Ichigo flipped open the suitcase and slipped out another C-note, stuffing it into his back pocket. The binoculars he purchased would be well put to use, wanting to catch the enemy before he knew he was on to them. But to be on his best game he needed to be on full alert 24/7, which wasn't an easy task as he originally thought or anticipated.
He'd been working his target practice for days in the heart of the desert sands, but yawning made Ichigo distracted, made him remember that he was exhausted though he was a test subject. With anxiety-filled eyes tinkering on the verge of a forbidding madness, he might as well be chained back on that metallic table. At least he could sleep.
He shook off the bad vibe and refocused, narrowing his perfect eyes at the target.
One week.
A whole week they had been running, but there was no satisfaction, no blood to salivate or savor as he chewed on bones. They couldn't celebrate with a top-quality champagne either.
What Ichigo exactly sought after in the Wild West he wasn't sure, but as the window of opportunity wedged shut a powerful fury forced it back open.
An anger was driving Ichigo forward, a maelstrom which had mingled into his wounds when they were still fresh.
From their week living on the edge they were enlightened to various things.
All wounds sustained during the incident left no mark or visible memory of where test subjects 14 and 15 had been ill-treated. Their bruises and cuts were healed. The welt left on Ichigo's face from one of the men in black vanished; the abusive marks on Rukia's face and body gone. Day three sufficed these facts. It was stunning, just short of a preacher's miracle-work.
The second thing they discovered was that it was May. The middle of the month to be more precise. When asking what time it was, the man Ichigo spoke to clicked his iPhone and revealed the answer, more importantly, the date below the time. Things pieced themselves more properly after that.
They were kidnapped in March.
They'd been in the Company's hands at least seven weeks.
And Ichigo wanted nothing more than revenge. It was a centerpiece smoldering inside him.
It was also another reason to hone his skills by training daily.
The velvet grip around the revolver of the Smith & Wesson melted against his palm, he becoming the weapon to its fullest extent. He breathed deeply, a thrum unlocking a buried power within his reformed soul. His arm straightened without waver. Cocking the trigger, his eyes sparked open, bullet vanishing into the open sky. A sound like maddened thunder.
Ichigo blew smoke away from the tip as sunlight glared back into his darkened eyes. The man behind them was heated from the unknown spark of energy, echoing its existence like a beacon. Critters had already steered clear of the area, birds only making an occasional, if rare, twitter.
With one final pull of the trigger a bullet sailed into the halo of sunlight, scorching the air with sound and a sweet smell of sulfur that slowly sickened Rukia's stomach. Ichigo did not fear that his target wouldn't hit it's mark, yet secretly damned it for failing to pinpoint the sun's source of energy—it's life.
She watched from afar, wondering where his intentions lied when the last slug popped from its shaft. Frighten all who stood in his way? Enemies were one thing, tree and earth-dwellers different. She also wondered if the child inside her was the real cause of her nausea, or if it was her lover's power bending back and taking a blow at her. She couldn't figure Ichigo's strategy, his intent a cluster of colors on her white chessboard.
And they were far from checkmate.
He stormed off as the sun bowed to the king, accepting a stalemate as it set before them. "Let's go," he muttered, the heat of the gun resonating from his hand. She looked on, starlight dying as an unused emptiness balled up sadness inside her.
What entity drove Ichigo's actions currently?
The Lamborghini revved, the horn calling for her attention.
She shut her eyes.
Ichigo had been changing over the last week, and very rapidly at that.
Day 3. Phoenix, Arizona.
Heat had never been a problem for either fugitive in the past, except the desert sands of Phoenix and the dry air made them think twice before stepping outside and having their shoes melt to the pavement. It was a new new version of Hell, a more realistic one, and with thermometers pushing 106 degrees in direct sunlight they knew better than to explore the vast city. It was a flat, pretty city, much different than those in Japan, yet also lacked a quality of something only found in the Far East. Maybe it was just the friggin' heat, but as long as they stayed inside where risk of sunburn lowered greatly, they could appreciate the Sun's city. Ichigo worried the Lamborghini might overheat in the outdoor oven, but it remained out of sight in a garage, several blocks from their hideout-location.
And just as the day destroyed many air conditioners and fans, the temperature plummeted that night, dropping to a bitter 46 degrees. Rukia used her blanket as a shawl while Ichigo bathed.
The shower was a steamed oasis when he came out that evening, clouds entering their actually decent hotel room with relaxed ease. Rukia didn't pay much mind at first, indubitably pissed about the knife-incident from last night. She had found his Playboy and peeked at less scantily-clad women than she first thought. Finding surprisingly acceptable articles on sports and professional actors, a heavy-hitting male advice column left her most impressed. Not only how these generally womanizing articles were written, the shapes of words piqued her interest, the character of the sentences' flow. It was something odd. Then Rukia's eyes opened wide; she realized what it was—
Water droplets hit her face, flicking her discovery away. She looked up.
Ichigo came out of the bathroom with nothing but slim-fitted black sweatpants, towel drying his vivid hair rapidly. Usually the idea of his pants hanging low would seduce her immediately, except just as she really began to look at the letters in Playboy's advice column, she really observed him for the first time since they escaped.
Rukia originally noticed when they were standing on the hill, but Ichigo was more fit and in shape than she realized. Much more. The body he donned was . . . incredible to say the least.
He had always had a good body, but now it had transformed to a higher level, one where a physique that good meant spending quite some time working out or performing an active ritual of martial arts or dance to be in the shape he was in. One look and she was sinning. It'd be worse if she didn't know him. Defined muscles outlined his silhouette beautifully. And impressively. A ripped model wasn't his exact body-type, an athlete would make him more . . . she didn't know. A soldier fit his persona currently, the damned dog tag around his neck and all. Not to be cliché, but his form was . . . godlike. A body sculpted by Michelangelo.
He was toned, lean, and cut enough that she would wear him on her body instead of a diamond on her finger.
She exclaimed dumbstruck, "Where did you get those abs?! And those muscles! Wha—?!"
"Hm? Oh." He gave a small laugh and smiled. "I meant to show you the other night but you were passed out. Pretty good, huh?"
Without stopping herself she said, "Yeah, I'll say!" So, you're ripped and I'm pregnant? That's not a fair trade!
He laughed again, but less innocently this time. He climbed on top of Rukia before she had time to protest and kissed her. "Don't know what they did, but I like the results."
He kissed her fiercely with more passion than she anticipated. It grew too intimate too abruptly. His hands washed over her face, her skin, her legs, her thighs, parting her clothes and legs to try and get nearer.
"I-Ichi-Ichigo, I . . . wait ah, oh! You need to stop . . ."
But he pursued her further, getting Rukia flat beneath him. His kisses were hot and ready, waiting for her to comply. His eyes darkened with lust, but something was wrong—they were unlike his own. The ones she knew when he kissed her or made love to her were kinder and sweeter. These were harsher, sought only after her sex, wanted and would take everything but give nothing back. She was lucky to have room to breathe.
"Ichigo, you're not yourself."
"How's that?" The voice had gotten tighter, rasping ever so slightly.
"Well." She bit her lip from the unsure adrenaline in her veins. "You've never exactly . . . jumped me before."
"That's because I never thought you'd wanna touch me the way I want you to now."
It was a sad thought really, and it came from a deep place she realized as she looked at him regretfully.
"Ichigo . . ."
"I'm pleased. Why aren't you?" The rough tenure had returned, setting him back into a steely demeanor.
He kissed her gently, using his tongue in a fashion that concerned yet excite her.
His hand slipped under her blouse, grabbed a breast which felt fuller in his hand. Her breath caught as he kissed her in a location he had never travelled before, a wave creeping over her face. Their eyes locked, Rukia unsure of his next move.
She let it loose: "There's something feral within you."
Ichigo scoffed. "The only thing feral is the man beneath this skin. And he bites harder than I normally do." He kissed her again in the same area, causing her to arc her back.
"Ichigo!"
His hand swept under her chin and through her soft silk hair, the ends dancing on his fingertips. He observed this with boredom, with jealousy."Your hair's in good condition. They kept you pretty."
She looked at him again, a tremendously large blush coloring her cheeks. The voice hadn't been Ichigo's talking. It was his voice, but not the personality of the man she knew.
This Ichigo eased up a bit, changed his tactic. "C'mon. I need a good night's sleep or I'll never be the same."
You aren't the same, she thought as his lips dipped to her skin again, trying to make her body ready for him. When his fingers gently brushed against her stomach she'd had enough. "Ichigo, stop!"
She pushed his face away with her hand, forcing him off her nearly-nude body. Her underwear remained intact, though her new lace bra had shifted from his tricky fingers. Ichigo looked at her sorely upset, touching where her nails had dug in. Violence would be an answer always if he refused to realize the consequences. They both huffed heavily, intimacy making them overheated. "What has come over you? Has the heat really screwed with your brain that much?" She pulled the blanket back around her shoulders, enveloping her form like a gooey marshmallow. The forced turn-off made Ichigo scowl.
She softened her tone, yet ended with a punch. "You think you can get a good night's sleep after having your way with me? You're pathetic."
His rage towards her at that comment did not shock nor surprise. But it did startle her. It was a look of despise straight into her tarnished center, minus her growing misfortune.
Begrudgingly Ichigo seemed to catch himself, hiding the irrational hate and buried it back down. He dramatically dropped to the bed, sighing all the way. Rukia shook her head. Ichigo faced away from her, staring at a dresser instead of the snowball she rudely hid herself in. His hand went back to his face absently, staring at it until instantaneous information swarmed into his mind. His brain worked like a supercomputer, displayed the facts like a child's pop-up book.
He studied the lines on his palm, examining his fate line with vexed entertainment.
Ichigo kept quiet for longer than she expected and tapped him with her foot. "What are you doing?"
" . . . Practicing chiromancy?"
"Palm reading?" she gave a small laugh before sinking into her plumpy mallow. "Trying to decipher our future? Or yours for that matter."
"I'm just trying to distract myself, alright?" he responded harshly, though she skillfully hit the nail on the head.
Rukia blew at the strand in front of her face. These mood swings of his were getting on her nerves, and they hadn't been free a week. At this rate maybe she should have let him do her, would've made it easier to say he got her pregnant than waiting longer than she should to tell him . . . or find another solution, which she couldn't or she was literally dead thanks to the haunting black mirage watching her every move.
Ichigo forced himself to sit up, turned to face her. He had that painfully beautiful look in his eyes, nearly winning her over. The man she knew had returned . . . somehow.
"Look, I'm sorry, alright? I don't know what came over me."
"Hm." Her poker face remained. "No, it's not alright. I can't and won't have you take control over me like that. Especially when you're not in your right mind."
He unknowingly frowned as to what she meant. "What do you mean?"
She gave him a look which made Ichigo more clueless. She sighed. "Since we escaped, your mood has been very temperamental. You've jumped through more emotions in three days than a car through flaming hoops."
"Well, gee, do you think it's 'cause I'm getting over whatever's in my system?" It was a semi-sarcastic quip, but Rukia didn't argue.
"Possibly. Did you sleep at all last night?"
Ichigo waved that off, signaling to her he didn't like a yellow flag on the field. She changed the subject, trying to get him to keep talking, to divert away from the internal beast lusting after her. "Well, did you see your future within your hand?"
"Just that I'm strongly controlled by fate." He barked a laugh.
Day 4. 8:47 a.m. Somewhere outside of Colorado.
The common phrase of "good morning" from one person is usually never responded directly the same way when replying. A good morning would mean that the person felt awake and ready to conquer the world, slept well and had pleasant dreams, felt rejuvenated, became optimistic about the idea of waking up and rejoining the cycle of life in the rotating world. That's a basic idea of what a good morning could mean to the average person.
A good morning meant having successfully avoided cops, guns, coyotes, and problematic bounty hunters searching for them throughout the previous night. A good morning meant remaining under the radar of suspicion.
They were at a gas station, Ichigo filling the tank with premium as she swallowed some nausea medication. It was early, but it wasn't a horrible time to be awake while on the move.
It was a decently good morning . . . until Rukia mentioned this supreme theory that he would've never realized without her insight.
"WHAT?!"
"It's true! Haven't you noticed? We haven't spoken a single word of Japanese since we escaped!" She paused, almost choked on her pills. "And even before that we were speaking English!"
"Huh?!" He withdrew the nozzle fast without thinking, nearly spilling gas on his new jeans. "Agh! What do you mean?!"
"Idiot! We're speaking English now! Perfect English! And weren't you the one that said you sucked at English in school?"
He stopped dead, alarmed confusion making him silent. People were staring at his stolen baby like usual, but it felt like they were watching and waiting for his reaction. People getting gas looked at him with curiosity. He knew they were watching him, he wasn't an idiot. All these drug enhancements made him very aware of another's energy being focused on either Rukia or himself. It wasn't paranoia making him on edge.
Maybe they were staring at the bright tufts of hair peeking out from under his hoodie like people used to when he was younger, but greatly doubted they cared about his pretentious locks at this current hour.
Rukia broke his stupor with, "Quick! Say something in Japanese!"
"Tatoeba, don'na kotodesu?"
Surprise came across Ichigo's face as the words left his lips before he could even think to speak in his native tongue. Weird . . .
"I don't know . . . say you're from Japan or something," waving his question off.
"Rukia, I'm speaking Japanese right now!" he continued in the same language.
The perplexed turn of her head gave him a jolt. "You are?"
"What the fuck?!" Ichigo screamed, but the filter had been switched back into American-English. "Were we programmed with the Rosetta Stone or something?!"
"Calm down," she harshly whispered. People had begun to watch their interaction rather than take interest with the Lamborghini. "And anyway, maybe it's not so bad." Rukia was looking off into the distance as she said the words with thought. "It's very helpful to us if we're going to be stuck here for God knows how long."
Ichigo frowned, sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. "What d'you wanna do?"
Day 4. 11:06 a.m. Somewhere outside of Colorado.
Sitting pretty and enjoying the weather just as any recreational sports vehicle should, the Lamborghini felt strangely abandoned when it's current owners left it hiding in a lot where people couldn't appreciate it.
Parked far away outside of a new-age bookstore Ichigo and Rukia had been in for hours, the jealous glances of people who knew they would kill for a car like that shunned the Lamborghini because of its obscure nonexistence away from the test subjects.
Toward the far back of the store where all the delicately placed language books were kept, it had been overrun and turned into a mini HQ. Heavy dictionaries piled on top of one another appeased the guise that the renegades were cramming for an exam, their youth adding bonus points. Another was tossed on the side table as Ichigo bent over it, treating the book more like a manga as he flipped crisp pages. Pulling apart dozens of books on dialect and proper vernacular, both skimmed the information hidden inside, trying to come up with witty sayings in that particular language to see if they knew and understood what the other was saying. It was as important to find phrases as a pep rally was to jocks and cheerleaders.
Ichigo held a notepad, crossing out languages as they went down the list. Rukia withdrew another textbook, the shelf warped from the lack of hardcovers and portly paperbacks. Barely skimming the title she read aloud, "Italian."
He thought of something to say, a fine-tipped marker dancing between his fingers as the seconds ticked by, and smirked to himself when he came up with a sentence. Ichigo may have been paying close attention to every detail in each page he read, but the girl surrounded by these books appealed to him more. She looked simply ravishing in her slim-fit dress, one he had picked out for her with a knowing nod.
Rukia was standing close to him, perfectly innocent as she skipped through random pages from a French workbook titled Allez-Viens! To tease her he bent down and breathed into her ear, wound his arms around her body.
"Del tuo corpo mi fa impazzire."
Rukia bristled. His fingers slid and pressed near her womanhood, her dress a weakly thin barrier from his excited fingers. Her heat made him press closer, a simple imprint of two while they remained alone. Rukia felt ambushed but neglected as he pulled away from her, she turning to show him a flustered look and received a pleased (and amused) one from him. He folded his arms over his broad chest, the fabric taut against his tasteful muscles. "That look means you know what I said," Ichigo laughed. The marker was brought straight across Italian, blotting out the word with an inky black swipe. The cover flipped shut.
Rukia shoved the book back into its former place, trying to hide the heat creeping up to her face. The bowed bookcase swayed from her misused thrust, her dress catching in between the bindings, and she had to yank the hem to hide her gorgeous legs from his wolfish gaze. That bastard . . . He didn't say too much to make her blush brightly, but knowing that her body was a distraction for him was enough. His words had been so filled with lust they were like a pressure for sex and turned her on. Italian was a romance language, was it not?
The hunger for her was returning, and this bookstore would not be a safe haven if shoppers wondered why a dress was on the floor.
She cleared her throat, attempting to pull her thoughts away from him and the hot ideas she now had. "How many languages are we at so far?" her voice cracking; the blush bright now.
Her hair covered her face, so he didn't see her ornate expression. Ichigo flipped the notebook open with his thumb and slid his eyes down the list. "Ten," he said dully. "Japanese, English, Chinese, French, Spanish, Vietnamese, Russian, Portuguese, German, and Italiano." He looked back up at her. "Should I add Greek back onto the list? Neither of us knew it well enough to say a full sentence, and the bits of Afrikaans were difficult too."
Ichigo dropped the list onto the floor, found a plush leather chair and fell into it. "Geez," he said, "I can barely wrap my head around any of this."
"Me too," Rukia agreed, pulling out another book only to slide it back in. They already looked at this volume on Basic Portuguese for Dummies. "And no, don't bother adding it to the list. We couldn't really say anything in Greek besides "Hello" and "Good-bye."
"Plus the language is a bitch to write in."
"Charming as always," Rukia bit sarcastically.
"Mm-hmm."
They both settled into a quiet moment after that, never to fully understand why they could speak so many different languages or for what purpose it served either of them. Ichigo placed his elbow on the armrest for support before his face sunk into his palm, thoughts muddled as he stared at the little notebook on the floor. He groaned, switching tactics by staring at the ceiling, hoping for answers up there.
Rukia's back was towards him, and she drifted from the world, floating in unchartered terrain as her thoughts wandered.
She gently put a hand on her stomach and brushed along it casually, not to thrust any suspicion her way that she may be hiding something there. Wondered how long she could hide in the open with her palms painted red. At least she could find enjoyment by looking at the small rosettes on her printed floral dress.
"We should probably get going," Rukia said after a long pause, her mind loosely gripping the thoughts of not telling him that she was pregnant before disappearing into one of the many caverns in her mind.
Ichigo noticed an almost tiredness in her voice. The ceiling hadn't given him jack, so he watched her with interest instead until she spoke. Found her strange natural grace comforting while she ignored him. "Yeah," he agreed without enthusiasm. Ichigo groaned as he stood back up to his full height, exhausted from their fourth day of "freedom." And it wasn't noon yet. Ichigo only wanted sleep.
She was also exhausted, needing rest from the early pregnancy and slight nausea that still plagued her in the mornings and evenings.
It would have to be this week, she thought miserably as her cheek planted against his hard body. A hand rested on her head. An embrace between the two was shared, given the benefit of privacy in this popular home for literature.
He would have to have sex with her sooner or later, and the plan she invented was worthy of a capitol offence. It was a sick plan, but it needed to be done. Whoever's child she was carrying, Ichigo could never know. If he did . . . the strained bond they shared would be severed indefinitely.
"Rukia," he started, "let's not worry about this language barrier thing. We've got bigger issues to deal with than worrying whether we can vocalize Communist theories."
"Ichigo—"
"What we should be thinking about is how much money we got and what to spend it on next. I've been meaning to buy binoculars and I think that pawn shop next door might sell them. I'll be there if you need me." And he released her like she was on fire, their tender moment shattered.
Rukia nearly fell over from his body not supporting her, Ichigo's comedic timing horribly executed.
"We shouldn't split up!" She called, halting him. Was he asking to be recaptured?
He put his hands into his pockets, rolled his eyes before looking at her. "Look, I'm just gonna be right next door."
"I know but—!" She hushed up her tone, paranoid. Rukia then switched into her native tongue, the Japanese sounds more comfortable in her mouth at the moment. "You never know!"
"Yes-I-do," he said with cockiness, attitude of a delinquent. But he replied in the American accent. "I won't let those bastards stop me from living my life." And he made it a point to say it louder than she would've liked. Rukia shook her head, embarrassed for him.
She returned to her American accent carefully. "Buy me a pair too. And some other supplies if you see fit."
He grunted a reply, walked away and got an onslaught of women young and old observing him, brazenly checking him out. The grip one woman had into her smutty Romance novel while openly watching the renegade pass by allowed her a broken nail, chipping paint.
Ichigo either didn't notice nor care. Those vultures didn't interest him the least.
Rukia laced her fingers together, bowed her head as if in prayer. She thanked whatever benevolent spirits were watching over them, thanked them for having Ichigo by her side in this new life. If only it could last . . . She was scared though she tried her best to hide the pain behind a pretty veil.
Except fear led to her own abrupt switch in moods, irritation tapping out.
She only realized after he walked out the door—he left her to clean up their book-fest! What nerve! She huffed, ready to smack him if he had the balls to come back. Which he didn't. And there were books taken from tall shelves too! That was just not fair! It didn't take her long to return every book in alphabetical and chronological order, but it still pissed her off.
She didn't care to buy any of the language books, it was a useless feat. Something Rukia did find worthy to purchase was a French collection of tales, La Belle et La Bête headlining a red moleskin cover in gold lettering. The tale of Beauty and The Beast was one much like their own, but roles could be reversed. She wanted to read the fable she had only seen on film.
And prayed it had a happy ending.
Day 5. Southwestern location discredited.
Ichigo got progressively worse the next day. Aside from training until he literally made himself collapse, he wasn't sleeping at night and had barely slept the previous night again. Not to mention his libido was starting to wane on Rukia. He cornered her on the bed when she was reading that night, much like before, abusing her with rough hot kisses she didn't want, removed the fairy tale from her hands before she could mark where she left off. French wouldn't make her sing the falsettos he wanted to hear, he said. Ichigo was turning into an insomniatic animal, wishing for her to comply and stop cock-blocking him.
He needed to kiss her, to touch. Would've given his soul away if it made her happy. Needed to feel some kind of love, he said.
It was all that remained that was . . . human.
She pushed him away, his eyes filled with confusion.
"I don't understand why you won't have sex with me!" He exclaimed frustrated as she locked herself in the bathroom, trying to take a bath and get some peace, hot running water drowning out his words.
"Because you're not you!" She shouted back, slipping out of her skirt and cream top.
Ichigo growled, wishing that he could have target practice with the bathroom door.
Manipulation wasn't a strong characteristic he had, chose to use it at the worst of events. Such as this, forcing her to hide in the water closet.
He looked at the digital clock next to him. "Day six," he muttered, falling into his bed. This is hell, he thought. Ichigo shut his eyes, the faintest feeling that he might actually drift off more than welcome to the battered test subject's anxiety-filled eyes. Ichigo was tumbling, tipping on a verge of excessive madness, draining him like a faucet.
The feeling was contemptible, an infamous man who was disregarding everything he wished for himself and Rukia when they were escaping.
He had wanted to live.
Now he wanted out.
"Take my soul now," he whispered. Half-hoping he would be heard.
And Rukia heard. The water she sat in became unsatisfying, drew chills into her veins.
Manipulation wasn't a strong characteristic she had, but her will to use it overcame her, a massive tidal wave drowning a surfer, no leash tying him to the board.
So Rukia drowned in that pressure. Damned him, damned herself for needing to be so conniving and sneaky to deceive him.
If she was going to have sex with him it would be under her terms, not his.
If it's what he wanted and needed so badly . . . to live . . . he would receive it.
Weee! Next chapter's gonna be intense! :D Comment, fave, tweet, #, follow, do-what-cha-gotta-do!
And I meant to originally post this, but what Ichigo asks in Japanese is along the lines of "Like what?/What do you want me to say?" and then in Italian, "Your body is driving me crazy." :D