She stands outside her new office, contemplating the many ways she has failed.
She runs through the list of qualifications for her position, both the official and those unique to her own division.
Passing the official proficiency test is no option for the Eleventh Division captain. Nor is nomination by other captains, though she's always been expected to take over from Ken-chan. She supposes that she technically has mastered ban kai, although she's only ever shown it on the day her father (biology be damned, he was the only parent she needed) died.
She has earned her haori the Eleventh's way. Ken-chan is dead by her hands, though not her intentions. If she had only been the tiniest bit faster, the tiniest bit wiser, she would still be lieutenant. But she was late.
She was slow. She was stupid. She had still been relying on her father's strength, his speed, the cloak of reiatsu shielding his skin. He had told her to take care of the small fry as usual, while he took on the main opponents.
She had missed the tiny twinges that showed he wasn't getting any younger; that as she became a tall, willowy, deadly young woman, he had been slowly wearing away.
As she had gleefully obliterated the last two-bit Hollow, she had turned to her father, expecting to see his berserker's grin and the nameless blade bathed in scarlet. But instead, she stared in horror as the Hollow's claw cleaved him in two at the shoulder.
For a moment, she could only register a numb sort of regret that her old perch had just been obliterated. Then came the rage.
She had not been the lieutenant of the most combative division for nothing. Even as a child of fifty, she could effortlessly lift her battered captain or terrify messengers with her reiatsu. Over a century later, she had mastered shikai and could theoretically grasp her ban kai, though she kept it a secret as her two best officers did.
She knew Pachinko-head (she clings to her old nicknames, to remind herself of a happier time) only ever wanted to serve under one man. Peacock's zanpakuto contradicted the unofficial law of the Eleventh. She understood their reasons and agreed with both.
Her zanpakuto was not a combat type. She never revealed her shikai, out of loyalty to Ken-chan, so it was widely assumed that she didn't know her sword's name. But in her state of anguish she'd thought of only one thing: to kill the fucking bastards who had killed her father, and do so as painfully as possible.
"Ban Kai," she'd spat, and lunged at the enemy. The first cut had come quickly, yielding an immense amount of blood- far too much for the thin slash. She hadn't bothered turning back to that one. She had known what was happening to it and even she didn't want to look too closely. So she swung the sword with the silly flower guard at the next Hollow, and the next.
After only the first Hollow, her blade was wreathed in blood. It wasn't a simple dripping coat; arcs of the fluid swirled around the edges, wrapped themselves around her figure, and lashed out at enemies around her. With every incision, a fresh gout of gore had increased her power. She'd utterly lost herself in the deepest rage she ever experienced, hacking at everything in sight as tentacles of blood tore the Hollows apart.
Within minutes, her opponents had become a heap of bloody mush and she had returned to her captain's side. She'd been dimly aware of him during her homicidal mania; she'd known he was watching with a grin on his face. She'd thought she heard the faintest whisper of, "That's my girl." She hadn't been able to look at him before that point, fully aware that his horrific wounds would sap the fight right out of her and she would be unable to do anything but fall to her knees and howl in agony.
"Listen up, brat," he'd choked through blood-spattered lips. "You know damn well I'm older than I look, and it'd kill me to turn out like that fucking geezer. I'm dying how I want to die and don't you fucking dare try to stop me. I've got no regrets as long as you're happy. It's your turn to keep those sonsabitches alive now."
He'd had to stop for a deep breath. She'd watched, morbidly fascinated by the expanding lung tissue. "Last words of advice. Trust Ikkaku and Yumichaka if you need help running the place. Don't hide that ban kai; it's the best one I've ever seen. Suits you. Don't die for a while, I need a millennium of quiet. Don't cry either. Have a good life, Yachiru."
She had disregarded his orders the second her captain breathed his last. Tears had run down the blood on her face, staining the man's tattered haori until she couldn't tell which was which. She'd wrapped the haori around both pieces of him and carried him to their division.
The position had been incredibly awkward, but she'd been determined that for once, he would ride on her shoulder.
There had been an official funeral, for the entire Gotei Thirteen. She had attended with a stone face learned from a century of observing Byakuya, marveling at how easy it was to hide grief behind icy masks.
There had been the Eleventh Division's send-off. She had refused to move from her lieutenant and third seat for the entire night. She'd fought off grief, never noticing the convenient bolt hole her men kept open should she feel the need to break down- preferring alcohol and escapades to catharsis. Somewhere around the sixth cup of sake she'd formed a hazy conviction to drink the most, sing the loudest, and get kicked out first; she'd figured she owed as much to Ken-chan.
At some point during the night, she had collapsed in a puddle of tears and sake. Somebody- she never learned who and her men never said- had carried her to her room and washed her face. She'd woken the next morning with a horrendous hangover and made her way to the empty office.
She only just realizes she's lost in still-hung-over recollections. She opens the door (noticing with bleak amusement that it's creaky and covered with dust), walks in, and opens the box lying on the desk.
It contains Ken-chan's personal possessions: namely, his nameless zanpakuto, a small bag of the bells he styled his hair with a long time ago, the tattered haori that no amount of bleach can clean, and a spare eyepatch. She picks up each item and marvels at how such a large man can leave behind so little. If not for the solitary bell she fishes from the box, she'd have missed the note underneath.
By consensus of the entire Gotei Thirteen, she is Captain of the Eleventh Division. This is blatantly obvious, and she almost discards the note before reading the rest. But something in her continues to read- then she freezes in utter shock.
She has been named the new Kenpachi.
This takes her a few minutes to grasp. Ken-chan's name, she has almost forgotten, is… was… his title. He'd spent his entire life working for it, earning it, then proving he was worthy of it, and now it's just fallen into her lap?
She can't take this. She can't cheapen his name by association with her; she can't lose her own name. Decades haven't dulled the memory of the day she got it. She can still remember how many clouds there were in the sky- eight; she particularly recalled the one that looked like a bunny- and the peculiar emotion coming from the nameless warrior who'd helped her. It was something like exasperation, bemusement, and sympathy all in one. She remembers that the odd contradictions that were Zaraki Kenpachi had struck her even then, for she knew better than to toddle towards strange men with bloody swords.
Even then, she thinks, some part of her found blood to be a fascinating plaything.
She bites back the morbid train of thought- how apt, that the child of the Kusajishi district should draw strength from gore- and tries to think instead of the significance of that day. She had been so happy to have a name, any name, let alone one that belonged to the only person her new friend respected. She's never been able to find out whether the original Yachiru was a friend, lover, teacher, or mother figure. She always figured Ken-chan would tell her when he saw fit, and now she'll never know.
She looks at her father's nameless zanpakuto, reflecting on the incredible loneliness it must have felt. To be nameless and alone, for your entire life, is the closest she can think of to hell. She thinks to herself that the sword (being a part of Ken-chan) is probably kicking her father's ass for it in the next afterlife. The thought cheers her slightly.
She picks up the incredibly battered haori and slips into the sleeves. It's almost falling to pieces and the back still shows remnants of Ken-chan's blood. She decides that it's even more precious to her because of that, since every drop is proof that her Kenpachi existed.
She puts the bells in her pocket with the idle thought of wearing them; perhaps she'll glue them to earring posts or tie them onto bracelets. It's about time somebody feared the pretty tinkling noise again, and she laughs at how well it becomes her.
She looks at the eyepatch in her hand, with its remnants of his reiatsu, and thinks that it's almost berating her. She's fully aware that her current state is the complete opposite of what Ken-chan wanted for her, and he would have thoroughly cursed her out before patting her head and calling her a whiny brat. She knows she would've smiled and happily climbed onto his back, forgetting her tears and leading him in the opposite direction.
(Even she wasn't so bad with directions as she'd seemed; it had begun as a test to see when he would finally snap and hurt her. He never had.)
She vaguely recalls a theory of Ukitake's old lieutenant, the one who turned into an Espada later. She was too young to understand it at the time, but she thinks it was mainly about the heart. From what she remembers, he'd believed that all fights were motivated by it, and that in the end your heart was left with whoever you died with. By his logic, Ken-chan's heart… which she last saw splattering the ground with scarlet… is in her.
She sighs, then laughs, finally acknowledging the few tears that slip out. She is Kusajishi Yachiru and she is stronger than this. She is Kenpachi, both as a fighter and as her father's last remnant on earth. She is the captain of the Eleventh Division and she's going to be a damn good one. She picks up the box, closes the door, and walks forward to whatever the day may bring.
AN: Written to break a brutal case of writer's block. I apologize most vehemently for the inevitable OOC and killing off Kenpachi in such a pathetic way. Yes, I'm fully aware that I said "bleach" in a Bleach fic and I've been watching too much Deadman Wonderland for my own good. (Also, can somebody please tell Word that Ikkaku is not Pikachu? Really kills the morose angsty mood I had going there.)
Just in case there's any doubt, Kubo owns everything except my pathetic postulation of Yachiru's ban kai.