Be observant

Man's greatest allies be his worst adversaries

Be stealthy

Ambition corrupts all cunningness

Be weak

Strength is found in standing up again and again

Be proud

And so. . . falls the blade of fate

. . .

She sat on one of her favorite plush pillows that afternoon, graceful in ways that made his heart ache. Stretched out across her lap was a thick tome he doubted he could ever understand. The heavy curl of funeral incense shrouded her shoulders, and he scarcely noticed his own easing at the familiar scent. Despite her heavy reading, he could feel her keen eyes on his back as he walked past her.

He purposely ignored whatever it was she said by way of greeting, then she called his name in that soft, dulcet tone that meant hell if he disobeyed. He paused at the edge of his bed, dropping his bag to the floor, and turned his head mechanically to stare blankly through her. "Nani?" his voice was distant, chilled, and he fell backward onto his bed, the perpetual scowl on his face deepening.

She stood from her cushion by his door and padded over to his bedside on pattering light feet. Slipping onto the edge, she curled her long legs beneath her and brushed a knuckle against the curve of his face. "Something is the matter." It was no question, but then again, it was a verbalization of the obvious. She brushed aside a lock of his hair and ran the tip of her finger over the crease in his brow.

"People are stupid," he lifted an arm to cover his eyes and rolled onto his side, facing away from her. Her hands curled under his skull, and she lifted his head into her lap. He did not react immediately, but eventually the arm fell away again, and he rolled slightly to lift honey gold to look up into amber.

She traced the bones in his face with a grin, her expression open and bright and everything she wasn't when with anyone else. Then she leaned forward until the tips of her long, impossibly long, hair pooled around his throat and her bangs caressed his face. Pressing her lips to his temple, she smiled into his flesh, "Yes, Ichigo, people are so very stupid."

He could see something in her eyes when she paused there, a haunted black abyss peering out of her.

"But you will always have me," she said, her eyes glazed a molten gold, "So everything is just fine."

The matter of fact manner in which she declared it tickled something inside him. He could not help but want to believe her. Something in her voice, in her eyes, in the line of her face—all of it so similar to their dearly departed mother—something about her sang strong with his soul and resonated deeper than anything ever had.

He stared in open awe at her smiling, laughing, face until she was once more separated from him by the length of her torso. Then laughter bubbled up from his chest, swelling in his throat, and spilling over his lips. It was quiet, gentle, hardly as boisterous as it could be, and somewhat dampened by his previous agitation, but it lasted.

"Yeah . . . I suppose so."

. . .

The incident occurred one block . . .

I am here

According to local residents . . .

Fear not

Ground shook. . . Loud crash. . .

My name is . . .

Walls . . . exploded . . .

. . .

The next morning she sat at the dinner table with a cheeky half-grin and an empty plate before her when he finally entered. "Good morning, Ichigo," she said, partially distracted by the news, as she prodded their stoic sister's patience with her rather wandering chopsticks.

He reiterated the greeting, to both her and their younger sisters, then snatched a piece of toast as he turned to the television, "Hah?" Something about it felt off.

Yuzu stepped up behind him, but the eldest Kurosaki sibling laid a hand on her shoulder and shook her head. "It's fine, Yuzu-chan. I'll make sure the oaf gets to school on time."

"Hai, nee-chan," Yuzu chimed obediently and returned to her rice cooker, cheerful smile brightening the entire room as she went.

The woman of the household draped her arm over Ichigo's shoulders and pressed his head artfully into her bosom, toothy grin curling at her mouth. "Come, gaki. School waits for no one, and you had flowers to deliver."

She walked with him to the corner to drop off the flowers, but before he could run off, caught him by the shoulder. Matching honey gazes held steady for a full minute, and she nodded. "It begins, Ichigo. Today."

He smiled, crookedly, unsure what else he could do, and darted off. He did not look back, so he did not see her slap her palms together in prayer for the young soul they had brought the flowers to honor. Nor did he see the haunted gaze fixated on his back.

Nor did he hear her soft whisper, "Don't die. . . Don't you dare die, Ichigo, without me."

. . .

His strangely ever-present elder sister was not stationed in his room when he returned that afternoon, but he was not worried. He could hear her voice nattering with Karin and Yuzu from down the hall, so he laid out on his bed to think.

Crossing his arms behind his head, he stared at the ceiling and was almost wishing his sister were there to bounce this off of, when a woman garbed in black floated in through his bedroom window. He was not surprised to see her. But he stiffened when she laid her hand on her sword, and peered up at her with dark, dark eyes.

It was strange to think. Just how well he knew her, and yet did not know this her.

She ignored him the first time he called out to her, just as he knew she would, and he planted a foot on her spine in impatience. The noise from the impact had footsteps clambering up the stairs, and he froze in mid-rant.

There was a knock on his closed door, and his sister's familiar voice echoed on the other side, "Ichigo? What in the world are you doing in there?"

"Nothing, aneki," he roared back, "I'm just having trouble with. . . a roach." He heard her bark of laughter then her footsteps were led away again, so he turned back to the woman-he-knew-but-didn't sprawled indignantly on his floor and plastered the snarl he vaguely remembered onto his face, "And who are you?"

. . .

"Please. . . save. . . Karin-chan . . . Ichigo!"

. . .

The familiar words still struck fear into his heart, and Kuchiki Rukia still bounded down the stairs before he could say a word. Ichigo found himself alone, aside from his unconscious sister, and spelled to the floor. "Yuzu."

Then, suddenly, there was a pair of bare feet in front of his face, and long red toenails clicking against the ground as they bent to rest their knees on the floor. His gaze trailed up her familiar figure, and his elder sister's wise eyes stared back down at him. "Ichigo," she said in her unique tone, daring him to ignore her, "Did you think I did not know?"

She laughed at the look in his eye and bent, cradling his face in her hands, "My sweet, sweet brother. You are something else. Get up."

He immediately recognized it for what it was—a command, a demand, nonnegotiable.

"Get up and fight," she continued without a blink, her mirrored eyes staring into and through him, "No one else would ever dare. So get up." She ran her hands through his hair in a soothing gesture entirely her and smiled. "I will be here every step of the way. I am here." The voice, that voice, he knew it. "Fear not. My name is . . ." She winked, turning his entire world upside down, and kissed his forehead, "You can break this. You and I both know it. So get up, little brother."

Oh, he never did like being reminded of the two years and some odd months that separated their birth, and by the time she was done, he had already reached the same page she was on and had his head pressed to the floor. Straining every muscle in his body, he tore his chest and shoulders off the ground.

Her warm, warm eyes watched him pull at everything he had, and her deceivingly delicate hands ran up and down the bulging muscles in his arms.

Faintly, he heard Karin scream, and she smiles. And that was all it took.

His body pulsed in gold and black and light and shadow, and in the distance, there was another scream. And he was back in his body, fully upright, and his hand held in hers.

Her smile turned bloody, and he knew his own matched. They bounded down the stairs after the reaper just in time to watch as the huge, monstrous thing tossed and choked their little sister in its heaving grasp.

Karin screamed.

They shared a glance.

Ignoring the intrusive Shinigami, the two siblings leapt forward. Ichigo threw his sister upward and ducked below as the hollow attempted to swat them out of the air. They met again on the other side, expressions blood curdling cold.

They did not get the chance to fight together often. But they were Kurosaki's and family was in their blood.

He aimed for the arm, and she for the head. Both kicks landed, but neither did much to shake it, and they were flung backwards out of its range.

The Shinigami jumped then, brandishing her sword, and cut into the hollow's forearm. It sent Karin flying, and Ichigo dove for their sister.

The other Kurosaki ducked under a useless fling of the hollow's arm, and dropped her heel on its head. Three sets of eyes watched as it fizzled into a black miasma.

. . .

"That hollow. . . wasn't after that girl. . ."

"Your spirit energy. . . suppressed. . ."

"Began to pour out. . . contact. . . ghost . . ."

"They are . . . after you!"

. . .

The eldest Kurosaki decided then that she was not fond of the Shinigami brat. She had to admire the girl's attempt at protecting them, but she was displeased all the same. This entire, telegraphed, bullshit was getting on her nerves.

She could do nothing but wait.

Ichigo had to finish this on his own. And he did. The Shinigami, Kuchiki Rukia, finally introduced herself and gave up her powers to Ichigo, her baby brother, who became a Shinigami before her eyes.

She had known it was going to happen, but it still made her insides run cold.

The light blinded her, but even supernaturally charged now, he was her brother, and she knew him. Eyes fixed on him, she watched the same baby boy she once cradled to her chest grow up a little more. She gasped softly and had to wipe at her face.

She was there when he vanquished the damned thing, clutching his head, pulling him to the floor with her. If there were tears on his shoulders, or on hers, neither spoke of it. She held him tight, and the silence was welcome.

Rukia, in her white kimono, chose then to approach, and she hissed like the spitting tiger she was named after. "Don't even think about it."

And for the second time in one day, Rukia was stunned by a human that could see her, that had fought a hollow without hesitation. ". . . Who are you?" she asked, goosebumps chasing a chill up her arms and down her spine.

The kneeling woman before her opened her mouth, and Rukia wondered why she felt as though fate was shifting over to make room. When she finally spoke, her voice was deep and rough, rich like chocolate, but hardened with anger and chilled with the fire of fury.

. . .

"My name, Shinigami, is Kurosaki Byakkoga, and my anger burns like acid."