A Symphony of Scarlet

Buried in the Rain

The harrowing sound echoed across the London rooftops and gutters, through the parks and the estates, through the alleyways and prisons, funnelling into every crevice, nook and cranny of the old city. It was a sound that every inhabitant knew well, even the rats and fleas knew of its overwhelming chorus.

It was the sound of Big Ben, one of the greatest sights that the capital of the British Empire had to offer. It had just struck the twelfth hour, signifying midnight, and so had unleashed its mighty roar to inform the city that it was on the precipice of a new day.

The start of another 24 hours of this miserable existence.

The night's bitter chill did nothing to cool the hot blood that raced through the child as he turned another corner. His thoughts were now broken up into single words, the most prominent being 'run'. The adrenaline that laced his blood kept his little legs moving, despite doing little to stop the pin that surged through them.

A philosopher had once asked the question what makes a human run faster. Is it fear? Our natural instinct to flee for danger to prolong our own life, or is it greed? Our insatiable desire to have more than we already have. The child, though only of nine years of age, knew the answer to this question already.

It was both, both the carrot and the stick that made humans run faster than their bodies were used to. It was the greed for the loaf of half mouldy bread he held in his hands, as precious to him as if it were a diamond. It was the fear of the shadow that chased him through the cobblestones, the clenched fists that swung like hammers as he pursued him, and what those fists would do to him if they caught him.

The boy's uncut black hair blinded him as rand through the streets. He tried looking for landmarks which were usually the young like him that lay dead in the gutters, or certain stall that sold items on the black-market, or the occasional prostitute with their. The problem was that the dead were always moved, the stalls were always getting robbed and taken down, and the prostitutes were always roaming for clients.

Though recently, the streets had been alive with gossip over the death of four prostitutes within the space of only a few weeks

The boy reached an opening with two possible alleyways. His instincts told him to go to the right, but after hearing the thunderous echoes of his pursuer's boots, he panicked and went to the left. He ran through the darkness, the puddles of polluted water splashing onto the rags that were his only excuse for clothes.

"You won't get away from me you little shit!"

The voice echoed his ear drums, the fear now overcoming the greed to the point where he actually considered dropping the bread. But he persisted, if there was a small opening of any kind, he could escape and have the first piece of food he had had in three days. This dream shattered when he reached a dead end, his chance of salvation blocked by a wall of bricks. He slowly turned; face as pale as a ghost. In the dark of midnight, the shadow of the baker was huge, almost like a monster. The child pressed his back to the wall, as if hoping he could still find a way to slip through.

He dropped the piece of the bread, the loaf rolling to the damp and dirt stolen floor, the man slowly approached him. The darkness did nothing to hide the mist of his breath, or the red of his eyes. The child began to whimper, falling lower, trying to sink into himself.

"P-please….please don't hurt me" he whispered.

The figure continued to advance on him, purposely stomping on the bread. It was crushed under the weight of his boot. Terror filled the child's heart, tears falling, unable to prevent himself from thinking that his head was going to end up like that bit of bread, his skull splitting open like was no more than the shell of an egg.

"I…I was just hungry! I haven't eaten!" he continued to beg.

The man was now towered over him now, cracking his knuckles for good measure, already adding the dense fear that was weighing down on the child's petrified mind.

"I…I'm sorry…I…I didn't mean to steal it…"

There was an unbearable silence. He child didn't move a muscle, just sat there in there amount the grime and filth of the streets. His face was covered with scratches, mucus and tears, his mouth hanging open slightly, unable to contain the whimpering. He even started praying, praying to the God that he had found himself hating every day for as long as his young mind could remember. He could forgive God for everything, for every hardship, if he saved him this once.

His faith was broken when the first punch was thrown.

The grand palace that was Las Noches towered over all, a place to cherish if you were an ally, and a place to fear if you were a foe of any kind. For contained within the many walls were individuals who within the blink of an eye could unleash unholy destruction upon an unsuspecting world. Even to the most primitive of creatures that lived within the forsaken lands of Hueco Mundo, from the most bloodthirsty of creatures to the most minuscule.

Every Hollow knew that both Gods and Monsters dwelled within the walls of Las Noches.

The palace of night was a world onto itself. With its false sky and false sun, it looked a million times more appealing that the savage lands that the hollowfied souls inhabited. However, piercing the surface revealed that there was just as much bloodshed within the walls as opposed to outside them. The only difference was that within Las Noches, the most likely people to kill you were you allies.

Atop one of the many balconies stood a main endowed in white robes. He had a presence about him that made one almost immediately gravitate towards. He was obviously well aware of his charm, as his face was almost never seen without some form of smugness, but even then that held some form of grace. Had he been human, he would have been a bachelor, perhaps a business man of sorts. The man's intelligence was astronomical, only matched by his charm. There was only one thing off putting about this man, who so elegantly held himself as he looked over the white sands. That thing was his eyes. Eyes filled with so much deceit and lack of mercy that it could turn your soul to ice.

All matter seemed to be false within Las Noches; false sky, false sun, false promises of power, false tie and relationships. Sitting atop it all of the illusions was just one man; the False God.

Still, if ever there was a man that came close to matching God's power, it was Sosuke Aizen. A man once revered for his kind heart and compassion, he decimate heaven itself with a betrayal that left his former allies in shambles. From a Captain of hundreds to a Lord who controlled thousands, and soon to become a King who controlled all.

He had only recently dethroned the former "God-King of Hueco Mundo"; an arrogant and vicious Hollow by the name of Barragan Louisenbarn. He was an old fool whose pride cost him the short lived battle. Still, he was to be kept alive to become one his servants as he could still prove useful in the future.

"Enjoying the view?" a voice asked from the shadows behind him.

Aizen didn't even turn his head as his right and man approached. Gin Ichimaru was in some ways the opposite of Aizen's in terms of presence. His eyes were so thin they seemed to always be shut, and held a smile that made him look something like a fox. While Aizen's presence was charming, if not a bit overwhelming, Ichimaru's was slimy and sometimes just unpleasant. However, he too had been a Captain, so he's power wasn't questioned.

"Are the preparations nearly complete?" he asked.

"The Hogyoku is all set up, Tosen's tracking some pretty good candidates for the Espada, and we even got the uniforms ready! Let's hope none of em' hate the colour white" he joked.

"Excellent, then we can begin to build our army" he smiled.

"You mean your army; you're the one who's running the whole show after all. We're the rats following the tune of the Pied Piper" Ichimaru commented, that same smile never leaving his face.

"Now Gin, there's no need to be so crude, after all where I be without my dear allies" he said, turning his head and giving his former lieutenant that same old smile.

"Besides, I like to think of myself as the conductor of an orchestra, guiding the music of several individuals to reach a final crescendo. It just so happens that they're following a symphony that I wrote" he mused, tapping his fingers on the smooth surface of the balcony.

"And I believe it's time we opened the curtain on our first performance of the night"

It had started to rain over London, and rain hard at that. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. On the one hand, the icy touch of the rain felt horrible against the skin, and made the filth around you that much worse, bathing your body in mud. On the other hand, at least the constant exposure numbed the pain.

Leaving the alleyway, the baker wiped off the blood from his knuckles. This whole escapade had severely annoyed him. He had wasted too much time away from the bakery; he had to be up in four hours before the rest of London woke up, not to mention he was in a hideous amount of pain. He clutched his skull, the wound still fresh. He had started beating the boy in order to teach him a good lesson, and if he had just taken it then he would have just left him with a few bruises, but he had to take it a step further when he grabbed a loose brick and hit him over the head full force. He had lost it, and kept punching and kicking until he couldn't tell whether the blood on his hands was his own or the boys.

"Fucking worm, you thought you could steal from me? I'll dig my own grave before let some runaway factory brat try to ruin my business!" he yelled into the alleyway.

The body in the alleyway didn't move a muscle.

"That's right, just stay there and die, you fifth! Probably a bastard child of some local whore, probably got sold to the factory for less food than you stole!" he yelled, his voice muted slightly by the rain.

The puddles that slowly built since the rainfall now swirled a deep red colour. The dried blood that had encrusted his face bean to peel away under the weight of the rain. There was a moan of pain from the boy's lips, which had been split open, as he tried to move. But by this point his body was struggling to keep functioning, so moving at all seemed impossible.

The baker let out a few more curses, using the word "whoreson" over and over as he disappeared into the rainstorm. The boy remained there for a good few minutes, not having the strength to even move an inch. After what seemed like hours however, he eventually found that his body had become numb enough so that he could sit up without his shoulder screaming in agony. Many more minutes passed until he managed to exit the alleyway.

His right arm was broken, his clothes were stained with rainwater and blood, his nose was still bleeding and he had a fair few teeth missing. He didn't walk so much as limped; after all, the brute had taken a good few stomps on his kneecap. The boy had never known pain like this. When he was at the factory, he got his fair share of beatings, until he plucked the courage to run away, making the decision that no food and freedom was better than barely any food and a prison.

As he walked, he found the numbness of the rain could only do so much, and he collapsed into the muddy road. His breath was shallow, and the world seemed to blur every couple of seconds. Was this what it felt like to near death? He heard the words "death" and "dead" a lot around these streets, but actually thought he would face it himself. He knew and had seen more death than most in his short life, yet he had no idea what his name was or remember anything before the factories. His mother could well have been a whore, or she could be a wealthy wife who just didn't want another child. There were so many possibilities; he had considered them all, yet never found an answer.

As he tried to lift his one functioning arm, his hand brushed against something rather hard in the mud. He didn't take any notice of it at first, but then the rain managed to wash away some of the dirt that concealed it. It appeared to be a stone of sort, shaped like an irregular triangle. The most mesmerising thing about it was the shimmering light that radiated from inside the crystal casing. The light itself also seemed to have a shape to it. It was curved like a crescent moon, yet its light resembled that of the sun. Moving his fingertips over it, the boy tried to grasp it with what little strength he had left. Even amidst the blackness and the torrential rain, the light of the shard never seemed to be obscured. The surface was rough, yet there was a strange smoothness to it, almost soft. The boy continued to stare directly into the tiny ray of light, and little by little, his strength slowly returned to him.

Inch by inch, his body rose against the pouring rain. With one arm dangling limply beside him, and one leg barely able to support him, he rose to his full height. In short breaths, he continued to be fixated by the shard. Turning around, he looked for a place where he could find shelter. As he turned to the left, the shard glowed vividly brighter for a moment. The boy looked down at the mud-stained fragment for a moment, perplexed.

He pointed the shard in them same direction, and just as last time, it glowed a fraction brighter. Mesmerized by the radiance, he slowly took steps forward, following the glow as it kept increasing.

Her screams of pleasure kept increasing with each thrust he took. She may have been a whore, she may have been on the circuit since she was sixteen, but she had never experience anything like this. She couldn't deny this was the best client she had ever done business with; it was like he wasn't human. His gentle touch made every part of her burn with desire. And he was so kind! The way he had fed her beforehand and agreed on a suitable price for her services, which happened to be triple what she normally got.

The rain had stopped around their alleyway for some peculiar reasons. She didn't really mind, it meant she was dry, going to be able to keep her pace for at least two more weeks, and she was getting the time of her life with an amazingly handsome client.

"Enjoying yourself?" he whispered tenderly.

Her moans were all he got in return. He gave her a particularly hard thrust, causing her to scream out in pleasure. She was dying to go back to her accommodation; she was even considering giving up the rest of the night and taking him home, free of charge. His hand went past her thigh and into her coat pocket.

"What…are you…doing?" she panted.

His hand grabbed an object and pulled out; he looked at its glow in the darkness, never once letting up. She was impressed, even though his attention was now on the object in his hand. He rolled it between his fingers; his smile growing the more it glowed, exposing his perfect white teeth.

"Tell me my dear, where did you find this?" he asked. There was the slightest hint of a German accent as he spoke, his deep voice ever so enticing.

"B-Blackmarket…they said it…would…bring me luck…" she managed to say.

He eased his pleasurable assault on her, coming to a gentle rhythm. He slowly pushed her against the alley's wall, leaning down so she could see what he hand in his hands. The shard glowed intensely in the moonlight.

"What luck indeed, it brought you to me" he whispered.

He slowly put it back in his pocket.

"H-Hey…give it back" she said, trying to taunt him. In truth she was so infatuated at this point he could all of her money and she would hardly hold it against him.

"Poor, poor deluded girl, I would have thought someone of your kind would know better to dabble in the supernatural, it always ends in death" he whispered.

He stroked her hair.

"Though I suppose living in the City of the Fallen has educated you in death, hasn't it?" he said. Their single body became two again. The young whore fell against the wall, in utter ecstasy.

"Yeah, well, we got reason to be scared, what with this murderer going round killing girls" she explained, wiping the sweat from her brow.

"Killing prostitutes" he corrected her.

"I know, the guy's a psycho, I hope they hang 'im when they finally catch 'im" she replied, slowly putting on the rest of the clothes.

"Oh no, I believe this man has his reasons. After all, what other kind of people trade within the same circle, if one whore hasn't got it, then chances are one of her co-workers does, it's really quite easy to find particular items, even ones as small as these" he stated, twirling the object in his fingers, almost in glee.

"You a friend of his?" The young woman joked, getting to her feet and trying to sort her hair out.

"You know, despite being in this country only a short amount of time, I've built up quite a wide reputation" the shadowy figure suddenly stated. He was behind her again; one arm around her young waist, the other hand was by his belt, wrapping his fingers around an unknown object.

"It's always so strange, every time I take a new name; it always becomes legend in people's hearts and mind. Sometimes it is one of great victory and strength, others of compassion and mercy, while other times it is one of absolute fear. Do you know what they call me around here?" he whispered in her ear. Not really understanding a word that he had just uttered, the young lady of the night simply shrugged, wondering if it would be better if she invested some of her earnings in some make-up.

"Jack the Ripper"

The girl's eyes widened, the sword was drawn from its hilt.

The rain hadn't died down, to the point where the boy's clothing had become second layer of skin. Still, fuelled by the glow of the strange shard, he pressed on forward with the resolve that had kept him alive all this time. After what seemed like hours of walking, he found himself in an area of London that wasn't familiar to him. Maybe it was because the rain or the multiple hits to his head, but all of a sudden London seemed like a different place all together, the rain serving as the perfect veil. It was if heaven itself had started to weep.

His fragment of a torch was leading him somewhere, which was the only thing he was certain of. Eventually he came to an open area of road, where the only things visible were the shadows of the age old buildings, and a narrow alleyway. He recoiled slightly, still in shock as well as pan after his previous experience. However, the light of the shard pushed him forward, as if invisible hands were pushing him towards the narrow dark.

He approached one bleeding step at a time. By their point the light form the shard was quiet intense, so much so that his entire palm was consumed in a faint light, as if he were holding a miniature sun. The light was leading him to that alleyway, in a section of the old city where all life seemed to have evaporated.

That's when he heard the screams.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Even though the rain was coming down hard he could still see all that was happening in that narrow gap. His eyes widened, and the air suddenly became frigid. The light of the street lamps, the glow from the shard in is hand, even the few rays of moonlight that managed to break through the black clouds. They managed to all illuminate the scene in front of him.

The girl had been stripped bare; her clothes now reduced bloody rags. Whatever beauty she had was now lost due to the blood that flowed from her body and dyed her skin. To prevent her screaming further her throat had been cut first, a river or red now pouring onto the streets. The blade was now impaled through her midsection, her abdomen and lungs now torn to shreds. Mouth agape, the boy could just watch as the blade tore out of her, drenched in blood. The girl's lifeless body fell into the alleyway, blood now filling the gutters.

The killer gracefully walked out of the alleyway, letting the rain was away the blood from the cold edge of his sword, before placing it back in his sheath. He then caught sight of the boy, and the shimmering gem he held in his hands. They were silent and still for several minutes, only the howl of the rain and wind to fill in for them. The boys wasn't crying, he wasn't whimpering, he just stared, ice cold fear in his yes, even more than before.

The man in the long, expensive looking black coat slowly walked forward towards him. He rain seemed to become lighter, and before the child could blink the figure was standing before him. He was a tall man, not too wide or thin, and even under his coat you could tell he was unbelievable strong. He crouched down so they were face to face.

It was a face that the boy would remember for the rest of his life.

He had very long hair for a man, all the way down to the lower ends of his back, so much so that it obscured one eye. The one eye that was clear was as sharps as a hawk, and was such an intense colour of green that it could be mistaken for an emerald. His face was filled with youth, though there was a commanding authority to it. He didn't look over 30. The boy could safely say he had never met someone this healthy and imposing in all his life. The man's eye was drawn to the shard; he then peered up at the boy and gave a sigh.

"You poor lost soul, what has this cruel world done to you?" he sighed.

The boy said nothing, only shivered, his splintered teeth chattering in the cold. The man returned his attention to the shard. He slowly reached out and grasped it with his finger and thumb. The boy tried to pull away, but found that his body was frozen, as if a great weight was pinning him down to the pavement. The man removed the shard from his hands and placed it into his pocket.

"It is truly unfortunate that you had to witness this, though I can see that you must have suffered much worse in short, frail life" the man said. He reached up and touched the boy's cheek, gently patting it.

"I don't expect you to understand, but us meeting here tonight was not chance, rather we were drawn together by a higher calling, a calling that I am now once step closer to achieving thanks to you" he smiled sincerely at the boy, as a father would his own child. He the stood up, adjusting the rim of his coat and wiping a few strands of hair from his eyes. He placed a hand over the boy's uncut and grimy black hair.

"So it pains me slightly that I have to do this"

The sword plunged into his chest as such speed that the boy could hardly register it. He then slowly peered down, his voice croaked, even struggling to cry out in pain. The blade protruded from his back, its glimmering tip dyed in blood. The scarlet liquid began to spill into his lungs and out through the large wound in his chest. His eyes darted up in sheer panic to the cloaked man. He was no longer smiling.

"Sorry old boy, no loose ends, I like to be professional about these things" He slowly pulled the blade out and returned it to the darkness of the sheath. The boy felt blood fill his mouth, and he collapsed onto his front.

"Please don't think badly of me, this is not murder, its mercy" he stated. He took out the two shards he had acquired within the space of an hour and rolled them together. Following a sound that sounded like waves cashing against a rock, the two shards fitted together.

"I'm on a mission, a mission to save paradise itself" he turned his attention to the boy. His body was rapidly twitching, the pool of blood growing bigger with each passing second.

"You see my dear boy, its heaven. Heaven is rotting" he stared, looking through the intense rain, past the clouds, to something that couldn't be seen by the eyes of mortal men. He gave one final glance to the boy, before starting to walk away.

"You're only trading one hell for another I'm afraid, the heaven I fled from was corrupt, and for a sanctuary of the dead, it was above all thing, soulless. I'm going to change that; I will bring a tempest upon the society of souls, and wash away that taint that holds it."

The only response he received was a gargle of pain as the boy drowned in his own blood.

"I'm afraid we won't see each other again…not as men anyway" he gave a small chuckle. He vanished in an instant, but the cold wind carried his voice to the boy's ear.

"But perhaps as Gods and Monsters"

The boy clawed at the river of red, his breath becoming shorter with each rapid burst. He felt the fear cover his body; he wasn't going to make it, without a single prayer on his lips. He had lived in silence for the majority of his life, but now he wanted to scream, he wanted to be heard, he wanted to be saved. His eyes were glossing over, and son his arm stopped moving. His warm blood served as a pillow as it washed over his face, soaking into his hair. Eventually, he stopped breathing all together.

12:36am, the City of London, 1888. A boy with no name died, buried in the rain.