Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I have as good a chance of owning it as the Heart of Gold rearranging the Earth's continents to write out '42' and 'DON'T PANIC' on the Earth's surface.
She turns her head a fraction, to speak, faltering a little. It's been so long since her own name was on her lips.
'Unohana Retsu. My name is Unohana Retsu.'
She strains her neck to see better, but doesn't manage to see his face before she blacks out.
Once he's put her in the bed, the shinigami turns to leave. At the doorway, he pauses and looks back at the girl, curled up defensively under the stark white duvet, the fluffy white clouds of material obscuring all of her body but a lock of hair, one eye, the tip of a nose and a tightly clenched hand. He sees the matted lock of hair, the dirt embedded under the nails and the delicate bones of the hand, prominent against the skin and is angry for a moment that nobody, including himself, noticed the massive amounts of reiatsu radiating from the tiny girl.
He turns and leaves.
When she wakes up, she feels strange. There's something soft under her side and under her head and draped all round her too. She realizes she's in a bed and blinks once, unused to the comforting sensation of cool material against her cheek. She sits up and stares at the food on the table next to her and only when she is on her last bite of the thick hunk of bread and pleasantly warm soup does she notice the woman standing at the foot her bed.
She isn't in the least embarrassed, the woman notes with amusement, and meets the challenging look of the brown-haired girl sitting in the bed.
'Would you like some more?'
She blinks once, twice, a small look of surprise coming over her face, and silently shakes her head.
'Well, then.' The woman says, 'As of next week, you will be enrolled in the Academy, in order to become a shinigami. Do you know what a shinigami is?'
The girl nods. She does know what a shinigami is. Anyone who has spent time on the streets of Rukongai worth their salt knows what a shinigami is. Since they are rarely seen, they are mostly viewed with an odd mixture of fear, suspicion and grudging respect. The girl remembers the snatches of whispered conversations and nods again, more firmly.
The woman looks mildly relieved, and informs her to be prepared to move later on in the day. The girl looks a little bewildered, but manages to make a soft sound of agreement just before the woman abruptly exits the room, the black material of her clothes sweeping out behind her.
She doesn't have anything to take with her when a different woman in black comes along, and obediently walks behind the woman to a corridor with many doors. The woman opens the door and shows her inside. She is then told, in a barrage of information rattled off in a rapid stream, that this room and all its contents are to be hers for as long as she is in the Academy, five sets of uniform are arranged for her, she is expected to do her own cleaning and laundry, she will be supplied with cleaning materials to do so, any clothes alterations will be done by the school tailor, who will also provide her with new uniforms when (or if) she outgrows her current ones, she will be given all necessary books, textbooks and practice swords in class, and that she is to be paid each month, and the money she receives is to provide her with her food and necessities. She names an amount.
She sways at this last one, and the woman moves slightly, as if to catch her if she falls. She doesn't, and asks if this is all a big mistake, because it doesn't make sense to her; why is she being paid to have a room of her own?
The woman chuckles and tells her that she is being paid because she is now in Shinōreijutsuin, Seireitei, and that she is now a valuable tool. She is being paid for her services, not out of pity or compassion.
The girl nods as if she expects no less, and asks if there will be some sort of test. The woman looks at her strangely and says yes, there is a test – but she has to be able to read and do mathematics for that. The girl looks up at the woman and says that yes, she can read, so please could she do the test?
The woman looks bemused by now, and agrees to arrange it for tomorrow. She tells the girl that the rest of the day is hers, to wash, change, sort out her room as she likes, and walks out of the door, shaking her head, and looks back at the strange girl who is now touching the desk with a single finger, as if afraid that it might crumble beneath her hands.
She is afraid that it might crumble beneath her hands. She pauses in the centre, gazing disbelievingly at her surroundings. Palatial, in comparison to her alleyway. A bed, complete with mattress. A tall cupboard. A three-drawer chest. A small bookcase. A desk with a few drawers. A chair. A clock, ticking softly. A bedside table. An oil lamp. The room is warm. She walks across the room to touch a pipe and feels the heat. She tiptoes through a door to her left and finds herself in a bathroom, with a shower, toilet, and basin, with hot and cold taps. She approaches the basin hesitantly and turns on the hot tap. She sticks a finger under the running water and feels the hot water and watches the water turn grey from the washed-off dirt. She washes her hands three times with soap and hot water and finds a small towel in the cupboard overhead. She frowns in annoyance at the small wooden block she has to stand on to reach the cupboard's handle and winces at how dirty she must be.
She is careful, on her way to the tall cupboard, to not touch anything with anything other than her hands. Taking a skirt and a shirt from one of the uniforms in the cupboard, she retreats to the bathroom.
Locking the door, she washes her underwear first, and lays it on the pipes that run round the room. She steps unto the shower and washes herself and her hair, once, twice, until the bathroom fills with steam and the mirror clouds up. A little slice of heaven.
As the rest of the day passes, she ventures out of her room, carefully locking it each time and slipping the metal key into the deep pocket and zipping it closed. She keeps feeling her side for the bumps and ridges of the key and its handle and staring at the clean walls and gleaming balustrades and she knows she looks strange but doesn't care.
She finds the tailor, dressed in an apron with a needle and thread in his hands, surrounded by dangerously tall and unsteady piles of clothes. As he gets up and turns her around to take her measurements, she sees that he has strands of thread hanging from his head, all black and white, contrasting against his auburn hair. She also sees, with a mix of amusement and alarm, that he has stuck needles into his ponytail, some long, intimidating and pointy, and some small, rusty and dull. All have threads attached. She points them out to him, and he peers in the mirror with a mystified look on his face. He turns to thank her, and in freeing the appropriate hand, sticks the needle in his hair again.
She gives it up as a lost case, thanks him in return for the piles of items he has given her, bows as best as she can with a massive heap of material in her arms, and leaves.
She thinks she has never been so lucky. She's got proper sandals on her feet now, a sewing kit, some soap to wash her clothes with, pyjamas – 'jammies', the tailor called them, but she's sure they're called pyjamas – and three pairs of white socks.
She finds the nurse, a thin woman, gaunt and scary. She shows her how to use the washing machines, how to use the cleaning supplies for her room, how to apply plasters, and she gives her some ointment for her cuts and scrapes.
She finds a clerk and politely asks if she could please have some money from her wages for food, and an account book, and does he know by any chance how much things cost in Seireitei? The clerk nods after a while, and agrees to help, looking as if nobody's ever said please and thank you to him before, or bowed to him first, and that's because nobody ever has, not to a lowly clerk in the midst of all these shinigami.
She finds the canteen, following the smells through the corridors, and hands over some money at the till. When the man hands her some money back, she looks confused, until he explains the concept of change to her. She realizes that keeping an account book for her money is going to be a lot harder than she originally planned. She walks back to her room – her room – and spends the rest of the day doing calculations.
The girl scrambles into her pyjamas and clambers into bed at 7.42 in the evening, when it gets dark outside her window. She lies awake, flat on her back, legs outstretched, fingers curled into the blankets on top of her. She closes her eyes.