The ruined tip of Zaraki Kenpachi's zanpakuto pierced the Tenshintai with a dull thunk and stuck. He stared at it wordlessly, noting the lack of thrill he felt. Stabbing lifeless objects was worse than sparring, no fun at all. His hand slowly released the hilt, and the sword bent slightly, wobbling gently in the human-like doll. The tiny bells in his hair rang discordantly as he turned his head towards the geta-wearing shopkeeper.

Urahara looked from the Captain to the lifeless dummy. He couldn't help feeling a bit nervous, Kenpachi seemed like the type to take revenge when sold faulty merchandise, but now he just looked helpless.

"Well," he explained, "I wasn't sure it would work. Since you haven't manifested your zanpakuto, there may not be enough of a connection to pull it through. Your synchronization is abysmal, and let's not even talk about submission. I actually would have been surprised if it worked."

Kenpachi grunted. When people tried explaining things to him it all kind of became a buzz that he ignored, like an annoying insect. All he needed to know was that it hadn't worked, just like all the other things people who were supposed to know about zanpakutos advised. Give it time, they all said. Patience wasn't on his list of redeeming qualities in the best of times, and now Soul Society was in deep shit. The rookie human who had actually beaten him was losing to the new Hollows.

Urahara watched the tall Captain curiously as he stared at the sword for a few more moments, then turned away with a jingle of bells and a swoosh of tattered haori. Did he look sad, for a moment? Of course not, this is Zaraki Kenpachi we're talking about, he chided himself.

An unearthly scream filled the desolate underground cavern.

-

Kenpachi had strode unannounced into the shop, calling loudly for Urahara Kisuke. Ururu and Jinta trailed behind him, too shocked by his spiritual pressure to protest.

"Get out here, Urahara! I know you're here," he demanded. A door slid open in the back, revealing a peeking eye and a striped hat.

"Ohhhhh, Zaraki-taichou! We just got a shipment of soul candy in, you must have heard about it! They just released the new Cherry Cero flavor," Urahara informed him cheerfully.

"What the hell? No," Kenpachi replied irritably. Urahara's face took on a more serious look.

"Then what can I do for you? And suppress your reiatsu please, I think my workers are going to faint."

"Er, sorry," apologized Kenpachi. He tended to lose concentration when he was irritated, and let his control slip. He scratched the back of his head, and seemed at a loss for what to say. "Basically, I want you to bring out my zanpakuto. It won't come out, and Captain Kurotsuchi said he couldn't do anything. Ichigo says he used some gadget of yours to do it faster."

"Oh...?" said Urahara. He tapped the hilt of Benihime thoughtfully. "It might work, at that. You have to pay, you know!"

-

The wail went on and on, its multiple discordant voices clashing in an outraged harmony. Pain, unimaginable pain. Grief. Loss. Rage. It rebounded from the distant walls, and only seemed to grow in intensity. Urahara grimaced, holding the brim of his hat down over his ears. He had heard the cries of hollows, the screams of humans and shinigami, but this was something else. Outraged empathy flowed from Benihime, until he was ready to scream for it to stop.

Kenpachi had turned and was staring motionlessly at his sword. The cry had struck something deep inside him that resonated. What is this pain in my chest, he wondered. It hurts a lot worse than being cut.

Ah...I remember, he began, but an explosion carried away the thought.

The dust had blown past them before he could think about moving. It burnt his throat, but he refused to cough. Urahara had no such compunctions.

A woman stood where before there had only been a vaguely human-shaped mannequin. In her hand was his zanpakuto.

Her skin was a deep, burnt umber, where it wasn't covered in scars. They stood out brightly, most thin, some thick. Some smooth, some rough or jagged. The thought flitted through Kenpachi's mind that she had him beat. Her hair was a dull orangish-red, somewhere between Ichigo and Renji. It was uneven, as it had been cut, ripped, and burnt all over. None of it went past her shoulders. What remained of her clothing was grey, simple but efficient, belted around the waist, sleeveless and going no lower than mid-thigh. The gaping tears in it revealed more scarred flesh.

She breathed heavily, hunched forward with barely contained fury, her hand holding the hilt of his sword until her knuckles turned white.

"Bastard! How dare you?" she demanded. Kenpachi had traded insults with countless foes over the years, but this scorn had a personal quality that made it hard to hear. I know you better anyone, it said, and I still hate you. Before he had begun to think of a reply, she rushed him.

Fast! was all he had time to process, before the familiar pain of a blade entering him reached his brain. Ah, this is better, he thought. I know this pain. Still, being stabbed with his own zanpakuto had a particular tearing feeling. He felt every point on the jagged edge as it tore out his back.

He stared blankly for a moment, then looked downwards, focusing his eyes on the woman who had just impaled him to the hilt on his own sword. His blood slid down the hilt of his sword, soaking her hands. A warm snake trickled treacherously down his muscular back.

She was hunched over the protuding hilt, her forehead barely touching his chest. Her hands still gripped the hilt tightly, as if she would collapse at any moment without the support.

"How could you?" she demanded, though her voice was weak. Tears fell one after another, mingling with the dark expanding puddle of his blood on the dusty ground below. She jerked against him as she sobbed soundlessly, each movement bringing a fresh stab of pain from the steel still embedded in his chest. One long arm came up and fell gently around her shoulders, although he seemed hesitant. Crying women who stabbed you was not something Kenpachi was familiar with. When Yachiru cried he just gave her what she wanted, but he had no idea a sword would want.

"How could you treat me like that? Look at me! I'm broken, and chipped, and worn down. I'm ruined and dull and everyone sees me being broken. Do you know how much it hurt every time you fought with me? Do you know how frustrating it is to scream at someone and be ignored? To watch helplessly as you're treated like a tool? No, not even a tool, people take care of their tools. Treated like junk," she started loudly, and was whispering by the end.

I treated you like my own body, he thought. Why does it matter if you're jagged or pristine looking? Only Yumichika cares about shit like that. You look like a good sword, not some shiny piece of crap that sits in a sheath all day.

"Sorry," was all he could think to say. He patted her back awkwardly. "What's your name?" Urahara winced and covered his face with his hand.

He felt her go tense, then laugh. "Ha. Haha. You're a real fucking piece of work, asshole." she muttered tonelessly. She twisted the sword grimly, which made him stifle a cry as it tore all new wounds. Then she yanked it to the right ruthlessly. The jagged edge ground along his ribs and burst out his side in a fountain of blood. Even Kenpachi couldn't stand when cut nearly in half. He fell ponderously, like a giant tree. First he fell to his knees, then dropped face forward into his own blood with a wet thump.

She stared down at him with an unreadable look on her face, then slammed the zanpakuto down into the ground, a few millimeters from his face, and was gone in a swirl of wind and sand.

"My my, she's much touchier than you, Benihime," said Urahara as he stared at the unconscious Captain. Wait, how am I going to get him up the giant ladder?