Hello everyone,
I hope you are all having a pleasant day today J. The latest chapter is here :D! I think I am caught between love and hate hehe. I still thank you for your kind reviews :3
Chapter 25- Glass
It was completely dark, except for a single candle light somewhere at the far end of the large room. There, the distinguishable figure of Urahara's silhouette could be seen. As Ulquiorra approached him, more candles were lit at the table where the scientist was sitting.
"Power over-charge… who knew?!... seems like I will need new equipment to examine our new guest." Urahara went on talking about the little accident he had come across while examining Nel. Oddly enough, there was something strange in his tone of voice, something somewhat dull that bothered Ulquiorra. As he sat down at the table and put the tiny kettle down, Urahara had already lit well about ten candles around them. Not that Ulquiorra needed them, he could see perfectly clear either way.
He let the scientist ramble on about a dozen things, complaining about the generator, about how the wax of the candles was melting and falling all over his other equipment, about how ironic it was that with all the technology and resources he possessed, he had no power in his lab at the moment, etc. After about two minutes of listening and not saying a word, Ulquiorra finally cut him off.
"You do know something more… don't you, shinigami?" Ulquiorra's unfaltering gaze was upon him. The words seemed to have slowly ridden upon the shadows cast by the candle-light, making their way to reach Urahara, and realization crept up upon his face. The silky smooth tone in Ulquiorra's voice was like the one of a finely sharp blade; dangerous. Urahara suddenly remembered just who it was sitting across from him, a millennial being who could very well have come from the depths of hell. The word he had used to address him, shinigami, was never a good sign. In fact, he had not heard it since their first encounter. Something was off. He could not keep his little act up anymore… he knows... he thought.
"Yes…" oddly enough, that was his only reply. For the next few seconds, silence invaded them both. He gulped, and then finally started talking again. "It's only been a couple of days. The twelve division is still shaken by the whole… incident. There were three. One bearing a tattoo with the number six was one of them, also the one responsible for wiping out half the division and almost killing the captain, Mayuri Kurotsuchi. I have not seen the bodies, if there are any bodies left at all. Most of them were obliterated, or so I've heard." He leaned forward a little. "Death or alive… I would like to examine at least one. The information I am getting from my sources is unclear due to the confusion and how inaccessible Kurotsuchi's lab is. A challenge indeed for anyone who does not possess the necessary skills…"
By now Ulquiorra had a pretty good idea where the conversation was going. By the looks of it the mission would be only to recover the remains, if any, of the Sexta. Nothing more. There was a 95% chance that maybe there would not even be a corpse. If there was any trace of what the Sexta used to be, he would bring it back. Urahara would examine it in the hopes of helping Nel with her child, know more about their condition, and also in the future, hopefully help him and Orihime as well. Wherever the research may lead, and as cruel as it seemed to think about it now, it would be beneficial.
Ulquiorra understood. He understood why the ex-shinigami had chosen not to speak openly in front of the girls. Why he could not be so bold as to talk about research and examining what might be a corpse, (or part of it,) in front of a pregnant woman and Orihime, who still believed in happy fairy-tale endings. Cold, calculating and opportunist; such was the mind of Urahara Kisuke. But Ulquiorra didn't care. In fact, he couldn't care less. If anything these traits made life easier for him. He gave the idea of breaking into Kurotsuchi's lab a little thought, and quickly made his decision. If he ever wanted to kill any of the captains of Soul Society, that monster would be number one on his list.
He pushed his chair back a little as Urahara was talking and stood up, backing away a little, stepping into the shadow, until only his bright green eyes were visible, flickering in the darkness.
"Show me the blueprints. Stalling will only give them the chance to recover." A direct and concise answer; so like him.
Urahara was expecting a little more violence, or emotion at least. Although he had to admit it was better this way. He was able to tell that Ulquiorra was less than amused at the beginning of their conversation, and that passively upset state of being was as angry as he ever wanted to see the espada get. He cleared his throat as he addressed the bright green orbs staring at him from a distance. "Give me ten minutes. I will have all the information you need ready for you. I will send it to your e-mail. You will be able to access it with your agent gear. Meet me then in the training room, I'll create a safe passage there."
As soon as he was done speaking, the two tiny green flickers disappeared, and Urahara knew he was left alone in the room. Gathering some papers and his laptop, he started typing away, uploading files into Ulquiorra's agent portfolio, quietly working by the candle-light, seemingly unfazed by the cruelty of the situation.
Maybe this is what years of solitude and pointless wars do to a human soul. They corrupt it to the point of emotional indifference. When the heart wants to feel, but it's unable to. As much as he wanted to sympathize and feel grief, he could not. Life had always been a cold and heartless bitch, there was no point mourning or brooding over anything. There was only what he could do tomorrow, not what he could have done yesterday. This, he had learned over the course of the cruel years.
Most people would judge him severely for such a way of thinking, yet not even his darkest thoughts seemed to have any effects on his new agent in the least. Sending Ulquiorra on a life-endangering mission to bring back the remains of a possible corpse, someone you shared centuries with, would be enough to send anyone over the edge. But not the Cuarto. He seemed to understand, adding that they should not waste any more time.
He could be wrong but, isn't the lack of sympathy for another human's suffering a characteristic of a psychopathic mind?... Or maybe the Cuarto did care a little… deep, very deep inside his heart. Who knew? Oh well. Ten minutes had almost gone by, and he still needed to type the last page of information into the system.
Ulquiorra sat outside, enjoying the night's gentle cool breeze. He had changed his clothes and put on a belt around his waist containing little pouches of… who knows what. He was wearing his agent clothes. Clothes designed strategically for him, equipped to help him on his missions. They were all black, and made of a comfortable stretchy material that let him move freely while also providing adequate ventilation. It almost felt like being naked, it had taken him some getting used to before he felt comfortable in them. He hated sweating, it was gross and also tended to throw off his concentration. Yet this suit had a cooling system that helped him keep his natural body temperature. Another one of Urahara's ingenious inventions.
He thought about saying good-bye to Orihime before leaving, but decided against it. She would probably try to encourage him in some way, and he would be incapable of giving her false hope. He would rather not see her for tonight. Also, seeing him in his agent outfit would probably bring about more questions. Questions he felt unwilling to answer at the moment. She could be tiresome at times, the woman, in the way that she chose to see reality.
It was as if, ever since Nel's arrival, Ulquiorra had seen a whole other side to Orihime. He knew she was naïve but… to what point? Maybe this was the perfect occasion to make her see, make her experience what he had witnessed for years on end, the consequences of war. It does not end, it never ends. It lingers on, it follows you, it haunts you, it destroys, it hurts. His chest ached.
A sudden painful memory invaded his mind, of a time long past… maybe? He gasped, it burned. The image of a woman with emerald green eyes looking at him was suddenly so vividly replaying in his mind. A woman… who?...
She was reaching out to him, calling out an unrecognizable name, just before she took in her last breath.
Death. The lifeless eyes of a living being, the expression of horror still written on her face.
She was lying in a puddle of her own blood, her long, jet black waves of hair covering part of her nudity as most of her clothes were torn. Demon bitch! Someone yelled, as he saw the woman's body being dragged away from his view. No… There were explosions, screams, fire, smoke, and the smell of… blood. He could even taste the irony substance in his mouth. He called out, spoke words that he could not understand now, and then, just as quickly as it had come, the memory was gone.
"Mother…" The word drowned away in his throat.
There was silence. He remembered her so well now that he could probably even draw her portrait just from memory. A beautiful fair-skinned lady with fine, delicate features and a warm, unearthly complexion; someone from a race that could now only be found in myth and legend. That woman had been his mother. She wore wild flowers to adorn her long waves of hair, and bore unrecognizable markings along the inner part of her arms, just as unknown as the words she spoke. And then this priceless image he had of her was so mercilessly tainted with the sins of blood and murder.
He didn't know why, he could not remember why. Yet it was unsettling, the memories of his mother caused a peculiar pressure to rise up his chest. He did not know who killed her or why, he did not even know in what time period he had witnessed such an event. There would be no comfort from having back this bitter-sweet memory, there would be no way to avenge the past or erase his thoughts. He could never reach her now.
Something warm rolled down his cheek. He realized he shed a tear.
"A wer dij onie, supi muo ideek." The words that he said he himself did not know the meaning of. He let his single tear fall down onto the wind, he did not wipe it away, did not touch his cheek. The wind would dry it out, take it away, and nobody would ever know it had been there. He would never tell. For a little while, he just sat there, enjoying the stillness of the night.
War, he thought. It truly was haunting.