Chapter Eight: Close Encounters of the Twelfth Kind

Nemu didn't dare say she feared for her "father".

To do so was to doubt his genius, a sin so reprehensible to her that not even a slow and excruciatingly painful death at the hands of her captain would suffice as acceptable punishment. But even so, there had been so many moments in her life that Nemu couldn't easily stamp out her concern over his well-being, and had to struggle between maintaining cold composure and acting on impulse. A struggle she'd told herself numerous times over was unneeded. After all, Mayuri-sama was brilliant. No matter how dire a situation, no matter how poor the information that hindered devising a tactic guaranteed to succeed, her captain always, always, knew how to wiggle his way out.

Though when she did take a pause to recount every single one of those moments where she'd silently fretted for his well-being, she noticed they had all been life-and-death battles. Then why was it, when there was no bloody war to be waged or violent fights to be fought, that Nemu was agonizing over her creator who was currently on vacation? She inwardly sighed, knowing the answer as well as how trivial it sounded regardless of whichever way she presented it to herself. Mayuri-sama was in no physical danger but his current situation indeed threatened his life… or quality of life, to be precise.

She didn't know how this vacation would affect his already sparse sanity – that small smidgen of lucidity, just enough to maintain his position as a captain of the Gotei 13 as well as president of the SRDI. It was that last ounce of his sanity that Nemu could not help but nurse doubts would hold when in such proximity to his fellow captains. All of incredibly stable minds, she didn't question that. Rather, the enemy here was her own father who, for all his incredible genius, was completely bereft of the most basic understanding of social situations. To be thrust into one for two whole weeks, his poor mind could not possibly comprehend such abstractions as "friendliness", "having fun" or even "relaxing".

"So should I worry for him?" she repeated the question for the umpteenth time, though this time it wasn't meant for her mind alone to comprehend. Her straight bangs lightly brush her forehead in the gentle breeze, the smoke from Akon's cigarette dispersing though she could still smell its distinct, pungent scent. The third seat slowly pushed himself off against the wall he was leaning against and walked over to her other side so that he stood downwind from her. To prevent the ash from getting into her eyes, Nemu correctly deduced, though now she couldn't catch whiffs of burning tobacco any more. Not that she missed it, but oddly enough it made her even more profoundly aware of her father's absence.

Mayuri-sama appeared to enjoy cigarette smoke and she didn't understand why. They shared plenty of the same likes, dislikes, hobbies and whatnot, but tobacco was one thing their opinions greatly diverged on. She was apathetic about it. The same obviously could not be said about her captain who, although himself had imposed the very protocols that restricted smoking within the labs, pretended to not know about Akon's very poorly veiled escapes behind the power units. The proximity of a ventilator did not exactly eliminate the tell-tale odors which Akon's already affected sense of smell and taste couldn't pick up. The idea that her master was a passive smoker didn't make much sense to her either because he would already inject himself with incredibly potent chemicals that were a better "fix" than nicotine.

It was difficult to understand, yes, but she didn't question it. If Mayuri-sama didn't say anything, then it was not her place to speak about it either. Although she would still remind Akon of his violations, simply out of duty to maintain the various protocols that kept the lab running smoothly and soundly. Good thing he never listened to her, or Mayuri-sama would have been most displeased.

"If you didn't, then you're not what he expects from you," he said after discarding a spent stick and lighting yet another – his fourteenth one. He was burning through them like he was inhaling air. "We've discussed this before."

"I understand that he expects me to evolve," her green eyes turned toward the sky, clouds invisible in the darkness swallowing the stars that lay scattered in their path. "What does fretting over someone have anything to do with evolution?"

"Well, he's not just anyone to you, is he?" he demanded and Nemu once again went quiet.

He took a long and hard drag before he wedged the shrinking cigarette between his index and middle fingers and severed it from his lips. His hand dropped down to his side, a steady stream of white smoke expelling from his nostrils that disappeared in the soft wind. He was contemplating her question far more deeply than he felt he needed to, and what he had determined was either too much of a mouthful or sounded painfully idiotic regardless of how much truth it held. Perhaps both, she surmised when she saw him unceremoniously tilt back against the wall for the support his suddenly tired frame refused him. The cigarette continued to slowly disintegrate in his fingers.

"Dreams are always grandiose," he began, almost rolling his eyes at the obviously cringe-worthy way he'd chosen to begin his monologue. "They're so far removed from reality that to give them any sort of validation would be to admit that emotions rather than intellect are what dictate thought."

He paused, exhaling deliberately. He really wasn't great at this whole "comforting" thing that even trying to was making him look like a massive fool. Not that Nemu considered him one, nor that she could ever foster such a mean thought about him. But if she weren't the one he was talking to and any other member of the Twelfth Division stumbled into him while he was spouting all this fluff, they'd never let him live it down.

"You know the story," he picked up again, straining to put abstraction into concrete words and phrases. "You start off as a dream, but that doesn't last because the Captain's already touched in the head so he makes you happen all the same. And when you're born, he realizes he'd been hijacked by sentiment all this time, and every logical thought process that led to your creation was obeying that sentiment. He can't deny it, but neither can he afford to acknowledge that this was how he was able to perform a literal scientific miracle. It's irrational, it's illogical, but it's the truth.

"So, if I had to take a leap here, it wouldn't be wrong to say that if he never dreamt, if he never felt a certain way, he wouldn't have come as far as he has now. He'll keep feeling and he'll keep evolving as a scientist. I suppose if you keep feeling too…"

She kept her silence although she had already diverted her gaze from the ink-black sky to her subordinate's fatigued profile. He finally put the cigarette to his lips, the stick having burned away till all that remained was a single drag – he seemed to savor that final puff, smoke billowing out his nostrils and parted mouth.

"I don't think he'll mind it if you call him or something," he said, extinguishing it against the wall. "He'd probably appreciate it even if he pretends otherwise. You'd know better than me, though."

Her eyes followed the discarded butt as it dropped to the ground and was swept away by the wind.

Kurotsuchi felt like screaming.

As soon as he'd woken up he realized he was sitting upright in his bed, sweat dripping down his temple and aggravated breaths escaping his parted mouth. His brain began clearing away the cloudiness that obscured his perception of real and imaginary, recent memories of the nightmare he was having prior to jolting awake rushing to the fore. It didn't take a genius to connect the sparse dots and come to the conclusion that the perspiration and erratic breathing were clear signs of a thorough spook. And it was this very conclusion that both annoyed and enraged the shinigami scientist to no end.

It was getting more and more difficult to explain to himself why his subconscious had placed him in a brightly lit boxing ring in an otherwise empty stadium. He remembered the seats, shrouded in opaque darkness, appeared to be unoccupied, yet his ears were being assaulted by the thunderous roars of a raucous, bloodthirsty crowd. That alone struck intense terror in his heart, but none of that even compared to when an unseen announcer began introducing Kurotsuchi's "opponent". The ground then began trembling, the mat underneath his feet bounding wildly as a great monstrosity emerged from the darkness beyond the ring.

Covered in wild, untamed fur as black as the bleakest night, gleaming teeth and nails several inches long and bared for a gruesome kill that was to follow, and the grotesque heads of a panther and a wolf perched atop powerful, wide shoulders. A beast so mythical in size and constitution would have been met with great intrigue and enthusiasm if Mayuri ever encountered it in real life. But according to the logic of his dream, where he was strangely without or possibly unaware of his shinigami talents and tactical wit, he felt nothing but profound, numbing fear.

That was until he'd heard a familiar voice, quiet and subdued amidst the ghosts' screeching but slowly gaining volume and force, drift in from afar. It was a voice he didn't realize he'd been yearning to hear, and for a moment his desire to see that voice materialize into the image of the one person it belonged to overpowered the terror that had seized his body. He had whipped around, his eyes searching desperately through the darkness for the wielder of that voice until he finally spotted a faint outline in the shrouded spectators' seats.

He didn't know what name he wanted to call out – it had completely escaped him. But it didn't matter for the silhouette began making its way with leaden steps through the shadows toward the ring of light, voice amplifying as the distance between the two shrunk ever so slowly. And it was when the shape was at the border, a hand adorned with a fingerless white glove penetrating the curtain of light and reaching out across the air, that the distant hum took the form of clear, succinct words.

"Mayuri-sama! Look out!"

It was as if reality came crashing down on him. Spinning on his heels, Kurotsuchi caught the briefest glimpse of the chimera straining against the ropes that had been stretched to their absolute limit. It then released its foothold and the ropes snapped back, launching the creature straight through the air like an arrow let loose, its distended claws forming the arrowhead. All it took was for him to blink and in the next moment he found himself floating weightlessly, a frozen stream of blood entwined with unraveled entrails painting his flight path.

It was either during the fall or when he hit the mat that he'd jolted awake and was now left with damning confusion over what he had just seen and why. Though given the hour, and the fact that there was someone else other than him occupying the room, Kurotsuchi couldn't exactly throw a fit like he wanted to. Not out of consideration for the boy's peaceful slumber, of course. He knew Toshiro would demand to know what was wrong with him for hollering his top off in the middle of the night. And because he's a smart little shit, he'll correctly conclude that the Twelfth Captain must have had a nightmare, culminating in even further embarrassment none of which Mayuri was ready to endure.

He could always lay back down in his bed simmering, once again counting the seconds until sleep would overcome him even though he knew that wasn't going to happen. Or he could go down into the kitchen to drown himself in alcohol and fall into a blissful stupor. Throwing off the blanket and sliding his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, he was out the room in an instant.

Only when he saw the electric lights of the kitchen spilled out on the carpet from his vantage point at the top of the stairs that he stilled. His eyes narrowed apprehensively at the spot of light, the soft sounds of clinking glass and a cabinet door being closed shut barely falling upon his ears.

'Again?' he thought to himself and then glanced back at his bedroom door, wondering if he really needed the drink if it meant having an unwarranted encounter with whoever it was prowling about in the kitchen so late at night. He didn't need to rattle his brain over said prowler's identity – the Fourth Captain had been a common sight these past two nights. If he chose to descend the stairs and walk into the light, it would be his third encounter with her in a row. And recalling how their last meeting ended with him blushing like a schoolgirl and making a run for it, he wondered if he really needed the booze right now.

Who was he kidding, of course he needed it. Anything was better than turning over restlessly in bed for the next several hours counting Hollows. Besides, he reasoned, there was a possibility that he'd be too intoxication to be able to register what the Fourth Captain might prattle on about.

Having decided that he was completely unafraid for the insane hangover he was setting himself up for, he descended the stairs with a heavy step, partly because he was still groggy and partly because he wanted to give the woman some forewarning of his arrival. Hitting the floor, he turned under the archway and his blood ran cold when his gaze instantly locked upon the small frame, the familiar dark braid stark against her oddly white garb. The dream came rushing back, and with it the silhouette in the stands. Her gloved hand reached out from the shadowy veil concealing the stands, and she spoke, cried out his name.

He blinked, and the spell was broken.

It wasn't her.

It could never be her.

There existed no logical reason for her to be here. Though what hurt him most was how, despite understanding she couldn't possibly be here, his brain – his ingenious, ceaselessly brilliant brain – tricked itself into believing that the woman before him was her. How badly had that dream shook him up? Alarmed and stunned at the same time, he involuntarily let out a small noise that ended as a sputter, announcing to the braided figure that he was finally here.

A placid smile peeked from over her shoulder, and he swore it stiffened as soon as her eyes fell upon him.

"Ah, good to see you, Captain Kurotsuchi," she extended the greeting, a formality of course, shaking the excess water off the apple she had been rinsing in the sink. When she finally turned around, he noticed the non-serrated knife in her other hand that she, for some reason, was holding in a way as if she was ready to stab someone. He didn't like that the blade's tip was pointed right at him. "We missed you at dinner. When did you come back last night?"

Without warning, she took a step toward the table and his heels slid back on instinct, maintaining the prior distance irrespective of the massive marble slab that could seat eight people at a time right between them. In the periphery of his vision he saw that on the table sat an empty glass, a small china plate and a bone-white, unopened bottle of sake. There was also that massive chunk that was missing on one side, no thanks to Captain Komamura's inability to keep a level head around cats.

"Late," he replied, eyes glued to the threatening blade until she finally relinquished her hold on it as well as the apple, setting them down on the empty plate. No longer hostage to his flight-or-fight impulses, his gaze traveled up to meet hers. Her head was tilted to one side, arching a brow as she regarded him with an interest that could only be described as 'clinical'. He knew the look all too well: it's what stared back at him in mirrors, or what was apparent on the faces of SRDI researchers lost deep in their work. He also saw it when Unohana goaded him into letting her examine the number Yoruichi – that tapeworm-infested blight upon the world – had done to his face.

It was now however that he realized he didn't much like being looked at like a… specimen.

"That alternative of yours did a great job," she said, dragging out a chair without breaking her intense, scrutinizing glare. "I don't even see any scarring."

Oh right. She was talking about the number Yoruichi had done to his face. He scoffed, annoyed at being reminded of the embarrassing ordeal and even more so at the fact that she would commend him for as simple a task as mending his flesh. It came so naturally to him – it was his genius alone that allowed him to create the regenerative drug that, beyond all reasonable doubt, was a better option than a needle and suture – that it was almost offensive to tell him "great work."

Of course it was "great work"! He made sure it was!

He must've said that last bit out loud, for she informed him that she didn't doubt it before finally sinking into her chair and busying herself deftly pitting and then slicing the apple into eight equal wedges. Something about the way her slender fingers effortlessly turned the knife to dig out the core didn't sit right with him.

"How much more of it do you have?" she queried, eyes trained on the snack she was preparing herself.

That was a good question. He had brought with him exactly one dose of the serum, meant to fully restore rent flesh, bone and blood vessels provided the brain remained intact, as a precaution in the unlikely scenario he suffer a fatal injury during the course of his damnation here in the mortal world. Even if he were split in two (a very bloody image of an imaginary experience flashed before his eyes, and he felt an unpleasant chill run up his spine), it was enough to completely regrow a new half and continue on as nothing happened.

The flesh supplement was so potent that it could be split into smaller doses to fix comparatively minor injuries. He estimated that he had about three more shots for injuries similar in severity as having his face slashed to ribbons. Suddenly he didn't feel all that confident about his miracle drug if he was going to keep getting hurt at such a rate. Maybe it would do him good to bear any further suffering awaiting him in the next twelve days so long as it wasn't enough to kill him.

Good fucking lord, he gulped. Twelve whole days.

"Enough," whether he had answered or dismissed her query was for her to decide; he wasn't feeling all too great and needed a drink. Now.

She must have sensed his despair, or at least saw it in the way his frown deepened, and trained her eyes on the bottle of sake. She was lost in deep thought for what to both of them seemed like an eternity (for completely different reasons, of course) before reaching across the table to gently nudge the drink in his direction.

He didn't accept her kindness. Not out of meanness, but because he needed something stronger than that. And if he recalled, Captain Kyoraku had been out hunting for good booze before Mayuri had slipped out for the day.

He made a beeline for the refrigerator, prying the door open to the sound of several glass bottles clinking together, chilled vapors wafting off their cool blue-tinted exterior. He fished one out, twisting off the cap and tipping it to his lips, swallowing a mouthful of the tasteless, smooth liquid that immediately burned its way down his throat. He jerked the bottle away and slapped a hand over his mouth before he involuntarily coughed it all out. Regaining composure, he once again inhaled another swig of what he guessed was vodka, his irritated throat doing much better this time to supply the liquid to his stomach.

"Bless that drunken bastard," he croaked with some difficulty, a warmth spreading into his lungs as he whipped around, slamming the refrigerator door shut with his heel. "He may be a damn fool, but he knows his drink."

"Are you sure about that?" she piped up. He regarded her with an annoyed side-long glance. Her chin rested in one hand while the other precariously dangled a half-eaten apply wedge. "At this hour and on an empty stomach too…?"

"I had leftovers when I came back," he dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand and inhaled from the bottle before grabbing the seat nearest to the fridge, plopping down unceremoniously.

"That looks like some hard stuff, though. Are you certain you can handle it?"

"I hope not."

Unohana raised a quizzical brow at the defiant way he was now chugging the clear liquid, his eyelids getting heavier and a grin slowly starting to replace the perpetual frown he had walked in with. That was the plan after all, and it was working swimmingly. Swimmingly, because his vision was now starting to sway as if he was being submerged underwater, and an inexplicable dryness in his mouth making the prospect of drowning more and more enticing every passing minute.

His wit wouldn't submerge so quickly however, he realized when he understood he was still able to perceive the effects the alcohol was having on his mind and body. It was a feeling that he never would have thought he'd be able to experience once again. The blood in his real body was so concentrated with possibly every chemical concoction he knew to exist that he couldn't be inebriated. That was unless he could tweak his physiology so that it didn't break down intoxicants so instantaneously, but he didn't imagine he'd have any practical need to do that.

Every drug coursing through his veins was doing its part in keeping his body – his actual body – in the condition that he needed it to be in. They inhibited pain, fatigue, sleep, hunger and disease to the point that his work would not be interrupted. They induced reactions that otherwise can only occur through physical activity to keep his organs, muscles and bones healthy. Everything he had done to himself vastly improved his physiology, that the cost of not being able to drink himself into a stupor anymore didn't really feel like a 'cost' to him at all.

However, as science always entailed the unexpected, if the need for inebriation ever came up, he could always have Nemu take that hit instead.

Oh.

Nemu.

The name sounded so foreign to him all of a sudden. Why had it been so difficult to recall that name the whole night? That had been her in the stands, calling out to him. He didn't see her except her fingers stretched out under the floodlights, reaching for him. She was so far away and enveloped in such impervious darkness, he couldn't even catch a glimpse of her face. He pushed against the inebriation that was beginning to take a foothold to will an image of her while he was still able to. But all he saw was her small back and her neat black braid speckled with a deep purple sheen as it caught some distant light.

"For your sake, I hope you'll be dragging yourself back to bed soon," a female voice yanked him out of the depths of his thoughts and his eyes instinctively snapped to the source. Reminded of the Fourth Captain's presence, he glowered at her, but it didn't seem like his obvious contempt bothered her one bit. She must have poured herself a drink while he had been downing his own for she picked up her glass and took a modest sip from it before continuing. "If you wind up passing out in your own spew, there won't be anyone to help carry you anywhere."

Why was she painting such a sad picture of him? He wasn't drunk enough to not perceive the insult, but indignation was just barely overshadowed by his curiosity over why she had determined such a pitiful outcome of his encounter with what the big bold words on the bottle's label said was 'TRIPLE DISTILLED' vodka.

"Why do you suppose I'll be throwing up?" he queried. She pulled her braid over her shoulder and teased at it for barely a second before shrugging.

"You seem like the sort."

The sort?

The mouth of the bottle stopped a hair's breadth away from his lips and his eyes narrowed at the woman feigning good-natured obliviousness, munching on her quickly depleting apple wedges with a pleasant grin. He fell just short of sending his bottle hurtling for her nose when he noticed that he was seeing doubles at certain intervals and would likely fail to hit the target. That and even in a gigai Unohana would be fast enough to catch the projectile and launch it right back at him. She wouldn't miss, he was certain of it.

"Of course the alcoholic would know better than anyone else what 'sort' I'd be," he sneered, his final swig somehow leaving his tongue feeling drier than before. When biting wasn't an option, he could always bark away as much as he wanted, he resolved.

"Perhaps you should save that remark for when you haven't guzzled an entire bottle of vodka in one go."

"Seeing as you've been up every night since we've gotten here to drink cheap sake, you don't get to say either."

"And you've been a very punctual drinking partner each one of these nights, whether I had any say in it or not."

Alright, maybe fighting back with snark wasn't turning out to be such a good idea especially when his wit was slowly slipping away while hers was still sharp enough to throw back every insult right back at him with several times the sting. Wouldn't shutting up be the wiser choice here?

"Yeah, well… uhh…"

What did he want to say? He was certain he knew exactly what he wanted to fight back with but now it was just gone – vanished from his mind and dead on his tongue. How could this be happening? He clawed through the recesses of his mind for that one, damning string of words that he was convinced would have put the Fourth Captain neatly in her place. But that thirst… he slipping into confusion, desperation. Oh he needed something. Anything. Whatever it took to preserve what little remained of his pride.

He turned back to his drink, desperate to quench his thirst. He felt that last bit of light turn so dull when the hand that snatched up the bottle felt no weight, no swirl of the booze that should have been inside. Confused, flustered and morose, he had already completely forgotten about the row of chilled vodka in the refrigerator.

"I will not throw up…!" his voice cracked pathetically, pointing at her with a quivering finger in his final act of defiance. It was all over, and he knew it. Every word, every syllable now out of his mouth was just a dying gasp.

"Only a drunkard would say that."

"I am not a drunkard and I will not throw up," it was all so pathetic, and he never managed to parch his tongue after all.

"Now you'll say you're not a fool either."

"You… just… Sh-shut up!"

"Perhaps it would be for the best if you go back to bed now. I'm sure you can think up of a better comeback by morning if you sleep on it," her smug little smile temporarily disappeared behind her cup as she drank from it, the apple wedges long gone. A strange silence now hung in the air. Her gaze trained upon the pitted remains of the fruit still adorning her plate, her soft grin fading just the tiniest bit as discomfort settled it. Her eyes snapped back up Mayuri. "What?"

He was staring at her cup with wide-eyed fascination.

This was it. This was his salvation! It had been right in front of him this whole time but the fog inside his cranium had failed to register its presence. It was sake!

"I need a drink," he stated flatly.

Her brows arched, daring to disappear into her hairline.

"You want more?" there was a sliver of astonishment as he lowered his gaze so that it now rested upon the bone-white container Unohana had poured herself a modest amount from. He was certain there was still plenty more still in there. Enough to quench his thirst.

"Why yes, thank you," he replied and then leaned over the tabletop to help himself to the sake but the bottle mysteriously slid away before his fingers could wrap themselves around it. Without wasting a single breath, he propped a knee onto the table to extend his reach but the container suddenly took flight, floating away to hover peacefully right besides Unohana's forever placid face. That was when he finally noticed there was a hand that was already clasping the bottle, keeping it out of his reach.

Her hand.

Undeterred, but certainly confused, he brought his other knee up as well. He dragged himself across the marble top just a little further ahead, his hand outstretched, but she pulled it away even further.

"Aren't you going to share?" he asked, confounded but otherwise unmoved at this strange game of keep-away.

"No."

"Why not?"

"You've had enough to drink."

"But I'm thirsty."

"You can use the tap."

Ah, yes! That was a fine suggestion until he noticed that it would be more work to walk all the way over to the kitchen sink and pour himself some water than it would be to just drink sake right out of the bottle. He didn't realize he hadn't vocalized this reasoning to convince the Fourth Captain to surrender the bottle to him, and so didn't take it well when she slid her chair back to widen the distance even further when he tried reaching for it again.

"Jerk!" he huffed as he sat up, struggling to maintain his balance as he spun around awkwardly, ignoring the weird sensations in his stomach as he did. But all his contentions with the Fourth Captain disintegrated, and he gasped in pleasant surprise when the refrigerator emerged in his line of vision. His brain jogged, prying apart the curtain of mist long enough to extract the memory of a row of bright blue bottles chiming in a swinging door.

He threw his legs off the edge of the table closest to the giant appliance and pushed himself off - his one foot planted itself on the other and he lurched forward violently, barely managing to grab hold of the counter before he crashed onto the floor. His legs felt lifeless, weighted. It was hard to right himself, especially when all these sudden movements were making his head spin, his stomach grow uncomfortably hotter and his mouth drier.

Why was he doing this, he internally queried himself and quickly recalled that he was going to quench his thirst with vodka. Finally regaining some semblance of balance, he dragged his heavy feet across tile to close the distance between him and the refrigerator. Finally, his fingers were new securely wrapped around the handle and he pried the door open with a sluggish force.

A petite hand appeared seemingly from nowhere and slammed it shut. He doubled back, locking his eyes upon Retsu Unohana who seemed to have clipped through time and space to appear next to the fridge.

"How did you…?" he looked to where she was seated not a moment ago and then back to the ominously gleaming visage of the Fourth Captain hovering barely a foot away from him. He blinked twice and then alternated between her empty chair and its former occupant a few times, wondering if he was imagining things but the scene refused to change. He pointed to the table and then dragged his extended finder to where she now stood. "You were there… and now you're here…"

"It's called walking, Captain Kurotsuchi," her tone sounded a little terse, although her expression indicated otherwise. Maybe she was just being considerate? Considerate about what though, he didn't have a clue.

"Well if you needed anything, you could've just asked. You didn't have to get up," he offered, trying to jerk the refrigerator door open again but it remained stuck. He looked down and saw that the woman's palm remained splayed against the cool plastic exterior. "I can't get you anything if you're gonna keep it closed."

"I actually don't need anything," she quickly excused herself, her hand sliding off the appliance and returning to her side. "In fact, I'm getting pretty tired. Maybe I should go back to sleep. You should too, Captain."

"I'm still kinda thirsty, actually, so I'll just grab myself another drink. You can go on ahead," he tried for the door again but saw that the space between him and refrigerator had suddenly disintegrated when Unohana stepped in. He jerked back in surprise but in his impaired state once again tripped up on his damnably unreliable feet. He fell back, one hand reaching behind him and the other shooting out ahead instinctively to grab onto anything and prevent his free-fall.

The edge of the marble dug into his back as he barely propped himself and Unohana up with one palm flat against the table top. He could see the Fourth Captain quite well up this close in spite of his swaying vision. Was she mad, he wondered. She definitely wasn't smiling like she always did – her lips were drawn in a neutral line but her eyes were wider than he had ever seen them in his entire lifetime. Maybe she was just tired? She did say she was tired. He didn't get to dwell much on this new face of hers and what it meant; she was quick to push herself away but stopped midway at the same time Mayuri felt something tug in his other hand.

He looked down and saw the blunt end of her braid in his fist.

That heat in the pit of his belly began to inch up his throat as the remnants of a handful of memories suddenly assaulted his mind. He thought of Nemu in the shadowy stands, he thought of her voice as she uttered his name. He thought of the chimera that was about to render him into two, and of an evil witch with several meters of her black hair laid out on a wooden floor. That's right… he had been fooled into thinking that it was her neatly corded locks decorating the floorboards. Right up until they would coil around him, squeezing every last ounce of air out of his lungs. And he would look up to see the giant head of an ink-black snake unhinging its maw to swallow him whole.

He felt a sickness in his throat, desperate to escape – he involuntarily let out a heaving sound and quickly slapped a hand over his lips. He really didn't feel good.

"Go to bed," a firm voice pulled him out of his reverie and the plaited cord of hair vanished from his hand. He looked up to see that same blank-faced Fourth Captain, except now her eyes were lidded again as they always were. She swung her plaited hair back over her shoulder before she fisted his T-shirt's collar and pulled him up right and toward the kitchen's entrance. "Now."

"But I'm thirsty."

She blinked. Slowly. And then turned around to pry open the refrigerator door. The vodka continued chime melodiously as the door swung back shut, and Unohana was facing him again. She held out an open carton of milk.

"Ahh!" Mayuri expelled a relieved sigh before he even had a drop of it, gladly relieving the woman of the carton. He tipped back his head and gulped down the cool milk which stamped out the unpleasant heat churning in his stomach. Content, he carelessly put down the now empty carton on the table, and turned to the kitchen's entrance of his own volition.

Passing under the arch, he swayed precariously toward the front door when he felt small but strong fingers clasp her shoulders and force him around so that now he faced the stairs. The sudden jerk in movement and view made the insides of his body, which felt were suspended in nothing but liquid now, slosh to one side, prompting an exclamation. The hands that grasped him now pushed him at a dizzyingly quick pace toward the staircase, irrespective of his commands to slow down a bit, and upon taking the first step quickly lost his balance and tipped back.

"Wow that's steep!" he declared, eyes widening in awe at how difficult the climb back up to his room appeared from this angle. The faint scent of apples and sake drifted in from his left and he shifted his gaze to see that same blank face bearing down upon him from over his shoulder. She must be very tired he deduced, and in an attempt to comfort her reached up to pat her cheek. "You should go back to bed, too."

Her eyes fluttered shut and he heard a whisper as she drew in a long breath and exhaled right before she did him the kindness of shoving him hard enough to tip him back over. She accidentally pushed a little too hard, it seemed to him, for he nearly would have fallen right on top of his belly on the staircase if he hadn't grabbed on to the banister. His insides lurched and a hand shot up to his mouth instinctually. All this walking and swinging around was not doing him any favors.

He began his wobbly ascent to his room, the sickness growing intense with every heavy step he took. There was no way he could fight it anymore. Clambering onto the gallery, he threw his weight on the bathroom door and keeled over the toilet bowl.

Ah… guess he was the sort, he thought to himself right before he passed out on the floor.