The world was dark, in chaos, soaked in the blood of millions. This was Earth when all hell broke loose.
They were losing the battle; the Hollows were advancing, sending forth a never-ending wave of darkness and despair. Rukia and Renji dragged an unconscious body down the cracking hallway and into a windowless room. In that room sat a strange device; a metal closet. They propped the bleeding body up on a wall. Rukia took out her cell phone and texted these words:
We have him.
Come to the Deliverance room.
Rukia.
They only had to wait a few minutes until a troop of people came in. A tall, muscular, dark skinned man with his arms covered in weird markings that changed his skin color, a slender teen dressed in a white robe with a spiritual bow attached to his arm, and a young lady with long hair the color of honey with an enormous chest. The young lady immediately ran over to the bleeding figure. Before she could reach the body, Renji grabbed her and said,
"We do not have time. We have called you here so you could spread the news to the captains." Rukia went over to the metal closet and opened it.
"We are going to use him"
she nodded to the body,
"to stop the war by sending out all of his spiritual energy to obliterate the Hollows."
She looked away. The young lady started to protest but Rukia cut her short.
"This is our last card, Inuoe; we'll all die if he doesn't do this. At least this way, he has a chance of surviving. The closet does its best to keep the occupant alive. When all is safe, it will let him go."
Renji added under his breath,
"If he survives."
Rukia sent him the evil eye.
"Shut up."
The closet door was now open, and they saw a metal chair inside with iron shackles. Rukia looked at each in turn.
"It's ready."
The big man and Renji lifted the body into the chair and put the shackles on. The bands of iron started to glow with spiritual energy. They backed away and Rukia closed the door. She turned to them.
"We have a minute before it starts; run and don't look back."
Everyone turned and ran except for Inuoe. She took a black marker from her pocket and wrote on the metal closet, a name. Then she turned and ran. She barely got out of the building before a wall of His energy swept past her, and the world was black.
I walked down the country street, braiding my long black hair as I walked to the lake for a picnic. I love spending time at Aunt's house, it's so peaceful, and what's better is that there are no annoying boys around here to tease me. I reach the lake and sit on the bank in the shade of an old cherry blossom tree. Looking around, I see a troop of ducks swimming along the surface of the water and wonder what it's like to be a bird, free and calm. Searching through my bag, I find my book on the War of Black that I borrowed from my Aunt, and open its pages. Compared to most nonfiction books, it was excellent, and I could not stop reading it. Apparently, it was written by a survivor of the war, Urya Ishda, who knew what had let the Soul Reapers win the battle with the Hollows, though he had not revealed it yet. The day was warm, with a soft breeze that caressed my face. Soon, in the afternoon sun, I fell asleep.
I heard a great splash and awoke to find myself drenched in water. At first I thought that the village boys had dumped me with water, but after I had looked around for them, I saw a curious metal closet sinking slowly into the water. For some reason, I felt an urge not to let it sink, and kicked off my shoes and pulled off my socks so I could dive after it. Somehow, I managed to drag it to the shallow end, and spent the next hour getting it to dry land. Then I ran home and got my Aunt's old pickup truck. Gasping for breath, I heaved the closet up the ramp and into the bed of the truck. Then I went back home to my Aunt's house.
My Aunt wasn't an actual blood relative, but since my mother and father had died, she was the closest thing I had for a parent. Her real name was Masmoto, but she liked ne to call her Aunt. She was fairly young, around thirty, with dark strawberry blond hair and mm….. outsized breasts. She was kind of eccentric, but I loved her anyways. She was currently working for an archeological dig site that was looking for artifacts from the time of the War of Black that took place 300 years ago. When I arrived at the house, it looked the same as always: pink shutters with flower boxes under the windows, roses climbing the white walls, and a gently sloping roof with a small chimney in the middle. I parked in front of the door and called out to her,
"Auntie, come help me with something."
She came out from the house with a lacy apron on and flour coating her hands.
"Now what do you have here, Hisian?"
I showed her the closet and told her how I had found it. Her brow furrowed.
"Let's take it inside and open it; this looks really old."
She ran to the shed and brought a wagon to carry it in. After we had put it on the wagon, we rolled the closet into the house. Auntie left to get something, while I stared at it until she came back.
"Here."
She gave me a helmet and protective goggles. I put them on and approached the closet. Slowly, I turned the handle. When I saw what was inside, I stumbled backwards. It was a young man, around seventeen years old, covered in blood, chained to a chair. Behind me, Auntie stood ridged with shock. Then he coughed, and a fountain of blood spewed from his mouth.
That shook us to our senses. We ran forward and started unchaining him. Gently, we set him on the floor, where a pool of blood started to form. Auntie started dabbing at him with her apron.
"Go get something to stop the bleeding. Find my sewing kit. Hurry!"
I went to the kitchen and grabbed some washcloths. Then I grabbed a needle and thread. Auntie was a nurse at the Archeological dig, and knew how to preform minor operations. After we were done, we started cleaning the blood off of him.
Then we waited.
He had bright orange hair and was tall and muscular, dressed in black robes and sandals that were strangely old fashioned. He had a fierce face that looked almost sad. But strangest of all, he had a huge sword strapped to his back. I got up and started looking at the metal closet for clues about this strange person who had landed in the middle of the pond. Inside the closet was only the blood soaked chair and chains, but on the door, in the old script, was a name. Slowly I read it out loud.
"Ichigo Kurosaki."
Behind me, Masmoto gave an unnoticeable flinch.
We sat in silence for a few more minutes until Auntie went to get some tea for us. I moved my hand toward his brow, about to wipe some blood away that was drying around the hairline when he began to stir. Slowly, his eyes opened. Quickly, I took the several pillows from the sofa and propped him up on them.
"Who are you?"
He didn't respond. His eyes stayed blank. Auntie walked back in with a tray of tea and knelt beside him.
"Hisian, try speaking to him in the old tongue."
Since I was five, Auntie has taught me the old language, which I can now speak as fluently as her. I leaned over him and asked him in the old tongue,
"What happened to you?"
His face barely showed recognition. I turned back to Auntie.
"Shouldn't we take him to a doctor?"
She shook her head.
"We can take care of him ourselves, plus the local doctor has not returned from her trip to the city."
I nodded slowly, thinking. In the old speech, I told him our names.
"Is your name Ichigo Kurosaki?"
He replied slowly, his brow furrowed,
"I don't know."
He thought a bit more.
"It could be."
I thought about the name. It sounded familiar, but I couldn't remember where I had heard it… maybe I had read it? Auntie was helping him sit up to drink some tea. I spoke to them both in the old tongue.
"Let's call him Ichigo."
Auntie nodded
"It fits."
After Ichigo finished his tea, we helped walk\ carry him to the guest bedroom where he promptly collapsed. I pulled the blankets around him and left the room.
"Auntie, should I stay here with him in case he needs something?"
Auntie went to the hallway and brought in a chair.
"I think that is a wonderful idea."
A cloaked figure strode quickly down the wood paneled hallway, past guards who bowed as she rushed by. She burst into a room, flinging its double doors wide. She addressed the council of fifteen surprised captains. Gasping for breath, she announced,
"He's back."
Over the next few weeks, I helped Ichigo recover from his mysterious wounds. He never gave us any information on his past life, and we didn't press him. Sometimes, I see him looking off into space or staring at the ceiling for long periods of time, and I wonder what he is thinking of. This is what he was doing one day when I brought some tea to his bed. As I sat down he noticed me and moved over.
"What are you thinking about?"
He looked down at his hands which were covered in scratches.
"This place seems different. I…"
He paused for a moment and furrowed his brow.
"I don't think I've been to a place like this."
I lifted his chin up.
"What do you mean, you don't think?"
He looked down at his hands again.
"I don't remember anything."
This time I held his head up.
"Nothing, not even your parents, your house, your friends?"
He pushed my hand aside, but kept his head up.
"I have no memories."
Over the next few days, Ichigo healed enough to move around the house. He did his best to help, but since the only thing helpful to do around the house is to clean, he did more damage than help. Ichigo, to put it plainly, is dead clumsy. All he had to do was to put something in his hand, and he would accidently break it. After two brooms, half a dozen plates, three vases, and a lamp, we took Ichigo off of cleaning, and I started teaching him how to cook. Soon he could cook as well as my aunt did, so he began cooking for us each night. While I sat in the kitchen as he prepared supper, I taught him the current tongue and the customs that went along with it. As the days went by, Ichigo gradually became stronger, and he was soon able to outside work. Every day, we worked side by side, tending the garden, and making flowers grow. Ichigo was unnaturally good at making roses develop. Among all of his roses, one rose bush grew the best, a special black rose he had cultivated from a seed. It grew, as if it were alive, up the side of the cottage at an enormous rate. Sometimes, when I looked out the kitchen window, I thought I saw the vines moving.
But that's impossible, vines can't move on their own.