Final chapter of the year. Had you told me in 2011, when I started this story, that it would span into 2017, I would have told you I'm not that bad of a procrastinator. Ah, well. Have a joyous New Year, everyone! I tip my hat to Tite Kubo, creator of these wonderful characters, and my beta, Akire.
Captain Commander Yamamoto was getting far too old for this. For the fifth time that year, Mayuri Kurotsuchi was pestering him for special permissions on new assignments. Ever since the end of the Winter War, there always seemed to be new specimens to study, new methods of improving the Garganta, new reasons to quell Kurotsuchi's insatiable curiosity.
"The new security measure improvements would require…specimens of a special sort, to test out my theory," Mayuri Kurotsuchi explained.
Specimens, always new specimens. They were coming into Soul Society by the droves, to the point the Captain Commander began to question whether he should be worried about Seireitei's security. But Yamamoto didn't bat an eye. And with such piss-poor details, too—Kurotsuchi's usual style. "What will it cost me this time? Seireitei's savings have been sucked dry as a result of the Winter War and your insufferable experiments."
"I am aware that the Second and Fourth Squads have elicited a sizeable dent in our resources," Mayuri responded, deflecting the Commander's accusation. "But I'm quite confident in this new theory. Soul Society has greatly benefitted from the data I've gathered on Hueco Mundo. As you are well aware, we haven't had a breach in the dimensional rifts since Aizen has been captured."
"Don't forget that it was Kisuke who sealed Aizen," the Commander countered.
Mayuri didn't flinch, though his eyes revealed a hint of annoyance. "I've already made arrangements for expenses. Just leave it to the Twelfth Squad, and you won't have to worry about hollows breaching the Garganta for at least another century. I just need permission to bend the rules a little bit."
An aggravated Captain Commander narrowed his eyes at Mayuri's cutting grin. Mayuri was as practical—and as cheap—as they came. If he was willing to front the money for whatever insanity he was plotting, it likely meant he would succeed. But even while Yamamoto acknowledged Mayuri's genius, he wondered what kind of headache it would cause him this time. There were always risks, and Mayuri was being purposefully vague. More so than usual. The Commander was uninterested in provoking Hueco Mundo any further, even in its weakened state. And Mayuri's success rate wasn't as impeccable as Urahara's had been.
Still…to reinforce Seireitei's security at such a vulnerable time did not seem like such a bad idea. And at no cost to Seireitei…but a century of security? It just seemed too good to be true.
"I need more details."
Mayuri blinked. Twice.
"And don't give me any of that drivel about preserving secrecy. You're asking for a Level One clearance. I need more information."
Yamamoto could see the stealth behind his subordinate's eyes as the Twelfth Squad Captain calculated his next move. It seemed Mayuri had not expected this little snag in his plans. Internally, the Commander chuckled.
After a pause, Mayuri relented. "I need the clearance to call on a favor from the Inoue girl."
Even less information than he thought he'd receive, but to the point. The Commander had not expected to hear it. "What sort of favor?"
"She'll deliver the specimen."
"So that's how you're going to pay for it."
"You know I always prefer maximum efficiency."
Yamamoto let out a mild huff. The last time they'd gone to the human realm for help, they'd ended up with a mess on their hands. But Hueco Mundo's leadership was utterly demolished at the moment. They'd lost their top five Espada and their leaders. Now would be the perfect time to exploit weakness.
At last, the Commander gave his reply. "I'll need time to consider this. Report back to me in a week and you will have your answer."
Mayuri only dipped his head, dealt Yamamoto another devious grin, and left.
Yamamoto snorted as his eyes followed Mayuri gliding towards the door. The smug bastard knows I'm going to say yes.
.oOo.
Three months.
It had been three months since she'd lost him, since her soul retched its anguish among the broken buildings, over his limp body. He'd died in her arms, gifting his last smile just before his dying breath. The smile he knew she adored. The one that had followed him—and her—since his youth. The love of her life.
Gin.
Oh, Gin.
Matsumoto flipped on the light switch to her living quarters. Back from another grim night of drunkenness, she stumbled into her living room, barely remembering to remove her sandals before she staggered over to her couch.
I am going to have one major headache tomorrow.
Anything to take her mind off the agony searing her heart.
Tonight would have been his birthday. She still had the present she'd bought him—new spices and canning supplies for the persimmons he'd so often devoured like candy. She'd bought the gift for him on a shopping trip shortly before the Betrayal. It sat in her bedroom closet since then, spices unopened and supplies collecting dust.
Alone now, her sorrow released itself freely. Her cries did not sound like her own voice. On nights like this, no sound came out of her mouth. Only quiet screams, mirroring the devastating void in her fractured heart.
She knew. She knew he had still been good. She'd held on to this hope, even as she sat there and listened to her colleagues curse him for his treachery. Even as she wore her bubbly, simpering mask. Even as she sucked back on sake, living her life as she always had. So when the topic of Gin came up, she usually stayed silent until someone—or she—changed the subject.
Even Nanao knew nothing of her suspicions.
Rangiku often tried to remind herself of the bright spots despite Gin's death. Aizen was now defeated, Soul Society at peace, and Hueco Mundo thoroughly weakened. Gin had fought for them all.
Her Gin, fighting to protect her until his last breath.
Her tears fell until sleep claimed her.
-o-
The following morning, the alcohol brought its promised aftermath. Head pounding, she stirred on the couch and cursed at the sun as she reached above her head to shove the curtains shut.
"What time is it?" she yawned.
She cursed again when she saw the clock.
As bad as she'd always been at getting to work on time, these past few months had her coming in hours after her scheduled shifts. Miraculously, her captain said nothing to her when she'd rolled in, sometimes without showering, the reek of alcohol still on her breath and clothes. He'd merely glanced at her without so much as an angry look and continued his work. She wondered how long this grace period would last.
She heard that Orihime had been retrieved. That she was now living with Kisuke. She'd need to go see her. Take her mind off things. She wondered if she would be able to get clearance to do so without a mission, though, given everything that had transpired in the Winter War.
Matsumoto thought about starting her morning routines, her headache tempting her to call in sick—just this once. Well, maybe twice. Three times? She didn't care. Minutes passed before she braced two feet on the floor, ready to start her trek to her wash room. But a shadow loomed at her door, followed by two swift knocks.
Yawning to herself, Rangiku dragged herself off the couch and trudged over to the front of her living room to slide open her door. It was Nemu. Alert but stoic as ever. How people managed to function at maximum capacity so early in the morning was beyond her.
Nemu blinked once, then proceeded to address her colleague. "Rangiku-san. I was asked to speak to you regarding a classified assignment. The Twelfth Division needs your assistance."
"You? Need me? For what?" Rangiku groaned, rubbing her temple and stepping aside to let the vice captain in.
"Orihime Inoue has been released back into the human realm."
"I heard."
"She has been bound to the Contract of Payment for Human Souls."
"What?" Rangiku inquired, curiosity sparking. "But she's not a soul. I thought only dead souls were bound to it."
"The Captain Commander deemed it appropriate in this circumstance."
"But how is it going to be enforced?" Rangiku raised a brow.
"I am not authorized to answer that question."
Rangiku groaned again. If Kurotsuchi's behind this, it's probably some twisted trick. "So why do you need my help?"
"We are aware the two of you have developed an advantageous rapport. We need you to convince her to resurrect a few secimens for Soul Society."
"Resurrect? As in come back to life? She can do that?"
A nod.
"So why don't you just ask her yourself?" Sleep—she needed sleep. This was way too much thinking for her current state.
Nemu handed her the thick document she'd been carrying. "This will explain everything. It is highly classified. Your captain already knows of this mission and has approved."
Rangiku's head throbbed harder as she felt the weight of the report in her arms. "Do I have to read the whole thing?"
For a lingering moment, Nemu's eyes seemed to soften. "I believe you will find some of its contents…interesting."
"Doubtful," Matsumoto sighed.
Nemu nodded once more and dismissed herself.
Matsumoto tossed the report on her living room table without even bothering to look at the title. It sat there for two whole days. It wasn't until her captain finally seemed to waver in his understanding, speaking to her through tight lips that she was scheduled to depart for Karakura Town tomorrow, and if she didn't get home right now and read her assignment, then so help him, he'd order her to stop drinking for a month.
It was that command that caught her off guard, and she wondered if perhaps this was her Captain's way of giving her a chance for a much-needed change of pace—to get out for a while. The thought of not being able drown out her pain, to keep her mind occupied, finally drove her to submission. Casting a longing eye towards the bar where Yumichika, Ikkaku, and Shunsui had decided to meet—likely to be followed by a grudging Nanao at the end of the night—Matsumoto stalked past and headed home to read the stuffy report.
After clearing some of the cups and plates she'd stacked on the report in the past couple days, she flipped it over to read the title. She gasped.
"The Whereabouts of Orihime Inoue During the Winter War: Division 12; Seireitei; HIGHLY CLASSIFIED."
She stared at it for a good minute before breaking its seal open. It started with a few brief notes—an explanation that this was an exit interview, which was news to her. She thought they'd gotten rid of those years ago since they took so much time to draft and process, and usually went unused. As she started to read, her heart broke for Orihime. Stripped of everything, the poor girl.
And then she froze upon reading Gin's name about a tenth of the way through.
It seemed he'd stopped a fight between two arrancar once, when the blue-haired one quarreled with Orihime's caretaker. Seemed Gin had…helped Orihime, in some subtle way. There were rare mentions of him throughout the report, but he was always present as one of Aizen's right-hand men. She closed her eyes and breathed, forcing herself to keep reading.
As the pages turned, Matsumoto was surprised to find that Orihime didn't seem to be treated too badly. She had been manipulated, and from the report, Orihime knew it, but she went along with it to survive. Matsumoto couldn't really blame her for that. And neither did she blame her for her vow to work with Aizen to preserve her life and the lives of her friends.
Matsumoto also took note of Orihime's…odd relationship with her caretaker.
"Ulquiorra. If I didn't know any better—" No, Orihime couldn't. Could she? But she's in love with Ichigo, isn't she? There seemed to be a conspicuous gap throughout the report, as though some vital piece of contextual information was missing. It was hard to tell from the text, but it nudged at her as she went on reading. Near the end, it became more and more obvious.
NEMU KUROTSUCHI: And what of Ulquiorra?
ORIHIME INOUE: He…[struggles to speak, one minutes passes]
NEMU KUROTSUCHI: Was he killed?
ORIHIME INOUE: No…[another minute passes]. Kurosaki-kun, in his hollow form…tore him in half.
Goodness, Matsumoto sighed, shaking her head.
NEMU KUROTSUCHI: Yet he did not die?
ORIHIME INOUE: He…regenerated, eventually. But then Kurosaki-kun turned back to being human. By the end, Ulquiorra was too weak. Too, too weak. I…he reached out—I mean… [sobs uncontrollably]
NEMU KUROTSUCHI: Was Ulquiorra Schiffer destroyed?
[ORIHIME INOUE nods]
The rest of the report drove Matsumoto to more tears for the poor girl. It seemed Orihime had suffered her own share of losses in the war. Well, perhaps this meant she'd finally moved on from Ichigo. But what an unfortunate cure to her love sickness! It was never explicitly stated, but only a fool couldn't see it. Matsumoto wondered who else had read this report. Likely no one, knowing how secretive Mayuri could be. But why drag her into all of this? She finally flipped to the last few pages—to the assignment. She nearly vomited when she read it.
ASSIGNMENT FOR MATSUMOTO RANGIKU, VICE CAPTAIN OF THE TENTH DIVISION: Due to the sensitive nature of the assignment, cunning is required. Your task is to convince Orihime Inoue to revive the following individuals:
Coyote Starrk
Tia Harribel and fraccion
Ulquiorra Schiffer
THIS ASSIGNMENT IS CLASSIFIED UNDER LEVEL ONE CLEARANCE
"What the hell?!"
Why would they do this? To bring back the dead was outrageous enough, but this? What were they going to do to these people? Would they remain under the sick, watchful eye of the Twelfth Squad Captain for the rest of their miserable existence? As Matsumoto glanced back at the list of names, particularly at that last one…she finally understood why they picked her. They needed someone with a personal, friendly touch to convince Orihime to do this appalling task. Someone who had suffered similar losses. Someone who might be able to manipulate her. Again. Well, not her.
"I'm not doing it."
-o-
For the first time, in perhaps…well, ever, Matsumoto stormed into her work quarters the following morning. On time. In fact, she was early.
She stalked over to her captain's desk and plopped the report on the edge of it. "I refuse to follow through with this."
He just continued writing without bothering to cast a glance in her direction. "It's your assignment. You are required to follow through."
She bristled. "I can't do this. I won't do this."
"You will, and you must." He was calm. She felt her face start to burn.
"And why the hell should I? This is ridiculous! Do you know what that psycho wants me to do? Get Orihime to resurrect enemies of Soul Society!"
Hitsugaya continued writing. "The Captain Commander wills it."
She threw her hands in the air, growling.
"Watch it, Matsumoto."
She drove an index finger in the direction of the floor. "I'm not doing this!"
Slowly, Hitsugaya closed his eyes. Set his pen down. Laced his hands together. After a few moments, he opened his eyes and met hers. "Matsumoto. I have been patient with you these last few months. Don't think me ignorant." His eyes briefly took in the window to her left—in the direction of Momo's living quarters. "I know what it is you suffer through."
Matsumoto's throat tightened.
When his distant eyes slid back to hers, they were softer. He said, "I don't like it, either. But these are orders. The Captain Commander is doing what he thinks is best for Soul Society. So you will prepare to go to the human realm within the hour. You will meet Vice Captain Nemu for any additional details. And you will carry out your assignment."
She started to protest, but he only went back to writing.
"You are dismissed, Matsumoto."
.oOo.
Orihime hadn't forgotten the dull ache that used to linger in her heart where Ichigo Kurosaki was concerned. In what felt like a lifetime ago, Orihime used to seize every opportunity to steal a glance at him as they passed each other in the hallways. She used to stiffen whenever she saw pretty girls flirting with him. She hadn't forgotten what it felt like to cringe at the comments her schoolmates would publicly leave him through online social networks, or how she hated seeing little pink notes slip out of his bags from time to time—notes he discarded in disinterest—and even the occasional rumors she would hear that so-and-so went on a date with that strawberry-head. The rumors had always been false, but they were a constant reminder that one day, his heart would belong to someone who was not her. It was not until Rukia came along that her dread grew to a degree she never thought possible. The jealousy almost ate her alive, and she hated herself for it.
Entirely different was the ache associated with Ulquiorra Schiffer.
Her voracious hunger to see him had surprised her. She hadn't even felt this way towards Ichigo upon her capture, and she suspected it was because Ichigo had still been alive—there was still a chance. But Ulquiorra…she knew she'd never see him again, and it was this complete inaccessibility that drove her yearning. Perhaps it was because she had only removed precious few layers of the man behind the mask, had clung to her faith in uncovering the mystery of his heart. Perhaps it was because he gave her hope in his dying breath and haunting eyes, or because she knew that had they been in other circumstances—had he been human, things might have turned out differently.
It took her a while to finally admit that her feelings toward Ichigo had changed. He had come by these past months, to check up on her, as did the others. With most of her friends, the reunions had been bittersweet. But something had changed. She'd felt it. Perhaps it was her brokenness, perhaps it was their guilt. No one was at fault, but…with Ichigo, she always found excuses to cut his visits short. Work, tutoring, helping with the shop—anything to get him to leave.
And loss was a powerful catalyst. It was the emptiness, the void in her soul, that activated her suspicion about the true nature of her feelings for Ulquiorra. She'd shoved it aside, initially, the fear that it was more than just a deep affection. She never forgot the pain of Ichigo's unrequited affections. She had felt it the strongest on the night she joined Ulquiorra. But what she felt in those months following her escape was so much more tangible in its mercilessness. It was strongest before bed—when she had time to think alone—and particularly fierce on nights she would see the crescent moon creeping outside her bedroom window. There were no letters from Ulquiorra, no knickknacks, and most tragically, no pictures of him, though his mirthless eyes would be forever seared into her. All she had left of him were memories, and these were all she would ever have. But far above anything else, it was the lack of closure that dealt the deepest sting. He'd left so many unanswered questions, igniting such an openness towards him that she'd sometimes grow bitter at the timing of her rescue. And only now that he was dead did she finally recognize his subtle, oblivious hints that indicated he had not been apathetic towards her.
And her feelings grew. The longer the pain of loss fermented in her heart, the stronger her feelings for the dead Espada grew.
The days went by. Eventually, Tatsuki had come around to help deliver her things to the shop. When she did, everyone including Jinta and Ururu had left the shop so as to avoid any questions. Orihime would have preferred everyone making amends, but for now the tentative peace would suffice. Tatsuki had not brought up the subject again of Orihime's whereabouts, especially after having seen Orihime go through all of her public embarrassment.
It turned out that many, many people recognized Orihime from the TV, from the newspapers, internet. She'd be in the grocery store, the library, wherever, without one minute of peace before she'd get bombarded with awkward glances, questions, requests for her autograph, or even the rare scream—as though they'd seen a ghost. It wasn't far from the truth.
Orihime just smiled through all of it, as she always had. It turned out that was why her boss had thought she looked so familiar the day they'd met. Makoto had never outright asked, but on the first day on the job, Orihime noticed an odious missing person poster of her face hanging near the cash register. Orihime hadn't seen it when she'd turned in her application that first day. At the beginning, Makoto hadn't caught on. Probably because of how much Orihime had changed. For that first week, Orihime swallowed her misery whenever she passed the poster, rung up a customer, bagged the pretty pastries. Finally, as she swept the floors during her second week, she'd overheard Makoto whisper Orihime's name to her husband as they huddled together at the back of the shop. For a good fifteen minutes, they spoke in hushed tones. Other than her name, Orihime couldn't hear anything of what they'd said, but when she had come into work two days later, the poster with Orihime's face on it was gone. Orihime did not ask about it. Did not wish to bring up her past or have pestering questions asked of her, grateful for Makoto's gracious silence. Yet even with all of that, she'd also been touched that without even knowing who she was, Makoto had cared enough to put up that poster.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months.
School was a mess.
Dreading the questions of her classmates and any potential harm that would come to them as per the contract—which she still had not mentioned to Kisuke or the others for fear of getting into trouble—she opted not to go back to her old school. She had fallen behind, and the embarrassment of having to repeat a school year wreaked absolute havoc on her already shattered pride. She knew it was out of her control, but she hated that she would be graduating a whole year later than the rest of her classmates—Tatsuki, Chad, Ishida…everyone. She couldn't face that shame. Thankfully, her transcripts were pristine, and she was able to apply to a different school—about as good in rank—that took her in. She supposed her fame had helped her a little. The local newspaper—indeed, even major national ones and a few foreign papers—covered the story of her return. They'd painted her as some sort of hero. She scoffed bitterly when she'd read the title the Yomiuri Shimbun had given her story:
Back from the Dead: Orihime Inoue Returns!
With a large picture of her sallow, withered face plastered on the front page. She'd cried for many nights after it was published. At least the fame gave Kisuke good business for the candy store. The bakery got good business, too.
Kisuke and the rest of the team had helped her come up with a consistent story to answer interviewer questions: She'd been out hiking in a nearby wood that ran along the edge of a cliff. She'd told no one that she was going hiking, and because of sudden bad weather, she'd somehow gotten lost and fallen a good distance away from the trail. A man—an evil man—had found her and rescued her, but she soon discovered that her "rescuer" was actually a psychopath who had kept her locked away in his solitary cabin for 10 months, barely feeding her. The following summer, when Yoruichi, a complete stranger, had gone hiking on the same trail, she'd also gotten caught in another sudden storm, lost the trail, but followed her own path to that same cabin. Being an expert fighter, she'd beat the hell out of the man who had captured Orihime and tied him up. She and Orihime got away, but by the time they'd called the police and sent them after the captor, he was gone.
A dark story—one Orihime had initially protested. She suggested amnesia, a good Samaritan, or just not going to the police at all. But with all of the attention given to her in the press in the past year, Kisuke insisted that they needed to tie loose ends, that it had to be ill intent that kept Orihime hidden from the world. The weather story had also corroborated with two dates of sudden bad weather around the times Orihime had disappeared and returned.
"Plus…you don't exactly look like you've been taken care of by a good Samaritan this past year, Inoue-san," Kisuke had gently reminded her.
Kisuke had created a makeshift cabin, with a makeshift prison and makeshift details, and planted it in the woods. When the police conducted yet another hateful interview after Orihime's "rescue"—to which she'd adapted tidbits from her time in Las Noches—she had simply described the cabin Kisuke had built, and Aizen as her captor. They'd never find him. And Kisuke's master work at the cabin corroborated perfectly with Orihime's story. It also turned out Tessai was quite the hacker.
"A skill I've picked up in my years in the human realm," he'd smirked once.
Tessai took care of the details behind the home, registering it under some fake name. Even false tax records and other details were electronically smuggled into state databases. Orihime had wondered what it was like to live that long—to have that much time to garner that level of skill.
Wondered how old Ulquiorra was when he died.
At some point, Yoruichi was even presented with a medal from the local police authority—for an act of bravery. Yoruichi just scoffed and tossed it in the trash upon receiving it in the mail. She (and especially Orihime) had refused to participate in any sort of public ceremony, so the authorities had just shipped it to her with a letter of thanks. Just before discarding the medal, Yoruichi had given Orihime a grave look and said, "You know I wouldn't have tied up any jackass that tried to hurt you, right? No, I would have killed the man who locked you up. With my bare hands."
Orihime went to bed the night Yoruichi had told her that and sobbed her heart out. Sobbed quietly, so no one would hear her. So torn, so conflicted with grief and guilt, she almost wished she was never rescued.
.oOo.
On one particular day, Orihime decided to clean the common areas of the house as an act of gratitude.
She started out by cleaning the kitchen. Hardest part first! she thought with a sigh. She moved on to the bathrooms next, then the living room, and hallways. Finally, she reached her room and cleaned out her desk, getting lost in some of the old things Tatsuki had kept for her. She hadn't really gone through most of it when she'd moved in, so this was a good excuse to start redecorating her current room with things from her old apartment. She laughed upon reading at an old poem she'd written—glad Tatsuki had the good sense to save some of her sappy old work. It was some silly piece about the clouds and flowers she had written years ago. She looked through old photographs of herself with her friends at various times throughout the years, her mirth catching a bit at how joyful she used to be.
She vacuumed her floor and changed her sheets, then finally moved on to her closet. She hummed one of her favorite songs as she picked apart the items in her closet, throwing some items on her bed and leaving others on the shelves. Just as she picked up a pair of old shoes, a familiar contrast of black and white caught her eye.
Sometimes, it only takes the smallest thing to set one back.
Her humming stopped as soon as she laid eyes on the old garments from Hueco Mundo—the ones Ulquiorra had given her so long ago. Too painful to look at but unable to part with, she'd stuffed it in a box shortly after arriving in the human world. So she'd forgotten about it. Water welled behind her eyelids. Knowing full well that she should move on and ignore it, she went against her better judgment and carefully reached over to remove the dress from the box. The familiar white fabric brought back…too many emotions. She lowered herself to the floor, thighs slowly folding over her calves, as she held the garment up with both hands.
I never washed this, did I?
It was a bit dusty on the top, with dried blood spattered on it. Her blood. She examined it with her hands, fondly caressing the fabric as memories of her previous life played in her mind. Her times in Hueco Mundo were not exactly happy, but there was one dear thing about them that she hadn't forgotten in these three months.
As she raked her eyes across its dirtied exterior, something on the garment suddenly stood out to her.
It was black ash.
Bewildered, she drew the fabric close to her face. It was unmistakable. Down towards the bottom hem of her dress, barely noticeable, those were specks of charcoal lining the folds. How long had she stood in the ebony-flecked sands before Ichigo shouted at her that they needed to leave? It must have clung to her dress somehow. As she realized the significance of what was in her hands, suppressed tears took their turn to fall once again. They ran free and deep, from a place she had grown accustomed to forcing to the recesses of her heart. It was like reopening a closed wound—harmful and unwise, but in it she grew reacquainted with the familiar.
Why is it so strong in me? Why is this so hard? As she watched the drops in her eyes fall to the dress, some of it mixing with the black ash, a simple, somber realization swept over her:
I…loved him.