AN: 5/2/20
Some reviewers pointed out to me that I seemed to have forgotten that Orihime was blind in my story. Rereading it, I realized now that I had been a bit careless in how I wrote her scene. I've amended a few things and added a tiny bit to elaborate my thoughts on her sight. Thanks for catching my mistake, guys!
AN: 5/1/20
I thought being stuck working from home would mean I'd have more time to write and do stuff I want to, but somehow it means less…I can't imagine parents who also have to deal with homeschooling their kids in this situation as well. Props to any parents out there!
To be honest, this entire chapter had started out as a few paragraphs at the beginning of what I had intended to write. But then I had more ideas and began expanding and realized the chapter was ballooning to almost 10k words, so the intro got cut out to become its own thing.
The good news is that the next chapter is on its way as well, but it still needs a bit of cooking before it's ready to taste. I find I need some time away from my own writing to be able to see the holes and try to fill them.
Let me know what you guys think, I'm moving things along at my own pace as usual.
War was not unheard of for the Quincy. One could say that the entire history of the Quincy was based around war before it all ended abruptly at the hands of the Shinigami. Yet even for a people whose very existence was to serve as instruments of battle, there had been times where the conflicts had escalated enough for it to stand out in memory.
Charismatic leaders would pop up every so often to rally the splintered ragtag clan of spiritual archers to march off onto one holy crusade or another. The drums of war would beat loudly with the promise of freedom from the Hollow threat forever. None of them ever succeeded in fulfilling that promise; that would require an end to humanity, both the food and source of new foot soldiers for the spiritual monsters.
Ishida had read up on the historical accounts of the half dozen unsuccessful crusades under the tutelage of his late grandfather. He had taken away the only lesson worth remembering from the failures of his forefathers. Nothing good ever came from war.
Being the last of a handful of Quincys left in the modern era, he did not think he would ever be involved in a conflict of a scale worth remembering. There just wasn't enough of their dwindling numbers to rally to such a foolish endeavor. And even if enough of his distant kin wanted to make war with the Hollow, Ishida wasn't interested.
The estranged son of Ryuken Ishida had been content to merely learn the skills his grandfather had sought to pass on. He felt duty-bound to carry on the traditions of his people, traditions his father had all but spat on. Still, Uryu had never thought his skills would be used in a conflict so similar to the ones he had scoffed at in his history lessons.
Destiny had a funny way of kicking you in the balls like that.
"My kind hates you. I mean, we really hate you. If we put our hatred on a scale of 1 to 10, Shinigami would rate an 8. Hell, maybe even a 9 depending on who you ask. You Quincy? You fuckers are a solid 11."
Said Quincy grimaced, fighting the urge to sit down. He was so damn tired after chasing down the group of Hollows that had attacked some unfortunate victims that lived in the outer districts. Underpatrolled and far from help, the poor souls trapped in the outer fringes of Rukongai were often victims of Hollow incursions into Soul Society even before the war broke out.
The only positive thing to come from open warfare between the Shinigami and Hollows was the increased patrols into the lower numbered regions. It still wasn't enough, but it was something. Uryu had volunteered to be on rotation with the squads sent out along with Chad, Inoue, and Ichigo, wanting to do his part in the conflict Aizen had started. Most of the time, they arrived too late to save anyone.
This time had been no different, his patrol had arrived to rescue corpses; the only thing they could do was avenge the fallen. The ensuing fight had hardly been the most taxing, but it had taken up a lot of Ishida's energy. Only after he had drained his reserves did he discover the fact that the attacking Hollows had merely been bait.
Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez cut a tall, lithe figure, his muscular frame overshadowed by many of his larger brethren. Yet it was the blue-haired Arrancar who had the number six carved on his lower back and not they, and for good reason as Ishida had come to find out. The numero seis Espada fought with wild savagery, instincts guiding his blade more than skill. But for the purpose of this ambush, it had been more than enough to compensate for any shortcomings he had from a lack of formal training in swordsmanship.
The half dozen unseated members of squad 11 that had joined Ishida in responding to the reports of attacking Hollows had learned that the hard way. Ishida had enough left in the tank to run at the start of the fight, but he couldn't leave those men to the mercy of the Espada in good conscience. Unfortunately, his presence had merely prolonged their lives for a few minutes before the inevitable happened. And now he was too damn exhausted to make a run for it himself.
'Dad was right,' Ishida thought to himself bitterly. 'Being a hero doesn't pay as well as being a doctor.'
A finger-sized hole had drilled through Grimmjow's right thigh, the gory wound weeping crimson rivulets down his white pants, leaving bloody splotches on the fabric. Ishida had punctured his opponent's body with a dozen such injuries throughout their skirmish despite the evolved Hollow's impressive defenses. Regrettably, he could see that most of the wounds were already healed over, barely leaving a scar behind. All Hollows had regenerative abilities to some extent, but Grimmjow was a freak of nature even by their standards.
The blood leaking from Ishida's temple into his left eye was somewhat annoying, but not quite as irritating as the Espada standing across from him. The human's bow hand ached from a brutal kick he had barely blocked, the skin to the fingertips of his free hand reduced to mincemeat from the constant drawing of his bowstring. Ishida really hoped reinforcement arrived soon, this wasn't a fight he could finish on his own given his current state.
"The Shinigami might hunt us and kill us, but at the end of the day, our existence ends up back in the cycle like it was meant to be. You unnatural fucks aren't satisfied with just killing us, you have to erase our existence from reality. You know how fucked up that is?"
The glare Grimmjow leveled at him from across the battlefield could have set flame to marble. He wasn't kidding about that grudge Hollows held against the Quincy.
"Does it matter where your soul ends up if you don't exist in a form to remember your past life?" Ishida asked rhetorically, taking the pause in battle to push his glasses a bit further up his nose.
His vision doubled for a moment, a sure sign that the blood loss from the few wounds he had taken so far was slowly getting to him. Unlike Grimmjow, the human possessed no special regenerative powers.
The opposing warrior shrugged. "Yeah, it kinda does to me since it's my soul we're talking about here."
Ishida sighed, unable to reconcile the fact that he was having a debate on the morality of Quincy powers with a Hollow of all things. "We fight with the weapons we have. These were the powers I was born with, and I will use them to defend my friends, family, and home. If Hollows didn't attack humans, there would be no need for the Quincy."
Grimmjow cocked his head to the side, before shrugging again. "I guess it doesn't matter one way or another. I hear you're the last real Quincy left in the world. Rest of them fuckers may carry your clans' blood, but most are untrained half bastards with little of the gift. I'll be going down in the history books as the Hollow who put an end to the scourge that nearly broke the balance of souls."
The last Quincy scowled at his enemy's declaration. Like he hadn't heard that one before. "And I will make sure they record your name in the history books as the man who tried and failed when I kill you."
The Arrancar grinned, face alight with excitement at the prospect of battle. "That's what I like to hear. It wouldn't be as fun if you just laid down without fighting back."
Drawing his blade, the feral man formed a claw with his free hand, pressing it against the side of the edged weapon. The blade glowed blue, power surging around the Hollow's formidable figure. Swiping his hand down the length of his sword, Grimmjow opened his mouth and howled his declaration to the heavens.
"Grind! Pantera!"
Ishida tensed at the explosive rise in reiatsu from the enemy. Swiftly drawing his bow back, he unleashed a hail of bolts at the Espada, hoping to capitalize on the temporary incapacitated Hollow caught in the middle of transforming.
The explosion of dust kicked up between Grimmjow's release, and the powerful preemptive strike from Ishida obscured the two combatants. The entire area hummed with untamed energy as whole parts of the landscape were simply gouged out and hurled through the air by the opposing reiatsu forces' unpredictable clash.
Ishida reached out with his senses when his eyes could not pick up the enemy. He tried searching for any sign of his foe, but nothing registered. A dull hum had blanketed his spiritual receptors, blinding him to everything around him, similar to being exposed to too bright a light and temporarily losing your vision.
He flinched as he felt a sharp alien pain cut through his abdomen. In his many battles since the start of the war, Ishida had suffered many different injuries. He had experience being cut, stabbed, having his bones broken, his flesh scorched, his throat crushed, even suffered the horrifying feeling of drowning. But this, this was a new kind of pain he was unfamiliar with.
Blood spewed from his mouth in a violent cough, the dark crimson fluid painting the ground before him scarlet. Ishida glanced down in shock at the dark clawed hand that jutted out from his stomach. His intestines screamed at the strange feeling of having a fist shoved through his back and out his front, the macabre scene not quite registering in his mind.
"Shi..i..t.." he mumbled in disbelief, barely able to get the word out through the shock.
The excruciating pain exploded tenfold as the appendage was unceremoniously torn out his back. Ishida lost all feeling from the waist down as he collapsed onto his knees, hands clutching weakly at the mortal wound.
'It sure is odd holding your own intestines,' he thought, perplexed by the odd out of body experience he was currently witnessing.
Seemingly from a long distance away, the human felt his body fly through the air from a disdainful kick from his killer, the pain barely registering. The excruciating agony from his mangled innards dulled his senses to anything else, color bleeding from the world as his heart continued to pump lifeblood out from his wounds.
The sneering face of the blue-haired panther Hollow swam into focus for a brief moment. His brain barely registered the clammy clawed hand holding up his head by the jaw. Grimmjow's hair was a lighter shade of blue, the wild spiky locks now falling well past his shoulders. His teeth had elongated into fangs, the broken piece of the mask on his right cheek transformed into a bone crown on his forehead.
Yet despite all the physical changes, the Arrancar's electric blue eyes still held the same contempt that had been there the entire battle.
"Goodbye, Last Quincy. I'll be sure to put in the history books that you tried to win."
As darkness swallowed his vision, the last thing Ishida saw was the faded six on Grimmjow's back as he left him there to die.
SCENE BREAK
Ishida flinched, fingers halting in the middle of the email he had been composing. The phantom pain of a disembodied limb tearing through his gut still struck unexpectedly every once in a while. Objectively he knew it was all mental. His body had been healed back to perfection despite the horrendous injury he had suffered at Grimmjow's hands. He'd even managed to get his revenge later in the war, leaving his rival in a pool of his own blood in a similar fashion.
But even ten years after the war, he could not shake the terrible picture of a bloodstained inhuman appendage sticking out through his belly. Inoue may have made his body whole again, but even she could not erase the traumatic memory of being eviscerated.
Pushing himself back from the desk, the neurosurgeon closed his eyes, breathing deep through his nose and counting backward from ten. It was a little ritual he had created for himself after the war to help with the anxiety attacks that had followed his return to normalcy. It had worked for the most part, the only thing that still remained was the occasional episode involving the visceral flashback of being disemboweled through his spine.
Ishida wouldn't complain. He'd take whatever he could after having helped bury so many comrades who had been less fortunate.
Picking up the mug of tea from his desk, Ishida stepped over to the window view of his temporary Manhattan office, taking in the grand sight of the towering skyscrapers. Ant-like people hurried along at the street level below, the rude blaring of horns between impatient New York drivers stuck in traffic audible even fifty floors up. It really was very different from Japan, a quiet place of respect and order. But once he managed to look past the filth on the streets and occasional rudeness of the natives, the Big Apple did have a certain gritty charm to it.
He had been invited to consult on a few high complication cases at the New York Hospital during his temporary stay. Being a man who disliked being idle, he had agreed readily enough. Ishida was supposed to be speaking at the medical conference nearby anyway, why not take on a few cases while he was temporarily stuck here in the United States?
Frowning at the bitterness of the cold tea, Ishida sighed regretfully and dumped the contents of his mug into a potted plant by the window.
Ten years had changed him very little, Ishida had become a neurosurgeon because his father had been right all along about the pay. He'd chosen to study neurosurgery simply to be different from his father. Reluctant though he had been to follow in his father's footsteps, somewhere along the way of saving lives, he had gained the reputation of being one of the best in the field. It wasn't entirely untrue, but there were plenty of surgeons of his caliber when comparing skill.
His medical peers simply hadn't been as driven to take on the high-risk profiles that would tarnish their reputation of infallibility should they fail. In the cliquish world of neurology, a perfect record was the holy grail most surgeons chased after. But Ishida had no such concerns, he had become a doctor to save lives, not get compliments. Perhaps that was the reason why his rise had been so astronomical despite his youth.
The only man who could claim the same level of fame was Dr. Stephan Strange, but by all accounts, he was an arrogant asshole who thought himself a god amongst brain surgeons. Ishida was a cold asshole, very different in his humble opinion. Unfortunately, Uryu would have to be dealing with the prideful man face to face soon enough. Dr. Strange was one of the three speakers invited to the same panel Ishida would be speaking on.
The buzz of his phone from his desk alerted him to a text message. Wandering over, Ishida sat down to glance at the screen and did a double-take at who the sender was.
Ichigo never texted him. It was always an abrupt call for a favor or asking his opinion on something medical-related. He stared at the flashing notification alerting him to the single unread text on his phone, Ichigo's name blinking insistently up at him.
"Don't do it Uryu," he muttered, drumming his fingers on the desk as he glared at the offending piece of technology. "Nothing good is going to come out of this."
He tried, he really did. But curiosity won out in the end, and he punched in the pin to his phone with a quiet curse.
I canceled my conference ticket.
That was it. Nothing else.
His gut churned painfully as he stared down at the simple message. Innocent enough for anyone who read it and did not understand the possible implications. The Quincy's thumbs hovered over the digital keyboard, but the words didn't come.
Ishida tossed the phone aside with a frustrated snarl.
He knew it. He fucking knew it!
The moment he had found that woman with some inkling of spiritual power spying on Ichigo, a small voice in the back of his head had sounded an alarm. The brief unexplained spikes in power throughout the past week had done little to calm that voice. Even without saying anything else, Ishida knew Ichigo was getting involved in something best left alone.
Opening the side of the borrowed desk, the irritated neurosurgeon snatched up the bottle of 25-year-old Dalmore Scotch by the neck. It had been a personal gift from the Head of the Neurosurgery Department when Ishida had agreed to consult on the baffling case that had stumped his team. Popping off the cork to the expensive container, he poured a healthy portion into a glass tumbler.
Emptying the old fashioned glass in one go, he placed the tumbler back on the table with a trembling hand. The fiery liquid raced down his throat like smooth molten lava, igniting a flame in his belly that echoed the pain of the wound Grimmjow had left on his psyche.
Ghosts of battles past came flooding past the dams he had so carefully built. The guttural howls of monstrous foes mingled with the sorrowful weeping of dying humans, echoed in his ear, filling Ishida with dread. A dull stabbing ache began a steady beat in his temple, the painful pulsation building up along with the scream threatening to spill from his lips. Ishida could feel his teeth grinding unconsciously, tasting the blood in his mouth.
The five-star pendant chain fell from its hidden pocket in his sleeve, the Quincy wrapped the rosary around his fist, pressing the cold metal against his trembling lips. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, holding his breath for a count of ten, willing away the unwanted memories.
The rapid thump of his heart sounded in his ear. He waited for it to slow, exhaling and inhaling at ten-second intervals, losing himself mentally to the simple arithmetic task. Slowly, the clamoring began to lower in volume, fading into the mists of the past where they belonged, best forgotten.
When Ishida opened his eyes again, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows had given way to the salmon skies of the evening, the sun no longer visible on the horizon. His throat hurt, his bow finger itched, and his gut still burned with fiery pain, the phantom limb of a long-dead enemy threatening to overtake his present.
But his heartbeat was steady once more.
Unwinding the pendant, he held it up in the air, captivated by the light reflecting off the jewelry. This symbol had meant something to him once, he had been proud of his heritage. That feeling had slowly ebbed away through the years of constant battles with Aizen's forces. By the time the madman had fallen, Ishida had come to understand his father's personal philosophy a lot more than he ever wanted to admit.
Despite his cooled feelings towards his heritage, Ishida had nonetheless gathered the few who shared his blood after returning from war to train them. Foolish as he thought the war was, he now understood that sometimes people weren't given a choice. The war had done nothing to change his mind on the competency of the Shinigami. If another threat reared its head, someone had to be ready to fight.
Because no one else seemed to be doing anything about it, Ishida had taken it upon himself to rebuild the Quincy. Even after a decade, his fledgling organization barely numbered in the twenties; most of their members' skills weaker than when he had been as a child training under his grandfather.
Uryu had always known that something would come along again. Perhaps not in his lifetime, but eventually, some maniac would try to pull off what Aizen had failed to do. Or worse, come up with an even more ridiculous reason to turn the world into living hell.
This was what he had trained his people for, wasn't it? That eventuality of conflict. But they weren't ready, not quite yet. He needed to buy them more time, give them room to grow before they faced a real threat.
It would seem that the Last Quincy had not hung up his bow for good as he had hoped.
Ishida picked up the phone at his desk and dialed the assistant he had been given during his temporary stay.
"Karen, please cancel all my meetings tomorrow. I will be away this weekend and let everyone know that I will most likely not have access to communication of any sort. I'll be in touch once I'm back in town."
Hearing an affirmative from the young woman, he thanked her and hung up the landline. Filling the tumbler with another double fingers worth of Scotch, he took his personal phone over to the window. He watched the darkness creep across the sky, the dark purple horizon slowly eaten up by a terrible blackness punctuated by a half crescent moon. It was an apt physical metaphor for the encroaching forces of darkness that threatened their world, befitting his dour mood.
Finishing the drink, Ishida pulled up the messaging app on his phone and began typing.
Scene Break
Yasutora Sado was his birth name, but most of the time, he preferred to go by Chad. His grandfather had given him that nickname, he had not cared for it at first, but he had come to use it as a teenager to honor the man who taught him kindness. Later in life, the name had taken on another meaning for others around him.
Champion.
A gloved fist shot towards his head, but despite the speed of the attack, it was hardly the fastest punch the half Mexican giant had seen. He dipped his head to the side, leaving just enough room for the blow to miss his temple by a hair.
Follow up jabs blew towards his head in a lightning-fast motion that was probably a blur to the untrained eye of the audience cheering from the stands. Chad bobbed and weaved, keeping his hands up in a guard position just in case his reflexes failed him. But as usual, it was not needed. Despite his opponent being a world-class fighter who had held multiple championship belts at a lower weight class, he still wasn't someone who could make Chad work too hard.
Flicking his left hand up, he deflected a retracting limb, forcing a slight opening in his opponent's guard. Chad punished the minuscule opportunity with a ferocious right-hand cannon. Boxing commentators at his matches liked to repeat the phrase, "One Hit One Kill." It was simple, catchy, and a relatively good description of the miracles he pulled in the square cage.
They had no idea how easily he could kill someone with one blow if he really tried.
Chad had to give the Russian champion credit; he had nearly managed to put up his own guard against the hit. But almost wasn't going to cut it when Chad was the one throwing the punch. He may as well have hit the Russian with a baseball bat.
The challenger dropped on his back, his entire body rigid as if he had been shot with a stun gun. His eyes were blank and unseeing despite still being open; even from where Chad stood, he could see the man was clearly unconscious. His fists were still held up in a partial guard despite the flooring punch he had just eaten. Comically, his hands even jabbed out occasionally, despite the fighter being completely poleaxed. Sadly, it was unlikely the rest of the challenger's body would be able to respond to his ferocious fighting spirit.
Another man's dreams and unbroken record shattered by the strong fist of El Gigante Japonés, the reigning unified heavyweight champion of the world. Chad didn't even bother waiting for the full count, he'd fought enough battles to know when he had won. He leaned casually against his corner, elbows resting on the ropes, soaking in the sounds and sights of the screaming crowds. Despite the lackluster opponent, Chad would look back on this night fondly.
The deafening roar of the audience signaled the end to the 32nd defense of his world title. Another KO added to his tally of 43 knockout wins, furthering the legend of El Gigante Japonés, the uncrowned knockout king of the world.
He waved at the cheering masses, accepting the happy embrace of his coach, an elderly man whose fading fortunes had turned around when he had met Chad. His trainer hardly had to do a thing other than to help Chad with conditioning in preparation for his matches. Having the undefeated Heavyweight Champion of the world representing his gym had done wonders for his business.
It took a while to push through the rejoicing crowd. Chad stoically endured the pats and shouts of his supporters as he marched back to the waiting room under the careful guard of the arena security team. It invoked feelings of nostalgia as the noise faded away when he finally entered the hallway away from the bright lights of the stadium.
Alone at last in the locker room, Chad allowed himself a sigh of relief in the silence. Opening his locker, he picked up his cellphone and dialed the love of his life.
"Another KO for the Knockout King, huh?" Jackie asked, her low husky voice sending a shiver up his spine.
There were many things he loved about the woman who had chosen to share her life with him, but her voice set fire to his soul, unlike anything ever had. His vixen knew that and took every opportunity to tease him with her delicate purr.
"Another victory dedicated to the love of my life," he deadpanned humorously before taking a long sip from a bottle of chilled spring water. "And how is my angel doing this evening? I missed seeing you by the ringside. All the cheers in the world hold little meaning to me without you by my side."
"You know why I wasn't there," she responded quietly after a pregnant pause. "I meant what I said, I'm done seeing my man get hit. No amount of money is worth that. Have you given what we talked about more thought?"
The giant smiled at the concern in his wife's voice, envisioning her biting her lip as was her habit when concerned. "Yes, if you haven't watched my match, then perhaps you should tune in now. The reporters will be coming for my interview soon, I can say they will be in for quite a shock."
"I knew I married you for a reason," Jackie murmured affectionately, sending another shiver down his spine. "Come home to me, Chad. I can think of a good way to reward you for being so kind to your wife's whims."
Chad chuckled, unable to deny the stir of excitement at his loins. "Soon, Mi Amor. Soon. I promise."
A contented noise came through the line. It was amazing how that woman could sexualize the sound of her voice, hinting and suggesting without ever saying anything aloud. A kiss through the phone was his only response before she hung up.
They were not a couple prone to long farewells, both having fought in a war that had seen them say goodbye for the final time too many times to take lightly. That word was taboo in their relationship, there was a finality to it that they couldn't bring themselves to utter.
He put the cellphone down, draining the rest of the bottle of water. A knock on the changing room interrupted his after fight meditation, his trainer coming in after forcibly shutting the door in the faces of the clamoring reporters.
Allen Fonzo was a man well into his fifties, half grayed with a kind face covered in stress lines that separated his features into wrinkled valleys. He was a generous older man who owned a hybrid boxing center in Chad's hometown in California. Growing up in a town where many troubled kids ended up in jail, he had opened his gym in the hopes of providing an outlet for frustrated youths.
For years he had survived under the threat of losing everything, etching out enough to make a living if not a comfortable one. But he had been determined to make a change, and slowly the difference began to be seen. The community saw a drop in youth crime, kids began to graduate from high school more. Some even became professional boxers, although none had ever made it onto the world stage.
That had all changed when Chad signed up for his gym a little over a decade ago. Allen knew from his own days as a professional boxer that an undiscovered titan in the sport had just stepped through his doors when he first laid eyes on Chad. It hadn't taken much to convince the half Mexican to take a few swings at the sandbag.
The rest, as they say, was history.
"Good gracious, they are ravenous tonight after your first-round knockout win. It's hardly the first time you've pulled that off, but you'd think you managed to set some world record with the way they're acting!"
Chad chuckled, raising his drink to toast the man who had introduced him to the world of professional boxing. "Will you miss the after fight interrogations?"
The older man chortled, the jovial sound full of life. "What? Miss telling those jackals about how I hardly do anything for my champion? Not one bit! Are you ready to drop your bombshell on those philistines? There will be an outcry for blood when word gets out."
Allen waved his calloused hands in the air as if he could see neon lights before his eyes. "The most promising champion of our generation retired before his prime! Retired two knockouts short of eclipsing Tyson's record, leaving the world to forever wonder what could have been. They'll be hounding me until the grave about where it all went wrong!"
Chad could not help but laugh aloud. Indeed it would probably play out as his trainer had said. But he had made his decision. Jackie had never liked his choice to fight to supplement their income, but she had kept her peace, knowing that it had served as an outlet for him after the war.
They had each found their own coping mechanisms for their demons, Chad in the ring, Jackie in the classroom with the younglings who needed nurturing. And for the past few years, things had worked out quite well. Life had settled, and they were happy with the familiarity of routines that came with married life.
But that had all changed when they had received the unexpected news that Jackie was with child.
They had never thought of having children and had been careful to avoid that situation. But even the best precautions could not beat out mother nature, it seems. After talking things over, they decided that fate must have seen fit to give them a child. Who were they to deny the chance to be parents?
Jackie had been adamant that Chad finishes up his career as a boxer now that they were to be expectant parents, and in truth, he had grown tired of the ring. The money was good, but he had plenty of it now. His construction company was more than enough to keep his family in good financial standing even if all the prize money were to vanish tomorrow.
The fighters he faced became more skilled as his fame grew, but despite the added challenge, it still wasn't the same. The excitement of battle could not be replicated in the safety of the square ring with its civilized rules and breaks to catch their breaths. It could not compare to the adrenaline-fueled death matches from the war he experienced in his youth.
He had spent years chasing that rush, pursuing that feeling of invincibility that came with standing over the cooling corpse of your foe as the undeniable victor. Chad realized for some time now that it would most likely never come back, and that was perhaps a good thing. He was done reminiscing about the past. It was time to hang up the gloves for good and put this chapter of his life behind him. Time to focus on his family and their future.
"Jackie has a way of convincing me to see things her way," he said, crushing the plastic bottle and tossing it into the wastebin across the room.
"Hmm. Well, happy wife, happy life, they say. A more truthful saying you will never find! Shall we go shock the boxing world?"
A rattle from his phone drew Chad's eye away from his coach. Ishida's name popping up as the sender of the text caused a raised eyebrow of unease. They never texted. None of them did, they'd just call if they needed to get in touch.
"Could you hold them off for a bit longer? I may need to take a call," Chad said distractedly.
His trainer sighed but smiled cheerily nonetheless. "Only because this is your last fight, Chad!"
Allen gave the brawler's meaty shoulder a friendly punch before leaving to brave the crowd of ravenous reporters once more. Chad waited until the door shut before he turned his attention to his phone.
The text was short and cryptic, yet the words struck him with a weight his opponent had failed to bring into their one -sided bout tonight. A chill ran down the giant's spine as the implications of his old friend's message took root.
The large man stood in stillness, staring down at his phone in resignation. Heaving a deep sigh, he rested the back of his head against the icy wall, turning his eyes to the ceiling. The phone slipped from his nerveless fingers onto the wooden bench with a small clatter.
Chad turned his gaze down at his big hand, examining them closely. The large shovel-like paws were a light brown, inherited from his Latin American lineage. Scars marred the skin, the protruding stone-like knuckles especially disfigured from years of being used as blunt weapons. These two hands had earned him money in the ring, work in the field, and dealt death in a war. He tightened them into fists, allowing the dormant power he had ignored for so long to slither out from the darkest recesses of his soul.
Like the first hit of a drug after a decade of abstinence, the overwhelming intoxicating feeling of power erased all doubts. The dull, angry roar of his inner demon howled a victorious cry, freed at last from the prison Chad had buried it in. As always, touching his Hollow born powers stirred the darker emotions within him, something he hadn't confronted in so long.
The skin on his left hand turned a ghostly white, creeping up the arm even as the limb on his right side turned pitch black. In the blink of an eye, his appendages had transformed into the signature weapons that earned him the nickname The Giant Slayer during the Winter War.
These two fists had slept so long in the times of peace, yet they slipped back on like an old comfortable pair of gloves. He threw a few jabs, testing the feel of his swings. Without thought, his body fell into old deadly patterns that he had stopped using when he began boxing. The air cut with harsh snaps from the rapid blows he threw, each empty strike increasing the heavy thump of his heart, blood pounding frantically in his ear.
This was what had been missing. A punch thrown without power was no punch at all.
He had forgotten who he was during his time playing at fighting. The half Japanese giant was a man who had caved in skulls with these fists. The punches of those who only trained for competition in the ring were light in comparison.
Of course, he would get bored facing men who only tried to win. When you had held life and death in your own hands, everything else was just a juvenile game in comparison.
The very atmosphere in the locker room hummed with exuded power, the furniture, and metal storage units in the room vibrating in response. A mirror shattered, the sound snapping the half Mexican out of his drunken stupor. The glass shards on the reflective surface had cracked and splintered with spiderweb grooves under the stress of his rising reiatsu. A startled glance at it showed a warped reflection of Chad's twin scowling darkly back at him.
His twisted features brought him back to reality. That ugly look had not graced his face for over a decade, not since the battles had ended. Not since he had promised himself to Jackie.
'It seems I will not be coming home as soon as I thought, Mi Amor,' he thought morosely.
The large man allowed his power to fade, the arms returning to their human forms dormant once more until they were called upon again. But deep within himself, Chad could still hear the hungry growl of the creature that was his other half. He had unchained the beast he had starved for so long, he would need to beat it back into submission.
Standing up, he marched to the exit of the locker room, determined to get through the interviews as fast as humanly possible. Chad had thought this chapter of his life was closing for a better one, but it would seem that destiny had other things in store for him.
Scene Break
Orihime gently wiped the brow of the feverish man lying on the straw mat before her, soothing his hallucination induced babbling with gentle meaningless words. The rag came away bloody, the metallic coppery tang thick enough to taste in the air.
She rinsed the rag in the basin of water by his bedside. The liquid inside was a light shade of brown from the blood that had poured endlessly from his orifices. Ebola was a horrible disease, one that had ravished the poor villages of Africa for years before it had been sensationalized by corporate news. The one saving grace of the deadly illness was that onset of symptoms was so debilitating that the travel of an infected individual was unlikely. The fatal disease rarely spread because the wings of death came too swiftly for those unfortunate enough to be touched by the lethal virus.
The healer had witnessed entire villages devastated and wiped from the face of the earth in a matter of days. Her powers allowed her to restore the human body to its original condition so long as the soul still clung to the mortal shell. But disease, she could not fully combat without great effort, the results often outside her control.
It had taken her years to gain true mastery and understanding over her powers. Some had speculated that her abilities allowed her control over time or perhaps even reality. She never gave it much thought, merely glad she had been gifted with the powers to protect and heal. But it was not until her introduction to the Fullbringers did she learn of the true nature of her talents.
All things had souls, not just living beings. Fullbringers were humans who could draw out the full potential of the soul in the objects that held significance to them or manipulate the soul of anything inorganic to a lesser extent. They could change the nature of things around them to stimulate unnatural behaviors from the very environment. The ground could be enhanced to help their movements, the air could be solidified to allow them to move freely in different dimensions. Nothing inanimate was outside their reach if they applied enough effort.
Some of their kind could even affect the souls of the living to some degree.
Orihime's gifts allowed her to manipulate the souls of all things around her, a more evolved form of the unique Fullbringer capability. Her skills were all centered around the hairpins her dead brother had left her with before he passed away. The power to restore any soul to its base state was what people took to be her ability to heal. The projection of her own soul allowed her to create shields and attack with powers.
When she had first awakened her gifts, she had only been able to focus her attention on one thing at a time. She could heal, she could shield, or she could attack. Throughout the war, she had learned to multitask and eventually to be able to do them all simultaneously and finally in multiples as the wounded piled up.
But it wasn't until she began using her talents to tackle some of the deadliest diseases on the planet did she discover the limitation of her power. Viruses and bacteria were billions of individual cells, well beyond her ability to affect all at once. Small though each particle was, they nonetheless contained their own souls that would need to be extinguished for her to purge a disease from a body.
Even if she had the patience and strength to sit there, extinguishing multiple viral cells at a time, they would multiply far faster than she could destroy. Orihime was not a god, her gifts were still limited by her mortality. The best she could do was heal a body staving off disease. It would be up to a person's immune system to win the fight against the microbial invaders.
But many would succumb nonetheless despite her support. Even as she restored their deteriorating bodies, the virus would continue to grow and multiply until death was the only natural conclusion. Valient though they were, her efforts often only delayed the inevitable.
Wringing the cloth dry, Inoue neatly folded the stained rag and hung it over the edge of the basin. She returned her attention to observing the shivering man on the makeshift bedding the villagers had provided. He would live; she recognized the signs of recovery in him. At this point, even without her aid, he would very likely make a full recovery.
But now came the second part of her self assigned duties, the one trial that all who received her aid must pass. Everything had its price, it was what kept the balance in the universe from tipping into chaos. Her place and her gifts granted no exceptions.
Orihime touched his clammy brow, focusing her powers intensely and began delving deep into his mind.
She had gained the ability to discern a person's past by touching their mind and brushing against their soul when Aizen had taken her eyes. The madman had been correct in his hypothesis that by robbing her of eyesight, she would learn to develop her spiritual vision to compensate. Ironically, her unseeing eyes could now pierce the veil of existence to see into the true nature of all things.
Inoue's physical vision may be gone, but she gained insight into the mind, the soul, and even parts of reality that were typically hidden away from mortal eyes. If she gazed deep enough upon a person and all they were, she could sometimes catch hints of possible futures. It was both a gift and a curse to gain some semblance of all-knowingness.
But for her current purpose, she did not need to look too deeply, only enough to glimpse into the past. She hypothesized that her ability to see a person's history was a form of soul manipulation involving memory, not so dissimilar from Tsukishima's Book of the End ability. Everything was laid bare before her, no secrets left hidden, no memory allowed to be forgotten.
It took but a moment, but a lifetime of memories flashed before her mind's eye. His good deeds, his sins, his desires, his hope, his dreams. Nothing remained untouched, no stone unturned. It was an exhausting process, but one she felt duty-bound to go through as meticulously as possible before the die is cast.
She frowned when she opened her eyes, mentally reviewing what she had seen.
"How unfortunate," Orihime said quietly as she gazed down sadly at her patient.
Reaching her hand out, she placed it over his heart and applied a gentle touch with a small effort of will.
The beating mechanism that kept his lifeblood flowing reacted to her power. It's constant thumping slowed, dropping to a sluggish pulse. After a few seconds, the distinct thud in his chest had been replaced with a weak, lethargic murmur before falling silent altogether.
As deaths went, it was a peaceful one, the only thing Orihime could grant her victims. Brain death happened at around 6 minutes once blood flow stopped carrying oxygen to the vital organ that housed the conscious part of a person. The rest of the body would soon follow when circulation ceased.
She had held herself together long enough to see the war through, for her friends' sake, if nothing else. Orihime was a broken creature when the final battle abruptly ended, lost both mentally and spiritually. She had drifted away from the others after her time as a prisoner amongst the Espada. No matter how much they tried to connect with her, they couldn't fully understand what she had gone through.
They couldn't understand the pain of accepting motherhood only to have it torn away from you. Or the horrifying shame of feeling the relief of having the sacred duty denied.
Comfort was found in the one thing she was good at, healing. As a young woman barely out of her teens, she had cut all ties to her old life save for the occasional phone call to her loved ones to let them know she was still alive. Orihime had left Japan with the clothes on her back the day Aizen had fallen, not even waiting for the funerals of the fallen.
Peace Corps had been the organization that took her to the worst-hit places in the world. She spent years drifting lost amongst the hungry, poor, weak, and the war-torn people that the developed world tried to forget about. Inoue did her best to help, feeding, building, and healing where she could. When no one watched, she would apply her powers to those who were beyond the reach of conventional medicine.
Through those early years of humanitarian work, she was exposed to both the best and worse sides of humanity. The dichotomy between kindness and evil in the souls' of men painted an unpleasant truth. Desperation led to vile acts being acceptable, previous sins performed by others justifying new atrocities committed in the name of necessity.
Inoue continued to heal despite having these dark contemplations. She kept adding back people into the equation and tried hard to ignore their pain and suffering that came after. Harder to ignore was the pain and suffering some of those she healed inflicted on others for the sake of survival.
Was saving one man who would go on to kill another the right thing? Even if the man he killed had killed dozens of others? Was it her place to decide who lived and who died? Thinking of the cascading consequences of her actions was a road that led to madness. She almost stepped into that pit but was saved by an even bleaker observation.
Her species was one that was, in many ways, not that different from a virus. They took resources endlessly from a host that allowed them to multiply until supplies were so scarce that war was the only solution to solving the logistical nightmare of overpopulation. Ultimately, the host would die, taking the virus down with it unless it managed to spread to a new victim.
Orihime could not escape that singular truth she had come to understand. Resources were finite, but population growth was exponential. Eventually, they would grow to the point where resources could no longer sustain the increase. It was basic math, but people will continue to multiply despite knowing this, leading to a predictable conclusion.
War. Something Inoue was intimately familiar with.
It was the playground for the rise of heroic actions and despicable consequences, giving birth to both the greatest loves and deepest of hatred. With the power to end their entire species sitting in the bases of dozens of militaries around the world, an extinction event was inescapable should they continue down their current path.
Inoue did not know what could be done to prevent the final end from happening. Healing was what she was gifted with, and she did want to ease the suffering in those who did not deserve it. Orihime had decided that to balance the equation and slow the inevitable march towards humanity's end, she would take responsibility for casting judgment on those who received her aid.
The sinful and wicked would be removed from the world by her own hand should they fall under her tender ministrations. It was the only justification she could find to the dilemma of saving people who would go on to exacerbate the problem of depleting the world's resources and leading to nuclear holocaust.
And so she sat and waited, listening as his breaths became more shallow, lips turning blue from the lack of oxygen. There was no struggle, no signs of pain. His chest continued to move, each rise becoming weaker, and each fall remaining still for more extended periods than the one before. At last, all motion ceased.
Still, she continued her vigil. She had to be absolutely sure.
Particles began to drift from his body, the unearthly light only visible to those who had the gift to see reiatsu. The tiny pinpoint balls of fiery energy merged together before his chest, condensing to form a single, snow-white butterfly.
The healer breathed a sigh of relief.
Orihime had always found it ironic that souls bound for the afterlife in Soul Society were black while those headed for purgatory were white. Perhaps it was the universe's perverse sense of humor, or maybe humans simply had their concepts of good and evil backward.
The butterfly fluttered around the body for a moment before dissipating in a small cloud of scattered reiatsu. No doubt bound for the hellish landscape that souls who had sinned too much were sentenced to wander. The balance had almost been even, despite the sins of necessity he had committed, this man had tried his best to do the right things when he could afford to.
But almost good enough was the difference between heaven and hell.
Orihime had lost count of how many men and women had fallen before her. Probably equal to the amount who were given a second chance at life. The healer had sworn an oath to herself that the day a black butterfly flew from the body of someone she ended, she would stop what she was doing.
A small part of her wished desperately for a mistake to be made so that she could end her personal quest. She did not know if she would be able to live with herself on the day a dark butterfly finally rose from one slain by her hand, but so far, she had been flawless.
Standing, the healer reached a hand out to gently close the eyes of her patient before leaving the hut. Perhaps he might have survived on his own without her intervention. Deadly as Ebola was, it wasn't a death sentence. People who contracted the disease would spend a few paralyzed days vomiting blood in feverish delirium while bleeding out of every orifice. A little less than half of them would eventually make a recovery on their own, perhaps this man might have been one of them.
They would never know.
The haggard older looking woman seated outside the hut gazed up at the Japanese woman hopefully before wailing mournfully when Inoue shook her head. She had been warned by Orihime when she had come begging for her dying son's life. Miracles came with a cost, and her son had balanced the equation with his life.
Inoue watched impassively as other village women came up to comfort the grieving mother. Her sobs had turned into howls of denial, her knees hitting the ground as she gestured at the open sky above them.
It was a grim scene she was sadly familiar with, the same situation playing itself out thousands of times over the years with different faces. Sometimes they mourned silently. Sometimes they got angry and raged at Orihime. And sometimes, they simply withered away and followed their loved ones to the grave.
Inoue tried to help those people too, but she could not make a heartbroken soul more willing to live. Willpower was one of the few things that could not be manipulated by outside forces, no matter how powerful the individual. Some things were sovereign.
The gentle rattle of the cellphone she carried alerted her to the reception of a message. Most unusual, there were only a handful of people who had her number, and none of them ever texted. Calling was their usual method of communication, what could have changed?
She listened to the automated voice read aloud the short text message sent by Ishida, mind racing at its implication. Closing the device, she glanced back thoughtfully at the hut that held the body of her late patient. Her work here stemming the tides of invisible death was far from done, but it would seem more significant things were afoot in the world.
Making up her mind, she placed the cellphone back in her pocket.
Slashing her hand in the air, Inoue watched dispassionately as a jagged rift opened, showing her the pure white sands of Hueco Mundo beyond. Stepping through, she did not bother answering the shocked cries of the villagers who watched as she seemingly vanished into thin air before their eyes.
Who would they tell?
They would all be dead in a few days anyways without her there to stem the unending tide of Ebola.
Scene Break
In the darkness of Ishida's office, the only light source was the cellphone he had left behind on the couch. The phone had landed screen up, showing the three dots of rapid typing from the recipients. The screen lights dimmed, making the ominous words barely visible on the illuminated surface.
It's time again.
AN: Avengers assemble anyone? =D Avengers B Team Unite! B for BLEACH! Yeah, ok, I'm done.
For those disappointed that there was no Natasha or Avengers in this chapter, they will be back next update. Promise.
I'd love to hear people's thoughts on the direction I tried to take these characters in. Hopefully, I wasn't too long-winded, but I'd like to assure people there's a reason I'm giving them more backstory.
Leave me a review if you have comments you would like to share.