Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Tite Kubo: the genius behind the captivating manga that started it all. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.
Cold Storage
A/N: Post-Winter War, alternate events.
It had just been another common request, that to determine the cause of death in a war victim. He hadn't asked questions, not being particularly interested in the first place. But he'd done it, knowing damn well that he'd have hell to pay when everything went back to the way it had been. The way it would be when the war ended and all the irritating survivors, bemoaning their losses, came back to lick their wounds.
They'd wandered around like ants, the members of her division. It had already been already trouble enough that they'd refused to transfer the body, thus dragging him away from some very important research. He'd told her lieutenant to make it quick, and that he didn't really have the time to stand around watching her comrades scream and run in circles with blood on their hands as if it were highly contagious.
She'd done just that, silent and passive as always as she wound her way through crowds and down hallways before stopping in front of an open door. She'd looked more down than usual, but he'd attributed it to the fact that she'd been forced to ask for his help. Maybe she'd seen it as a blatant waste of time, too.
Another thing she hadn't done was warn him.
It was still, her body, more than it had ever been. An unwelcome surprise, given the events that had ensued mere days before. The way her lieutenant stared at him didn't help, either. She was pleading with her eyes, hands clasped as if in useless prayer. She wanted him to fix this, to return everything to the way it had been. It was stupid. He wasn't a god by any means.
Useless, he'd told her. That it was an end, that nothing could be done, and that her time would be better spent elsewhere.
At that, she'd dropped to the floor and cried.
In the days that followed, he just kept on with what was pertinent. So, people had died. Important people, at that. It was irrelevant, considering ways to possibly reverse the scenario. The dead were just that. They were empty, broken, nothing. Still, it didn't change anything that had happened, and that rankled. He was still stuck with the things she'd said, as if they'd been burned into his skin.
The marks she'd left just wouldn't go away.
