Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Tite Kubo. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.

Ch 38: In The Riverbed

A/N: Exams are over, and I'm on summer vacation, so updates through about chapter 40 should be regular. 39 is in works this very moment. Although, there's a good chance I'll be taking an 8-week summer course starting sometime in early May. Depends on how the schedule works out.

Now, I'm thinking that this may end anywhere between chapters 43 and 50. I'm proud of what I've drafted for the final two chapters thus far, and I'm very excited for the rest of you to read as well.

It sank so quickly, but stayed at the bottom of the river, unmoving in the water's gentle caress. To reach in and take it back would be too easy, and she wished it would be taken away already. It had meant something once, had been a symbol of something in a story she'd believed in wholeheartedly. So far as the story went, the truth behind it, that symbolism meant nothing. It had been a lie. But for her it would be real, and it would come.

Such a pretty little thing had been part of a ruse, something to keep prying eyes and gossip away. All the same, it surprised her a bit. An intentional lie or not, he didn't seem the sort to care about anything people said. They were all just wasting their own time, anyway. It said more about them than it did about him, though their words weren't far off the mark at all. The color of his psychosis was certainly as dark as was commonly believed.

A hand touched her shoulder, bringing comfort. She knew what he wanted to say: Are you ready?

A short nod was the reply to the unspoken question. They had talked once before, but only in jest, about what would happen if they went away together, found someplace else to live. A place where they weren't being watched or controlled all the day long. Someplace far from Tokyo, preferably further than Shinagawa. They had both voiced doubts that anyone would look for them that far out. Or maybe, as she'd suggested, somewhere out in the country, where there would be peace in the night without sirens wailing or thoughts keeping them awake.

It wouldn't take too long to leave the flood plain, run back home, and return with what they both needed. Just a bag or two apiece, barely enough to fill the trunk of his car, before they hopped in and let the engine's exhaust mark the start of their new path.

It was so close, the taste of a different sort of air, but all the previous night, she had asked herself over and over again, "Is this really all right? Do you really want to do this?" There should have been some genuine hesitation, something in her heart that insisted she mull it over much longer than a day or so. But with such a shock being cast upon her in recent days, she was no longer filled with obligation to a man she'd never really known. It had shifted over the years, emerging as a sense of a drastically needed self-preservation.

The law of the great, wide world. Destroy or be destroyed, eat or be eaten.

"I think... we should," she told him, torn up grass floating by.

"It'll be hard, you know."

"Hard, maybe, but better than this. Better than..."

Lies. She rolled the word over inside her head, not daring to speak it. She never would again. It would always remind her of him. And she wasn't sure if, when she was gone, looking back on the distant city, she would want to remember.

# - # - # - #

It had taken some doing, but he had found them, caught on the anchor of a cargo ship that had docked. Their bodies tied together, back to back, limp and pale and lifeless. A few days soaking in the harbor had done them no favors, as though they'd been left to soak in vinegar like pickled plums. It couldn't have been much of a concern, the idea that the bodies might find their way back to the city. He'd likely assumed that they'd be drowned, or even devoured, out at sea. It wasn't a blessing, he decided. Just a very generous stroke of fortune that had happened to smile upon him.

After this night, he'd take them from this place, fish them from the waters, and leave them someplace where they would be found. They would be whisked away then, a pair of white phantoms to greet him in a day or so. What would that prompt, he wondered. Nothing close to a confession, but perhaps a realization that the unseen image in the clouded mirror was real, and waiting to walk into the room. It was such pleasure he gained from that idea, from the image of an otherwise emotionless mask agape in horror that the tides had brought these victims back from the deep.

A killer who came to fear his victims.

He didn't know about the man who had prompted all this, but Kuhaku certainly liked knowing that people were aware of him, that a headline referring to a potential copycat murderer had shown up. Why, he'd been so pleased by the news, that he'd gone ahead and clipped the article from the paper, sticking it firmly inside the pages of his favorite piece of writing. That of a dead heart beneath the floor, driving its killer mad with fear.

The game he played didn't have to be the same, though it would have presented quite the challenge. Perhaps, had he more time, and a sufficient hallucinogen to administer, he'd have tried his hand at mimicking the tale. But the way the game played out was of little consequence to him. The only objective, like that of his inspiration, was to survive. And to survive, he had to win.

They were toying with dreadful odds, investigators searching every corner of the streets, forcing their minds to remain sharp and aware of each crucial step. Capture was the equivalent of failure, of death. And, like the law of the wild, in a battle between ravenous wolves, there could only be one left to stand atop the mountain.

His pride wouldn't become the knife in his back. He knew he could wait, stick it out longer than the other man.

One of them had to die eventually.

# - # - # - #

The last moment like this had been so long ago. A moment where there was nothing but that nameless scent that wafted by with pages turning. It must have been in the summertime, when it had been warm enough for her to sit outside under the sun, listening to the world pass her by. That was the only scenario in which she could concentrate, allow everything to move, to let the ink fall from the pages, leaving them still and blank as the blackened letters sank into her skin. But, when the seasons changed, forcing her indoors, she would imagine those favorite places, like a coffee shop in the center of town, or an empty park bench far away from her front door. Just someplace to fall headfirst into the words.

There was no way to get to those familiar places, for the moon had settled itself high above the pitch-black world outside the window, falling through in rivulets that moved with the curtain as it peered through its own gray shroud. The rain that had fallen would cling to the glass, casting its haunting little shadows across the wall with every move it made. Like it was alive.

But she ignored it.

Dog-eared pages didn't exist in her books. The stories themselves were important, so much that the last handled page would be carved into her soft gaze. No folds, creases, bookmarks. Just a plain number stored away until the time came for its return. It was as though she'd put it on pause for little more than a moment, only to pick it right back up again with all the memories of the last read.

Concentration had decided to elude her tonight, to play an unfriendly game of chase. And so the notions in her head were turned out with the light.

Sitting there, feeling lonely in the dark, it dawned on her. Peace should have taken her over days ago, if not weeks, but there was nothing peaceful about the way she was living. She must have been happy for a time, she knew this to be true, but it seemed to have been sifted right out of her world, like tea through a strainer. It was like running laps around a blank track, not knowing which point on the gravel was the starting line. Of course, there was always a crisp image in her mind as she wondered.

Him.

Her hands always found him, even when she didn't want to. Tracing his spine through the shirt, silently remembering the way he would move with her, almost calmed.

"You're cold."

Had Retsu anything to say, she would have. But there was only that twinge of doubt in her, the pressing idea that this was just an elaborate infatuation. That, maybe, he wasn't good for her at all.

"Do you remember," Mayuri didn't move to face her, didn't even open his eyes from what she could see, "what I said to you the first time I caught you with that damned book?"

Of course, he'd turned a question, one that might have irritated someone else, into something that made her smile. Even with his foul mouth. It had been the morning she'd covered for Nemu and Uryu to meet with one another. It was impossible not to recall. Retsu remembered that she'd tried to shoo him away, implying that he didn't know how to behave when he'd tried playing keep-away with the very book that sat on the nightstand. And afterward, he must have decided that the appeal she held, the still unnamed source of fascination, was worth coming back for. Even now, she didn't know what had singled her out from the millions of other people in the city. There must have been plenty of people who were more interesting than she.

So what was it that separated her from the rest of them? What was it that had made the number of thirty-something so desirable that they'd been chosen and, in a manner, harvested for their secrets? Why hadn't she been one of them if he was so set on her?

She didn't know how long this had gone on, in days or even weeks. Just that, before, she'd been happier. She'd felt better not knowing who he was, or even that he was alive.

But what was there to say? What could she say, if anything, to convince him that this wasn't what she had thought it to be?

Retsu withdrew her hand, settling it back into her lap. It didn't feel right anymore, touching, or even being close to him. Maybe she'd forced it, acted upon little more than an impulse one night, wanting something, someone, that she couldn't find or even have.

She didn't move, hair swept out of her face. She just stared, not afraid, but wondering what had gone wrong.

They didn't strike her they way they did before, the hue of the mid-morning sun. Not changed, just another idea, another perception, that overwhelmed her. An amber venom. They seemed to darken by the day.

And, though she hated to admit, it didn't mean anything when he touched her.