them come and she didn't see them leave, but it was mended just the same. Byakuya never mentioned it.

Back in the early days, if she could have traded her life for just one thing, it would have been a way to irritate that man.