"I've got to what," he says blankly, brush hovering over a report.
"You've got to write next issue's haiku," 3rd seat, Yoshitoshi Fujita repeats, holding up a submission form.
He watches in disbelief as the Soul Reaper places the paper onto the edge of his desk. So far, he's gotten out of actually writing for Seireitei Communication—Captain Tosen doesn't want him poisoning people with words—but now they want him to write a haiku, really?
"Why isn't Amari doing this? She's the poet. Actually, why aren't you doing it?" He questions with the tone of the desperate.
"I am helping the captain write his 'Recipe for Justice' article, and Ako has just left for the human world to clean up a mess. You're it, Shuhei," Fujita tells him far too cheerfully.
The 3rd seat vanishes before he can argue. The submission form for the magazine floats off and back onto his desk like a leaf, and not for the first time, he curses the art of shunpo.
He leans back in his chair to glance around at the piles of paperwork in his office. He wonders what will get done first: the paperwork or the poem. He considers the idea of getting banished to the human world. It's not like he doesn't know how to live there.
Kazeshini's furious screaming in the back of his head stops the idea in its tracks.
Fine then, he'll just have to hope for the best. Pinching the submission form between his fingers, he throws it onto the floor. He's got a month; he'll come up with something by then.
A week goes by, and he knocks back a drink in the corner of a bar. He doesn't often get the chance to unwind from the 9th division's shenanigans, but it feels amazing when he can. He stares into his cup of wine and wonders if inspiration for a haiku can be found there.
It would piss off the captain for sure. The soothing sound of a shamisen drowns out the thought, and he puts the poem to the back of his mind.
Two more weeks go by, and he stares up at the imposing device the 12th division has placed in 9th division's barracks. It looks like a cross between a lightning rod and a clock. He looks from the device to the faces of his Soul Reapers begging him to do something.
"What the hell," he says flatly.
"Allow me to explain," a 12th division member says, shifting her ominously shining glasses. "This device is powered by Reiryoku from those sleeping—"
The device begins shrieking and, for some Soul King-forsaken reason, begins spitting out mannequins resembling the Soul Reapers inside the room. The creepy faceless mannequins unsheathe copies of their Zanpakuto, and he lets out a sigh. It's going to be one of those days.
He rushes forward, not even bothering to hold back from using Kazeshini's Shikai. Idly, he thinks he has something important he needs to be doing. He's overcome by the familiar bloodlust when his copy meets his scythes with a similar set.
Oh well, guess it'll have to wait.
"Shuhei, here's the other divisions' forms for Seireitei Communication. I'll place yours with them," Fujita announces.
He pauses in reading 9th division's accounting for the month. He looks over to the 3rd seat with wide eyes. Fujita, arms full of papers, gives him an uncomprehending look.
"Well, shit," he says.
"Shuhei," Fujita says warningly.
"I'm going to go get Amari," he says, mind working quickly.
If he bribes her with an expensive blend of tea, Amari will do pretty much anything. He heaves himself up already calculating which tea to buy.
"Shuhei, you were supposed to do it. Sit down!" Fujita orders with a pulse of Reiatsu
"You dare," he spits, Kazeshini's whispers getting louder in his head.
Fujita must realize the mistake; the 3th seat goes stiff as he digs his nails into the wood of his desk. It's rare for Fujita to make such a tactical error. He's actually more amused than angry. That doesn't stop him from unleashing his own pulse of Reiatsu.
Fujita falls over unconscious, and the papers are tossed all over his office. His fingers drift to Kazeshini's hilt, and the Zanpakuto sings in delight.
"Hisagi."
He freezes mid motion as the temperature decreases suddenly. Reiatsu much stronger than his force him back into his chair.
Captain Tosen calmly steps over Fujita's prone figure and into his office. The man manages to avoid stepping on the scattered papers to loom over him.
He avoids Captain Tosen's unblinking stare. He feels like an idiot considering the captain's eyesight, but he's ninety-percent sure the captain knows exactly how to stare subordinates down.
"Write the damn poem," Captain Tosen orders before leaving.
He watches the captain's white haori disappear with a feeling of despair. He slams his head into his desk. He does it again and again in the hopes to knock himself out. He thinks he succeeds.
"Kiba, I'll go get Shino if you don't wake up!"
He blinks up at Sakura. He has to blink again to get her face to stop looking so blurry. His head feels like it's been slammed against a tree. He says as much.
"You were hit by a tree," Sakura tells him. "I mean that literally. How many times have I said to stop angering Lady Tsunade?"
It takes him a moment to recall the incident. Something about accidentally destroying priceless sake and uncovering a spy in the process. He actually set Tsunade on fire too, didn't he? Yeah, he probably deserved that one.
He rubs the back of his head, wandering where Akamaru's gone off to. He's suddenly struck by inspiration.
"Sakura, I need a paper and pen. Brush if you don't have one," he says urgently.
Confused, Sakura hands him some sealing supplies. He smooths the paper over the grass and carefully dips the bush in ink. He knows exactly what he needs to write.
My captain tells me
Slave through paper and poem
Save me from this Hell
