A/N: And...I'm back! Apologies for the long hiatus—life has been crazy. But I'm hoping to get into a somewhat normal routine of writing again. Key word: hoping.

I can't believe this story hit 100 reviews! Keep 'em coming :)

Tuesday

5:00 a.m.

The alarm blared barely half a second before a gloved hand reached over and turned it off.

He had already been awake. He did not really need an alarm, having the ability to set a mental one the night before. But it was routine, and Uryu liked routine.

He stood up and got ready quickly, eating a plain breakfast of rice and miso soup, the same as every morning. As he ate, he allowed his mind to wander back to yesterday, over the forms he had practiced and the progress he had made. He internally calculated how many more arrows he had shot than the day before, how many more seconds he could keep his bow in existence. He set down his bowl. It was never enough.

After the dishes were meticulously washed and placed neatly to the side to dry, he grabbed some necessarily supplies and headed out the door.

It was still dark as he stepped outside and strode quickly to the end of the street, but he glanced around to make sure he was not being followed. He saw no one—dawn was still far away with not even a sliver of light on the horizon. It would be a while yet before the other inhabitants on his street began to stir and his early-to-bed-early-to-rise elderly neighbor left for her morning walk.

He wrapped his jacket tighter around himself in an attempt to ward off the morning chill. Uryu did not mind the cold usually, but autumn was beginning to make its presence known and even he was not immune.

After confirming that no one was indeed awake to see him, he once again quickened his pace towards the direction of his secret training area, a small clearing not far from the edge of town. It was a place his grandfather had shown him when he was a child, a young Quincy still learning how to hold a bow. After his master's untimely death, he had abandoned it, unable to keep at bay the memories that threatened to overwhelm him whenever he came back. That bastard Ryuken Ishida had a secret training facility in the basement of his house, he knew, but he'd be damned before he asked that good-for-nothing poor-excuse-for-a-Quincy for help.

After Rukia had been taken and he had been soundly beaten by her would-be kidnappers, he returned for the first time, alone—humiliated and searching for a way to redeem himself. The memories of Soken Ishida were still tinged with grief and bitterness, but this time they encouraged him instead of crippling him. He had pulled out the box he had been given so many years ago and been sternly instructed only to use when he was ready—when the time called for it. The recent humiliation still fresh in the Quincy's mind, he had thought that there would never be a better time than right now, never be a better reason than this, and he deftly unhooked the delicate clasp that had held it shut. When he picked up the glove and ran his fingers over the soft fabric, the memories that besieged him were so powerful he felt that he could hear Soken's voice in his head, offering him encouragement and gentle admonishment in equal measure.

Looking down at his gloved hand now, he thought back to that encounter on that street that had left him unconscious and bleeding out on the sidewalk. Before the mere memory would have left him simmering with rage, but now he examined it, devoid of emotion. His reasons for training then were not his reasons now. His quarrels with the soul reapers were more or less settled for the present, his grandfather and the rest of his kinsmen more or less avenged with the defeat of Kurotsuchi. He had even managed to leave the Soul Society with tentative allies, something that would have been inconceivable to him before, considering he had entered it with a heart full of hatred and a mind whirring with plans for vengeance.

How blinded by concern for that soul reaper woman Ichigo must have been not to see that. How readily he had accepted Uryu's offer of help early that morning outside Urahara's shop. They had set off for the Soul Society together, three men and a talking cat, each with their own reasons for going. No one had questioned Uryu's.

But his motives now were purer and no longer fueled by righteous anger. There was a war coming, Uryu knew, had felt it with the arrival of those hollow-not-hollow monsters.

Uryu would play his part in protecting this town, not because he had anyone to protect but because it was his duty as a Quincy and as Soken's legacy. As he thought this, however, an image of Orihime came unbidden to his mind, as it had more frequently lately. He pushed it away, unwilling to think about the consequences of how the orange-haired girl made him feel.

He pulled back an arrow and released it swiftly. And then another and another, quickly getting into his familiar routine.

Uryu Ishida liked routine. He depended on it.

Friday

6:12 p.m.

A little over a month had passed since Ichigo Kurosaki had become an honorary member of the vizard family. A month of rigorous training, of early mornings and late nights, of countless masks formed and broken and formed again a moment later, of being knocked to the ground and springing up within seconds, of bloodstains on his hakama and droplets of sweat forming trails from his forehead to his chin.

His determination had not dampened even the slightest bit, Orihime noted, impressed, as she sat off to the side watching him train with Kensei. Only Hachi sat beside her today, the others keeping themselves occupied cooking dinner or reading magazines or playing video games.

It was impressive not because of the progress he had made through his persistence, but the exact opposite.

Eleven seconds. In one month he had added a mere seven seconds to the amount of time he could hold a mask before it shattered to pieces on his face. Orihime knew Mashiro could fight for more than a day with hers intact, and that was without any training.

And yet, he persevered. Orihime supposed his tenacity was a kind of skill in and of itself.

She found it hard to believe that an entire month had gone by. She didn't know how much longer this would go on for and she didn't dare ask, didn't dare voice the fact that he would eventually be gone. If she said nothing, perhaps he would never leave and she could stay forever in all the nights they washed dishes together and in all the moments her fingers accidentally brushed against his as she helped him with homework.

Orihime was a daydreamer at heart, but she could be a realist sometimes, too. She knew the reason Ichigo was here, the reason Uryu's spiritual pressure was steadily growing, the reason Chad was training with that fiery-haired soul reaper she had met when she wandered into that strange, exciting store. She had not forgotten the shark-toothed grin of the arrancar she had stumbled upon that night. The moments she spent with Ichigo had come at a price, she knew. Her instincts told her more of those creatures would be coming soon, and her heart told her she should be preparing too, if only she knew how.

And she could not ask Rukia for help, either. She had left suddenly, like before, but at least Orihime had gotten a goodbye this time before she flitted off to the Soul Society on "official business."

There were others here now instead, others wearing black hakamas like Ichigo. She saw them sometimes, flitting from house to house, perching on roofs or telephone poles—a bald man with a head so smooth she could see the sun reflected off it, a white-haired boy with a sword he looked much too young to be carrying, and a generously endowed woman with lovely long hair whose chest threatened to spill out from her black robes. Orihime did a double take one weekend when she was out shopping with Tatsuki and Michiru and spotted the same woman dressed in civilian clothes, her bald and obviously irritated companion weighed down by shopping bags. She quickly hurried her confused friends down a side street, furtively checking behind her to see if she had been noticed.

She dodged Tatsuki's and Michiru's comments that she was acting a little stranger than usual by launching into as story about how she once put red bean paste on spaghetti and it was the most delicious thing ever and wouldn't they like to try it, too?

Her friends shrugged and let it slide. After all, Orihime always acted strange.

Wednesday

2:26 p.m.

Ichigo's head met the ground with a throbbing sensation he was quite familiar with. It had been the 6th time this morning alone, and who knew how many times over the past month. He was sparring with Hiyori, and she was certainly not the kind of person to pull punches.

Ichigo was no stranger to pain. In his short sixteen years of life he had endured more than most people would in a lifetime. And that was before he had become a soul reaper. He had the reputation of being a delinquent for a reason, after all.

The Invade-the-Soul-Society-and-Rescue-Rukia chapter of his life had seen him beaten unconscious several times and sustain many terrible life-threatening injuries. He had knocked on death's door more than once, surviving only because someone had been there to mend his broken body every time. He had an ever-growing list of people he was indebted to.

Physical pain was like an old friend to him and he welcomed it because he could never accept the alternative. Because running from it would have meant leaving his sisters to die in the clutches of the Grand Fisher, would have left Karakura Town at the mercy of the Menos Grade, would have sentenced Rukia to a brutal execution at the hands of the Soul Society.

Pain was easy to bear. But he could not bear the deaths of the people he cared about, not when he himself could stop it.

The arrival of the arrancar had harmed countless innocents and threatened many more. So when he felt that familiar, oppressive spiritual pressure spike in his consciousness, it had taken the joint effort of Love and Kensei to hold him back.

"Let me go!" he shouted, struggling to break free from their combined grip.

"Leave it, Ichigo!" Kensei barked back at him. "Isn't this why your friends from the Soul Society are here, for times such as this?"

"And isn't this what I've been training for this whole time?! Don't tell me to stay behind!"

Kensei felt a hand grasp his shoulder. "Let him go," came Shinji's voice from behind him.

"What the hell are you thinking?! Shinji!" The blonde vizard said nothing. Ichigo was already halfway up the stairs.

After a tense moment, a terrifying realization hit him. He took off after the Kurosaki boy, who had already passed through Hachi's barrier.

"Where the hell is Orihime?!"

2:35 p.m.

Ichigo ran. If the track and field coach could have seen him, he would have been put on the team before he even had time to protest.

As it was, he was invisible to the ordinary human eye, so no one noticed as he leapt from building to building, occasionally hardening the spirit particles underneath his feet so he could move even where there was no solid surface to hold him.

He found the arrancar he was looking for loitering above a residential area, eyeing the world at his feet with distaste. His features knitted themselves into a scowl upon spotting Ichigo.

"I've been looking for you, soul reaper," the blue-haired arrancar drawled.

"And I've been looking for you," Ichigo replied coolly. "I'm going to show you how much I've changed since the last time we met."

He released his bankai, and a wall of ink-black darkness swirled about him for several moments before dissipating. He adjusted his grip on his newly transformed sword, which was now pitch-black and significantly thinner.

Grimmjow looked unimpressed. "Did you already forget what happened during our last battle?" he sneered. "Your bankai was useless against me!"

Ichigo had not forgotten. It had been his disastrous battle with Grimmjow that led Ichigo to seek help with the vizard, after all.

They traded standard obligatory insults and Ichigo took the opportunity during the exchange to steel himself. He could feel the energy of other soul reapers and arrancar doing battle around Karakura Town. He didn't know where Orihime was, but trusted that the vizard would look after her and keep her from getting involved in any fights.

His attention focused on Grimmjow, he mentally prepared himself to form his mask, hoping that the arrancar's surprise at his sudden hollowfication would give him an additional advantage. He would need all the help he could get.

He had eleven seconds to defeat him. Somehow, it would have to be enough.