REQUIEM
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rukia was a ball of misery in the corner of the room.
The Tower had been easier. She remembered the Tower of Penitence (white tower pale tower death tower) like a haven of calm. She had looked out at the scaffold, she had remembered the past, and it had been easy to say goodbye and prepare herself for death. As easy as counting petals in a cherry blossom.
Easy. So easy. Nothing was easy now. The hunger and the thirst swamped her mind. She couldn't think clearly from one minute for the next. There were things that she'd dreamed she'd done, and they were wrong, so wrong, but it had stopped the thirst for a little. She could remember a hand at the back of her neck and the taste of blood in her mouth.
She could remember her brother's voice saying Hisana, and she knew she had sone something wrong, very wrong.
If only Aizen-sama would let her feed. She was so hungry. If she had blood in her mouth she would be able to think again. It was the blood, it was the blood that was to blame. Blood rose in her mind and drowned the elegant structures of ice that she had spent the years building, it melted the turning snow that made the world clear, it soaked her sleeves and gloved her hands.
She had done something wrong. She dreamed it. Her stomach knotted into cramps and she put her knuckles to her mouth and bit at them to try to think, and was surprised when the skin parted.
"Uh-uh. Bad girl, bad Rukia-chan." Ichimaru Gin stood at the door of the room and looked in on her, with Aizen-sama behind him. The darkness haloed them. "Come on, Rukia-chan. We've got a little something to arrange."
"Remember," Aizen-sama said, "no witnesses. And if our expected visitors don't arrive on schedule, then they are to lie quiet until night falls."
"And everything else begins." Ichimaru chuckled. "I'll see to it, Captain. Don't worry. Come on, Rukia-chan." He held out both hands to her.
Rukia uncurled herself and stood up. She felt hot and cold at the same time, feverish yet shivering. The air was full of scents, perfume and alcohol and dust and flowers, but most of all she could smell blood.
"You're not much of a challenge," Grimmjow said. He and Ichigo had paused to stare at each other meaningfully and catch their breath. "You call yourself a fucking shinigami?"
"No," Ichigo snapped. "Well, yes, but other people called me it first. And look at you. Are you supposed to be the new wave of Hollow or something?"
"Newest and best, fuckwit." Grimmjow launched a strike that nearly stove in the side of Ichigo's chest.
Ichigo barely parried it. "Yeah, well, I've got one thing to say to that," he growled, trying to get his breath back.
"And what's that?"
"Bankai."
Ikkaku sniffed at the air. "I smell power."
"Huh. I smell blood." Yammi swiped at him again. The Hollow's reiatsu filled the space between buildings like stagnant water. It wasn't up to Zaraki's, of course -- nobody else's was -- but Ikkaku considered it an adequate challenge.
"Look." Ikkaku parted Hoozukimaru and balanced its three pieces between his hands, ready to strike. "Show me your full strength!"
"Yes!" Yammi snarled. "At last someone who understands! I'll rip your throat out but you'll die happy!"
Renji couldn't help it. All Eleventh Division's traditions were tugging at him. "Stay out of this, Ise," he said, his eyes on his opponent. "This is one on one."
He heard a sniff from behind him, but she didn't try to argue.
"Thank you," the pink-haired Hollow said graciously, adjusting his spectacles. Blood ran from the wound in his shoulder, staining his white coat black where it touched the fabric. "I appreciate the chance to give you my full and undivided attention."
"Will you just shut the fuck up with the creepy come-on remarks and fight me?!" Renji shouted.
"Certainly," the Hollow said. He gestured.
Things exploded.
Renji pushed himself off the ground by using Zabimaru as a lever. He was aware of the zanpakutou's complaints and mentally promised his noble and worthy blade that it would have proper attention and polishing when he had some fucking time to do so. He could see Ise over to one side. She seemed to have been hit worse than he had; she wasn't making any attempts to stand up.
The Hollow came striding out of the smoke and almost negligently batted aside Renji's attempt to cut him in half. "Don't bother," he advised, grabbing Renji by the throat with one hand and by the wrist with the other. He stalked forward, shoving Renji ahead of him, until Renji felt his back jar against a wall. "After the report of last night's little contretemps, I deliberately designed those explosives to match your reiatsu, and I chose you as my opponent. A vice-captain, after all? And with bankai? Clearly worth my attention. I didn't expect to take down the woman so easily, but it does make matters easier -- oh, do stop trying to hit me."
Renji couldn't seem to pull himself together and focus. It was like being pissed out of his skull on cheap booze, only less agreeable and without the friends refilling his cup. "Damn you," he spat, and tried to keep hold of Zabimaru. It ought to be simple, right? Focus. Break loose. Swing. Not being pinned against the wall like this oh fuck get this bastard off him and he was trying to put a knee where it'd do some good except that the bastard somehow guessed it was coming and turned his leg to catch it and the bastard's hands were so damn cold and he could feel the bastard's breath on his neck. On. His. Neck.
Yumichika ran for Urahara's shop. All this splitting up of forces was smelling more and more like decoying to him with every passing moment. And if they were being decoyed away from something, then where better than from Urahara Kisuke's place?
He made a mental note to describe this more elegantly in his eventual report.
As he approached, he saw the hole in the side of the shop, and congratulated himself on his good judgment. A Hollow had come in this way. There was no sign of a Hollow having come out this way. Therefore there was at least a decent chance of a Hollow to fight inside the shop. Unless Urahara Kisuke was a mean despicable fight-stealing sort of fellow.
Stepping lightly over the unconscious form of Tessai (the man was bleeding, he was still alive, no problem), he headed inside.
"What's happened to you, Urahara-san?" Orihime asked. She couldn't keep the fear from her voice. "What did that Hollow do to you?"
"Nothing serious," Urahara said reassuringly, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Just a flare-up of an old condition. Easily resisted. But your healing would be very welcome, Inoue-san -- lower the shield and help me, won't you?"
"He's lying," Tatsuki said. She put her hands on Orihime's shoulders, as though she could strengthen her resolve. "He'd say anything to get you to let him in."
"So young to be so distrustful," Urahara marvelled. "I'm hurt, truly hurt by the cynicism of the young these days . . ."
The room still smelled of blood. Orihime could feel herself shaking. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, to ignore Urahara, ignore Tatsuki, ignore even the shrieking voices of the Shun Shun Rikka, and find a moment's quiet and balance. "Urahara-san. You don't have to worry. I can heal you without lowering the shield."
"But I want you to lower the shield." Urahara took a step forward and put one stained hand against her barrier. The energy buzzed against his flesh. "All you have to do is let me in, Inoue-san. I'll take care of everything else."
He met her eyes. He had such dark eyes. They were so experienced. They were the eyes of someone who knew what was going on, who understood everything, and who was willing to help. He'd look after her, the eyes said. He'd keep her safe and close just like her brother had . . .
Tatsuki's fingernails dug into Orihime's ear, and she yelped, shaking her head to get Tatsuki loose. "Ow! That hurts!"
"Good," Tatsuki snapped. "Oi! Urahara-san! Snap the hell out of it or we're sitting behind this shield till everyone gets back and then I am going to get Orihime to heal you and I hope it itches."
"Jinta," Urahara said calmly. "Make them let me in. But don't hurt them too much."
The little boy scrambled to his feet and threw himself at Orihime. Tatsuki got in the way, blocking his grab and slamming him back with a straight open-palm strike to the chest.
"Don't hurt him, Tatsuki!" Orihime called desperately.
Tatsuki was shaking her hand. "Me not hurt him, hell. Tell him not to hurt me. Kid, can't you see your boss is ill?"
The boy threw himself at Tatsuki again. She dodged sideways, and he crashed into the inside of the shield. There was something automatic, almost programmed, about his motions.
"Can't you --" She felt a growing energy pressing against the shield. "No!" she shrieked, spinning round to face Urahara again, "I won't let you!"
"Inoue-san," Urahara said, "you won't have a choice."
"Well now," a new voice said. Yumichika was standing there in the hole in the wall, looking around the room with an expression of mild surprise, sickle-blade naked in his hand. "This all seems tremendously untidy. May I ask what --"
Urahara turned to face him, and Yumichika took a step back, bringing his blade up in front of him. "Oh dear," he said.
The night was a collection of violent fragments for Ishida, separate moments of noise and light and breaking architecture. He shrank back behind Chad, his hands constantly clenching and unclenching as muscle memory urged him to call bow and arrow, and watched Yoruichi tearing through the mass of Hollows. Energies twisted and knotted around her shoulders and down her arms and back, flowing out in a waterfall of furious crackling lightning, and those Hollows who tried to attack her from behind were simply burned away, scorched to ashes in a single scream.
Chad fired scientific blasts at the Hollows who tried to target them, but most of them were concentrating on Yoruichi, and Ishida couldn't blame them. She was magnificent and perfect and somehow taboo, untouchable energy in that sculpted body.
The little Hollow that came dropping down from the roof above took Chad by surprise. He stumbled back, crushing Ishida into the wall. Ishida struggled to peer round Chad, and saw that the creature was a child. Untidy hair, snaggled teeth, blankly innocent eyes that didn't seem to quite grasp what was going on.
"Little one," Chad said, "don't make me hurt you."
Ishida gasped. He was about to say they're Hollows, it doesn't matter what they look like or maybe it only looks like a child, it isn't really a child or something, anything that would have warned Chad. He'd grown up knowing about Hollows. Whatever they looked like, whatever they seemed to be, they were hungry, and that was all there was to it. It didn't even matter if they were evil. They were hungry. They ate human souls.
He didn't have the time to say it. The Hollow jumped at Chad, swerving under the instinctive blast (but too little, too late) that Chad fired at him, and brought him down to the ground with a strength and momentum that were impossible for its size. Its smile widened to show sharp little fangs, and it ducked its head towards Chad's throat with a gesture that was almost apologetic, almost cute.
There wasn't time for Yoruichi to get there, no time for her to even see what was going on. There wasn't time for anything except for Ishida's hands to automatically move to the right positions -- hold the bow, draw back the string and know that the arrow is there. There was no thought to it. There was no Quincy pride, no Quincy honour, not even the Quincy name on his lips, but only the training that he had grown up with. His grandfather's hands on his, showing him the form. His grandfather's presence behind him. His grandfather believing in him.
The arrow leapt from his hands in a blaze of force and ripped through the Hollow's head, turning it to dust before it could finish its shriek of surprise and pain.
Chad dragged himself to his feet, swaying. "Thanks," he grunted, and fired another blast at the Hollows closing in.
Ishida joined him.
Ikkaku had reluctantly concluded that this fight was not in his favour. On the other hand, neither was it in Yammi's favour. Both of them were what other members of Eleventh Division termed "stand there and beat the shit out of the other guy" fighters. The battle was developing into a straight matter of attrition and who was going to be standing last.
It was, in a way, irritating. He could sense reiatsu bursts going off all over the place -- even a bankai, if he wasn't mistaken. All that good fighting going on, and here he was stuck in something longterm. Of course, this Yammi guy wasn't a bad fighter, and he might even win, but it was like missing out on a high-class buffet, even if he'd got some damn excellent soba noodles instead.
He'd hauled out his bankai five minutes ago, and apart from making Yammi drool even more, it hadn't done much. He was still building up its strength, and so far it was just inflicting scrapes and scratches, not the almighty shit-hammer effect he'd wanted.
Maybe when he'd got enough energy into it, he'd be able to make an impression. He spared a moment's gratitude that due to the hurried and slightly favour-for-a-favour nature of the whole mission, they hadn't got those fricking limiters stuck on them. He disapproved of them on principle. They stopped him fighting things. How the hell could anyone claim that was a good idea?
A whirling hurricane of air and dust cut through the air above him, and both he and Yammi paused in the latest exchange of blows to look up. The Kurosaki brat, in full bankai gear, was facing off against one of the other Hollows, and looked like he was having about as much luck as Ikkaku was. It seemed the Hollow was also the speed and energy type, and the two of them had bloodied each other but not much more.
Ikkaku's mouth curled into a vicious grin, as a thought dropped into his mind fully formed and sparkled there like fine steel. Of course.
"Kid!" he yelled, tensing himself to leap. "Kurosaki! Change partners!"
Normally, Yumichika would have liked, no, would have been ecstatic at the thought of a battle against a Captain, even a scientific type like Urahara Kisuke. There could be no better test of his abilities, no greater personal struggle.
Under the circumstances, however, he supposed that he should try to keep him alive so that sweet pretty Inoue-chan could find a way to turn him back to normal, which put him under the most unreasonable limits in terms of what he could and could not do.
He shook his hair back defiantly. "Urahara Kisuke," he began, "I don't know what's going on but --"
A blast of kidou hit him in the chest and knocked him through two distinct walls. (He was counting.) He came to his feet with a roll and a bounce, shaking off dust from his clothing, and mentally rapped himself over the knuckles for forgetting that scientific-type Captains might indulge in kidou as well as swordsmanship.
Well. Urahara would have nobody but himself to blame for what would happen next.
Darting back into the room, he dodged another burst of kidou and spread the peacock-tails of his blade, focusing on the reiatsu that he could feel emanating from the other man. And oh, it was so much richer than anything he'd had before -- fuller, stronger, sweeter, like distilled liquor after cheap beer, like plum wine after water. It ran through his veins and filled him. He knew that within moments he'd be able to strike Urahara down. He'd be able to strike anyone down.
He wondered, in the part of his mind that wasn't hungry, why Urahara was smiling at him like that.
Hungry. Yes. That was a word for it. He was pulling in energy and it wasn't enough. He needed more. It was cold energy, bracing and icy like water in winter, and it made him somehow thirsty. Those earlier thoughts of wine were becoming something else, now, something sharper, something like the taste of blood in his mouth. Fujikujaku was screaming in his mind as it flared with light (and why did it remind him of corpselight, of corruption?) and he wanted more, still more.
Urahara pointed with his zanpakutou to the shield that the two girls were cowering behind. The tough little one had just managed to bring down Urahara's shopboy, and was restraining him, and both of the girls were looking at him with a horror that made no sense.
But the shield itself was energy, and behind it was blood, and both of them were food, and he was very hungry.
Nanao watched the scene from under her eyelashes. Faking unconsciousness had been the sensible thing to do; this Hollow was clearly too intelligent to stand still and let himself be captured, but equally he seemed far too proud of that intelligence, and far too willing to believe that she would fall down like a house of cards after such insignificant damage. But with that level of power on his part, she needed an opportunity to get in a decisive stroke.
Hopefully Abarai would give her one. And hopefully he'd accept her apology afterwards.
The Hollow had pinned Abarai against the wall, and was lowering his face to nuzzle at Abarai's neck. Abarai was muttering something, trying to fight back, but he didn't seem to be able to muster a resistance. The air throbbed with unfamiliar shades of reiatsu, like currents of dye congealing in water. Nanao wished she had the chance to study them longer.
There was something langorous about their motions. Both of them. It was like a dance. The way that the Hollow's tongue flicked out to touch Abarai's neck for a moment, that Abarai tried to raise his hand to fight back, that the Hollow's lips parted fully and he sank those white teeth into Abarai's neck. Abarai's gasping flinch back against the wall, and his soft murmurs of anger, his swearing uncomfortably akin to moans as he closed his eyes . . .
Nanao swallowed. She hadn't meant to see it as erotic. She didn't want to see it as erotic.
Her lips silently formed the words of the Iron Pillars kidou as she watched the two of them.
Abarai's fingers trembled on the hilt of his zanpakutou.
She couldn't let him drop it. She owed him that much, as a fellow shinigami and vice-captain. For his pride. For his honour. She released the kidou, and the pillars materialised, slamming harshly around the Hollow and forcing him back.
The Hollow cried out in surprise, blood staining his mouth and teeth. Before he could react further, she rose to her knees and invoked fire and lightning down on him, the Flame Cannon, everything she could think of, till finally he stopped moving and hung between the pillars, charred and gasping.
Abarai slid down the wall, his back still against it, till he was sitting on the charred pavement, eyes blurry and still unfocused. But at least he was still holding his zanpakutou.
Ichigo stared down at Ikkaku. "What?" he said.
"You heard me!" the 11th Division shinigami (a term, Ichigo felt, that was indistinguishable from 'moron') yelled. ""What the bloody buggering hell do you think I'm saying? Swap opponents!"
Ichigo looked at Grimmjow. He looked down at the big thug that Ikkaku was fighting. He looked up at Grimmjow again. He had to admit that his current strategy wasn't having much success -- but he wasn't going to let a fight go by simply because he thought that he might lose. No, he was going to pull himself together and wipe this punk of a blue-haired moron off the face of the earth. He was going to . . .
"Fine," Grimmjow shrugged. He pointed a finger at Ichigo. "Don't go away. I haven't finished with you yet."
"Hey!" Ichigo protested, as Grimmjow leapt down to street level and swaggered towards Ikkaku. "Oi!"
The bulky one grunted. He leapt into the air, blood trickling from a dozen wounds, and landed on the rooftop across from Ichigo. The tiles dented under his feet, and long fracture lines ran across the roof. "Okay. You don't look like you're up to much."
Below, Ikkaku had some great big sort of multipart axe hoisted across his shoulders. As Ichigo watched, the markings on it filled up with crimson.
"Hey," the bulky one said. "Are you paying attention?"
"Sorry," Ichigo apologised. "But I was having a good fight before he barged in."
Below, Ikkaku spun the centre part of the axe-thing above his head. The two end parts, unreasonably big, seemed to float in the air and gather the remaining light to them.
Grimmjow came at him at a run, fingers extended to rip his heart out.
Ikkaku brought the end of the blade down like a hammer from heaven. The very air exploded, slamming outwards in gusts of wind and dust and crackling energy and blood.
The bulky one snarled. He turned to Ichigo. "Okay. You --"
Ichigo might not have had that much experience, but he'd been beaten up by the best, and every once in a while he was capable of seizing an opportunity. "Getsuga Tensho!" he snapped, firing blast after blast at Yammi. As expected, they didn't have much effect, but they gave him the chance to circle round behind the Hollow, and dart in before it had the time to react. It was tough, but it wasn't fast.
But it wasn't tough enough to take Zangetsu in the face. The half-jaw of bone shattered, and with a final howl of fury the Hollow blew apart into dust.
In the sudden silence, Ichigo realised that he had injuries. He had a lot of injuries. They were clamouring for attention. They were putting up little red flags and jumping up and down and trying to suggest that he sit down for a few minutes and catch his breath.
He staggered over to the edge of the roof. Ikkaku was lying in the street below in the middle of a circle of destruction, the battered remains of his weapon clutched in his hands. The weapon's edges were broken and jagged, as though it had shattered on something, and Ikkaku himself had a great wound across his bare front, with the white of ribs showing through the red of blood and torn muscle.
But there was no sign of Grimmjow.
Choujirou Sasakibe sorted through reports. His brows drew steadily together as he summarised the information into a report for his Captain.
Item, a number of lower-level shinigami missing. Entire patrols not returning. The patrol numbers had been raised and that seemed to have stopped further disappearances, but the other interpretation of that would be that whoever was doing it had become more subtle.
Item, the current state of morale.
Item, judging by the look of certain Captains and Vice-Captains attending general meetings, there was some sort of illness going around. Perhaps Yamamoto-soutaichou should raise the matter with Unohana-taichou. After all, while there were natural and plausible and frequent reasons for pale faces and headaches and general malaise on the part of Kyouraku-taichou or Matsumoto-fukutaichou, Kuchiki-taichou would never allow his private life to affect his work in that way.
And most of all, item, the loss of communications with the world of the living. One of the periodic disturbances had struck the dimensional barriers between the world of the living and Soul Society. Passage had become hazardous: communications had become impossible. While he was not a betting man, he would have put half his salary on it not being a coincidence.
He finished initialling reports, and looked out at the dawn sky. The clouds were streaked red and grey and white. A storm was coming.
"Tatsuki," Orihime said quietly, "I think we're in trouble."
Tatsuki got her knee squarely in the small of Jinta's back and rapped his head against the ground hard. He went still. "Oh, really?" she said. "Fine. You knock down feather-boy, I'll drop-kick the kid into Mr Vampire's face, and we run for our lives. Okay?"
Yumichika pointed his zanpakutou at the shield. Rippling waves spread out of it towards the wall of light that protected them. Orihime could feel it brushing against her power like currents of water, rising with every passing second.
"I've got to try to heal him," she murmured, "but I can't drop the shield."
Tatsuki grinned up at her. "Hey. You can do it, Orihime. I know you can."
Orihime took strength from that faith. "If you believe in me, then I can believe in myself. Ayame! Shunou!" She pointed both hands at Yumichika. "Twin Sacred Return Shield! I reject!"
Light flashed out in a double flare as the two Shun Shun Rikka whirled into existence and flung themselves in a spiral around Yumichika, building the healing shield around him. He cried out incoherently, slashing at them and at the shield with his zanpakutou, and Orihime gasped and shuddered as she felt the hooks of the blades pass through her spirit, like claws lashing at her. She was conscious of Tatsuki calling out to her, shouting to her to hold on, that she could do it, but it hurt, it really hurt, and she could feel herself crying.
I won't let him hurt Tatsuki. I won't let him hurt anyone. This isn't him. I will make him well again. Yumichika-san, you were always so kind, this isn't what you want any more than it's what Urahara wants, it's horrible, it's madness, I won't let it happen --
Her healing shield flared one final time and dissolved. Yumichika crumpled to the ground, his zanpakutou in its sealed form again, and lay there like a rag doll.
Urahara's blade struck the shield that enclosed her and Tatsuki. It rang like a gong, the vibrations going through her and knocking her down, and she fell to the ground with a scream, hands pressed against her head as the Shun Shun Rikka vanished.
Tatsuki scrambled to her feet, and sprang between Orihime and Urahara. Her hands were raised in a defensive stance. "You don't touch her," she said flatly.
"I don't?" Urahara affected mild surprise. His fangs showed as he smiled. "Arisawa-san, don't think of this as being in any way unkind. I just very badly need to --"
"Run!" Tatsuki shouted at Orihime, and dropped into a squat, sweeping a low kick at Urahara's ankles and then sliding up into a straight blow at his groin.
It was a perfect move. Orihime was conscious of that, through the tears of pain that filled her eyes, even as she tried to gather herself enough to form a shield again. It was the sort of move that would have been an automatic full points and win in a competition.
Urahara stepped aside from the first blow, blocked the second, picked Tatsuki up by her wrist and the back of her neck, and threw her into the wall. She slid down against it and didn't move again.
Orihime pointed her hand at Urahara. "Don't touch her! Don't hurt her! I'll --" Tsubaki was screaming in her head, demanding to be let loose, ordering her to fire him right through the shopkeeper. One blow. Take him down. Stop him. "I'll kill you," she said thinly.
"You might. You actually might." He nodded, and for a moment she thought she could see a likeness to Aizen Sousuke. "Don't worry, Inoue-san. She's still alive. I saved her for you. You'll be needing fresh blood shortly."
Orihime flinched. "That's sick."
"No. It's like being a Hollow. You should understand that. You want to have the ones that you care for. You want to take them yourself, to bring them over yourself, to have them with you . . ." He smiled at her. "You're not going to shoot me, Inoue-san. You'd rather heal me."
He looked human now, and he spoke like a human, but if he thought that she could kill Tatsuki, if he could make her kill Tatsuki, then there was nothing human left in him. He was as corrupt as the Hollow she had purified before. Calmness gave her certainty and let her focus. She felt Tsubaki forming at the end of her fingers, felt the light begin to cohere and arc towards him --
-- and a blade flashed between the two of them, batting Tsubaki away in a clatter of wings and a surprised torrent of curses.
Kurosaki Isshin was standing between them. He was in shinigami robes like Ichigo's, and he was holding a zanpakutou of his own. "I had hoped it wouldn't come to this," he said gravely, and for once there was no laughter in his voice, no amusement or play-acting in his face. "I'd hoped I'd never have to do this."
Urahara smiled at him. "Did you? But I always knew you might. Why do you think I didn't try to get away?"
"Well then." Isshin turned his blade so that the edge faced Urahara. "Shield yourself, Orihime-chan. This is going to be messy."
