I can steadily feel the shortening of my chapters ;n; and this was kind of rushed. But it's ok, it's ok, I'm still working out the kinks in the plot of this story. I'm kind of planning for it to be really long, so yeah. Stick with me.

Please fave or review if you read and enjoyed, I welcome constructive criticism ;D

The first thing that Shiro thought when he woke up inhaling the muskiness of the damp and moldy air and turning immediately with a longing glance towards the drape-masked window was: I can't stay here.

As he stared at those burgundy drapes, head pounding and eyes trying to discern objects through blurred vision, he was forced to reconsider that maybe it was further along the lines of: I don't want to stay here.

A lot of people dealt with domestic abuse, didn't they? Shiro thought as he turned over and faced the door, blinking and glad that it wasn't too bright out—if it were, his sight would probably be fucked up for a full half an hour. They didn't seem to like light, he thought as he waved a hand repeatedly in his line of sight, and after a few minutes he was beginning to see right again.

The room was dark enough so that his eyes didn't hurt when he woke up (he rarely rose later than dawn anyways), but he didn't like it. He lay still as his eyes began at last to separate the edges of the walls from the floor and ceiling.

If he was honest enough with himself he'd have chugged down a bottle of bleach or sloshed gasoline across the room and set himself on fire rather than be in this place. Who would want to be in a house with beer cans littered across the living room and a father who seemed to find endless amusement in beating them?

Then he thought about school and about a life without a home, and was forced to think it through again. School wasn't that much better than his house; sure, there were people who gave him some semblance of respect there, but… he could hardly remember the days when he could feel happiness. If only he could get away from Karakura town altogether, perhaps it would be there somewhere along the lines… or maybe there was nothing out there for him but a godforsaken road that led to nowhere.

How fantastic.

Maybe he'd better get that tank of gasoline soon. A little bit of light and heat would do this wretched closet of a room some good, and fire was just the trick, he thought with a smirk, rubbing at his temples. He was never really a fan of the carpet, anyways. He sat up on the bed with a groggy moan and stretched as much as he could with the sharp achings of yesterday in his bones and muscles.

When he had first moved to this house he wasn't entirely opposed to the carpet. When Mom was alive, he'd lived in a little house with smooth, beautifully polished hardwood floors, so carpet, with its coarse, strange feel, had been new to him. But he learnt instantly to hate it with a vengeance; dust made him cough and sneeze, any food or drink he spilt onto it remained embedded in it, and the stench of ages past spilt beer made him want to retch.

Shiro could still see bloodstains in the carpet at the foot of his bed, stains that he desperately wanted to wash away. He couldn't bear the memories that were imprinted inside them—but did he have any choice?

Without a goddamned vacuum cleaner and a whole ton of bleach, carpet can be a hell of a bitch, he thought drowsily as his eyes darted towards the door. Good—it was locked.

He glanced at his hand and saw deep imprints from the coarse pattern of the fabric of the blankets and his school jacket, wondering vaguely; at this time of day his thoughts were never fully formed.

How would his father react to his attempt to brighten up the atmosphere of the dismal room with its grey stained carpeting and dirty walls? Maybe the old geezer would be burnt to a crisp by then along with this dreadful carpet before he could even voice his much-unwanted opinion, and then Shiro wouldn't have to deal with the shrieks of anger and the blows to his back.

It's not his fault. He's just angry sometimes. Dad isn't always like that.

Of course his father hadn't always been angry and hurtful. It was just him that was setting off his father, and he was why his father beat him. Wasn't he?

I really do hate that carpet. Suddenly the lines blurred in his intentions. Was it his strong spite for the ugly carpet or his the bouts of anger from his only parent that made him want to blow up the house in flames?

For a moment he reassured himself that it was the carpet before common sense slammed into his head at full blast and nearly took off his head completely as it barrelled along.

… So it's got to be the carpet, then?

And apparently, it had bypassed him entirely.

"Oh, come on," he murmured aloud to himself, pressing a hand against his forehead and rubbing to force the drowsiness away. His head still hurt, but it wasn't anything he couldn't survive. He reconsidered his thoughts before yawning strainedly. "The carpet isn't that bad."

… So it has to be the old man.

He didn't hate his father… not when the man was the only part of his old life he could grasp onto. It wasn't his father's fault, after all; it was the anger that laid blows onto his son's body, not the father himself. Right?

… Damn it. This was going nowhere. He stopped thinking and instead clutched at his head through pure white locks, groaning with pain.

Mornings were not Shirosaki's favourite hours of the day. Not that he enjoyed his days in general; they were for the most part fucked-up as hell. But it was in the mornings that his mind ran at a ludicrously slow pace—horrifyingly docile compared to the high speed tracking it cranked during the late mornings and afternoons and all the way until evening and even as he lay in bed. Although he would have praised the heavens for giving his mind just one break throughout the day, just a few hours of salvation from lists and ramblings in his head, his own good fortune had ricocheted and turned right back on him. He eventually learnt that after a bad beating and an immense shortage of sleep, slow thinking—no, thinking altogether—quickly became painful.

Excruciatingly painful.

It had been easy to adjust to at first, but the older he had gotten, the less order he had been able to harness over his mind, and eventually it had spiralled out of control completely. The fast speed was something he could barely stand and something that was a part of how he functioned now. It was difficult to even imagine a life without that fast-paced, tortuously endlessly thinking, the light speed of his thoughts.

Why? He wondered momentarily. Why does it have to be like this? I was born normal. What did I do wrong?

But it was no use thinking about it. That was the way it was, and it only made his head hurt more to think. He blinked and stretched out sluggishly, kicking at the foot of the bed. A dull thunk at the contact against hardwood reminded him that he was still clad in his school uniform and sneakers, and he suddenly realized that that was why his body felt so stiff.

"Ugh, damn it. Shouldn't have slept in my street clothes."

Shiro sat up and reclined against the headboard. Either way, it was cold, it was dark, and he wanted out.

He considered getting up, changing into clean clothes (he didn't have much of that), and searching for a new pair of socks before repacking his school supplies and heading out. And then he'd have to stop by the stationery store, too, all the while fighting against what he was sure was blistering cold of the air outside, what with the drop-dead temperature of this damp room.

He glanced at the window again and was certain it was darker than it should be at this time of day. He could usually tell the time by the weight of his body and the light of the outside world. He had never woken up with it this dark, and his body told him it was five in the morning. Then this must have meant bad weather. He cringed at the thought of cold and rain.

Was it worth it?

… Maybe he could just weather it out in here instead. Maybe light a cigarette and then oh-so-innocently drop his Bic lighter by accident and set the room on fire like he planned, so that he could have a little warmth for a change… yeah, he could make a pretty nice campfire, and he was sure whatever leviathan of dust creeping in that carpet would fuel the fire beautifully.

Shiro scooted over slightly to glance at the vent at the base of the wall just by his bed. It was supposed to be for heating, but God knew if any semblance of heat had ever leaked from those damned things. He wondered briefly if it was colder outside or in his room. Where would he freeze to death quicker—here, or out there?

"Oh, hell, screw it."

He went for his clothing: a single clean jacket hanging on the knob of the bedroom door, which he had commandeered especially for any clean clothing he had. He kept the rest of his clothes in a small trunk under his bed, as his room might have previously been a closet. Or a torture chamber. He wasn't quite sure.

He pulled his jacket off his shoulder, stuffed it in his bag, and shrugged the clean one on after rifling momentarily through the contents in his bag. He still had homework from yesterday—maths and an essay assigned the week before that he hadn't even started—and a small container with his pills. Good. He'd probably need those at some point.

Shiro sat on his bed and let himself breathe. God knew he needed this time to calm down, given the rates his brain would drive him at later on; he looked out the window and figured it was still a full two hours before dawn. Would that be enough time? He could probably finish up his maths before then, and the essay wasn't due until the next month.

He stumbled over to the door, his legs still weak and uncontrolled, and pushed it open silently. The darkness was heavy in the hallways and the scent of old beer filled his nostrils with a nauseating scent. He focused and could just barely hear the silent snores of his father from the room across the hall. The walls in this house were thin, and so he was always careful to avoid making noise. If he woke the older one up, he'd have hell to pay.

Shiro made his way to the front of the house and pulled open the door. The skies were a murky grey and darkened blue, swirling in a hazy spiral of cloudy turbulence. He felt the imminence of an onslaught of rain, perhaps thunder and lightening, and stood, eyes shut and savouring the fresh of the outside air.

Then he pulled his bag over his shoulder again, readjusted the straps, and headed down the sidewalk, past darkened, lazy houses and sleeping gardens shrouded with the fog, to one of the only places he was certain he could feel safe.

The river was awake when Shiro arrived by its side and crept to its edge quietly, squatting down in the damp grass by the flowing water and watching it splash against its dirt shores. Its usually silvery surface had faded to reflect the muddy dark of the skies, and he frowned down into the unsatisfactory colour the river had painted itself; it always looked this way when a storm was approaching, and it was hardly ever wrong.

The leaves of the tree standing on the riverbank swayed dangerously, whipping about in the wind. So Shiro had been right, after all. There was rain coming—that wouldn't him do any good.

He hated rain.

But why worry about it when he could remain here for the time being and make the most of his hour of peace? The river was over forty-five minutes from his house, and so an entire sixty minutes had been wasted in his walking here. He'd have to enjoy himself while he could.

He dipped his hands into the river and drew back a pool of clear glistening water; in his hands it didn't drown in the dark cloudiness of the sky. It remained clear and gleaming, and he could see his own face in it.

I can see myself in it.

Wincing, Shiro pulled his hands apart and watched the water splash back into the stream, the droplets scattering through the air and eventually dripping collectively from his hands back into the river. He wiped the rest of the dampness onto his pants and then retreated, drawing back towards the tree sitting near the river.

There, he sat himself down and stayed, leaning against the solid, rough trunk for a few minutes, fingers trailing down the familiar dryness of intricately patterned wood and roots. They were a comforting feel, as was the scent that filled his nostrils: a rich and earthy smell that was just like the river he knew and loved.

The sound of rushing water soothed him; the sight of the swirling vapor shrouding the crystalline surface of the running river was almost ethereal. But the sky had not changed in the least, and as he stared up, past light brown, weathered branches and past the thin blankets of leaves sheltering him from the skies, he only saw it darken. He felt the thickness of the air wrap tighter around him.

He didn't have much time left before it began to sprinkle. He let out a disgruntled noise of disatisfaction as he reclined against the trunk, shutting his eyes and letting the mist from the river wash across his skin and leave a pleasant dampness behind.

The one day I decide to come here, and it starts to rain. I'll have to visit more often, then.

"... Well," he sighed, sitting up and leaning forward, hand brushing through the dewy morning grass as he stretched out his back reluctantly. "Guess there's nothing for it."

He took out his maths homework and began to work at the paper, and just as he'd gotten halfway down the sheet, the gears of his mind began to stir into quick action at last.

If Shiro had glanced up once or twice as he worked silently at his assignment, he might have seen a flash of bright orange flicker and vanish across the surface of the river.

Even then, he would have dismissed it for an illusion of his manipulative mind, perhaps just a piece of plastic reflecting off the surface of the water.

Shiro really had no idea what he was getting into.

Luppi was a bastard.

That was one of the few things that Shiro was convinced of in his very well miserable life; and that very life had taught him that there were few things that could remain certain and sure.

And was absolutely certain that it was Luppi that had been the first to soil his innocently optimistic thoughts of life in Karakura town and most likely the first to set into motion a cycle of torment and prejudice that targeted none other than Shiro himself. As if he didn't face enough at the school and at home, Luppi just had to take it out onto the streets.

Even if the boy's comrades had eventually bored themselves of the "let's-torture-the-new-kid" act, he for one knew that the son of a bitch hadn't—probably never would, either. That little maggot was one sadistic bitch, and Shiro knew that it had been Luppi to kick him down the evening before.

That kid is the size of a shrimp, he thought, not daring to look up from his books as he approached the school; he had heard the whispering and sniggering of the older boy and whatever miscreants were part of his little vagabond only a few moments before, and he had cringed, then stopped for a split second.

He was considering if he should make a run for it or keep his calm and continue walking.

He had left the river twenty minutes ago at the first sign of raindrops splattering across his maths paper. Oh well… at least he'd managed to finish that up. Didn't matter if they were right or wrong. He'd scrutinized each and every problem until he came up with what he thought was a plausible answer, only to throw it away right after, because he was certain that his polluted mind was playing tricks on him. He'd tried, though. Ochi-sensei graded on effort as well—he knew she didn't think of him as the brightest bulb in the box, and at least he'd get a few points for trying.

But he had been disappointed enough to be chased away from the side of the river even before he could have re-familiarized himself with its every quirk and twist, with the feel of water passing through the gaps between his fingers and falling, clear and smooth. He was already beginning to miss the serenity of being by the water, and passing back across the border to everyday life wasn't going well with his mind.

The situation wasn't helping, either.

… So, should he run or keep walking?

Shiro was certain that if he'd kept his head down, he would pass unnoticed. After all, there were quite a few people who had white hair at the school; he laughed at the thought of being mistaken for Professor Ukitake Jyuushiro, but maybe he could pull off a Toshiro imitation.

Aha. As if. That kid was even shorter than Luppi, if possible. But what about Kokuto—that boy who had come late in the last semester from the poorest areas of Karakura? He remembered seeing the other flirt with the girls during lunch, so it wasn't as if the kid was unpopular.

Yes, he could do it, he thought for a moment. He could possibly be switched out with Kokuto, if only Luppi and his gang could see him just from behind…

It was a moment too late for him to realize that the Kokuto he had in mind was walking only ten paces before him, heading towards the school as well. Well, shit. That wasn't going to go down too well, was it...

"Hey, there's the white-haired kid!"

He quickened his pace, unwilling to sacrifice his pride and make a break for it just yet. Please be talking about Kokuto. Please be talking about Kokuto. Not me, not me. Please be talking about—

"Hey, you! Ogichi!"

"Godfuckingdamnit!" he snarled under his breath—then he made a sharp turn and ran for it.

He was cornered. He hated to admit it—his pride scorned him for even entertaining such a thought—but he had lost hopelessly. At first he'd thought that he could make it out of the school grounds and wander a bit, maybe find himself a place to hide out for his first period, or maybe longer; Luppi wouldn't be able to follow because he'd have missed out in class. He was an idiot to think that Luppi wouldn't come after him, school or no school, and now he was tearing himself apart inside for it.

What the hell did I even expect? This kid is a lunatic. A goddamned lunatic.

And now there was no one to come and stop them, because two of the seven bastards that had been chasing him were guarding the entrance of the alleyway, and even if he tried to make a break for it, maybe slip past Luppi and the other five goons if he could, he would never make it past Yammy and Rudobon. He was trapped—and certain that he would be crushed.

What Shiro hated most was the smug smirk on Luppi's face, the way the little bitch didn't even try to hide his sadistic pleasure in tormenting him. Did the brat have no shame? Couldn't he find someone who was able to stand up and fight for himself? He wouldn't look so fucking egotistical then.

"You didn't think you could run away so easy like that, did you, you little bastard? Damn, you are stupid."

Shiro didn't even try to hold back the scoff of half-amusement and half-hatred back. "Hah. Big words for such a short little bitch like your, huh?"

Luppi's lips curled into a tight sneer as he processed the insult, and Shiro grinned inwardly; he knew the other was sensitive about his height, and if he was going to get beat up in the end anyways, then there was no harm in taunting.

"Shut the fuck up," snapped the boy, and Shiro choked on his own breath as a hard and solid kick slammed straight into his stomach; he doubled back, gasping, and wondered just how such a tiny brat could kick so hard.

"Look at ya now," someone familiar chirped snidely, and he felt fingers thread through his pale hair and grip at white locks, tugging mercilessly. He was hoisted up onto his feet—rather, he was forced to stand from the pain burning through his head—and found himself staring into the gleeful leer of Nnoitra. That was funny, he thought. He didn't think that Nnoitra gave a shit about anyone other than himself. So the lanky boy had decided to join Luppi and sink to a new low, then? "Not so tough, are ya?"

"Gee, Nnoitra." He forced a grin to his lips, pushing it past the pain and the burning in his head. His dad hurt him like this all the time, so it was nothing. "I didn't think you were weak enough to have to reply on the likes of Luppi."

Before he could finish choking up the sentence, he felt blood flood his mouth and he had to clamp a hand over his pained stomach. Nnoitra kicked him again, then again, then a few more times until the beanpole of a freak felt satisfied, and throughout it all Shiro could hear Luppi's maniacal giggles in the back of his head.

Damn it. Damn it, I wasn't going to let this happen again. Fuck. Fuck it, fuck it all. I shouldn't let them corner me like this. Never again.

"Have your fun," he heard Luppi say as he shut his eyes tight, and Shiro knew it was all false. False promises that he fabricated to keep himself under a desire to live on. He pulled his knees to his chest, clasped his hands over his neck, and waited for the first blow to fall.

"What are you doing?"

Shiro's eyes snapped open, his head moving up to stare incredulously at Luppi and his crew. They were turned away from him, and the first thing he thought was: I can escape. But where to? He scanned the dirty alleyway and saw no other exit except for the narrow gap that Yammy and Rudobon had been guarding.

He thought he heard Luppi scream: "Yammy!" before he turned, half-trembling in anticipation, towards the entrance of the alley, and stared in hopes that finally, finally whatever God out there had had mercy on him and allowed him escape for just once—

"Ah. So you're a vagabond group of delinquents."

"Who the fuck are you!? Get out, shorty! This has nothing to fucking do with you!" Shiro recognized Luppi's high, sharp trill of fear, and despite the warm blood dripping from his lip and the sharp throbbing in his stomach, a smile worked its way up to his lips.

"How pitiful. One, two, three… ah, seven of you gathering to beat down one boy. Pathetic." This voice was strange; it was dull and cold, a low drawl that sent shivers of ice straight through his nerves. "What a spineless bunch of twats. The newer generations never fail to amuse me."

"Get the fuck out!" Luppi was in a haze of panic, and Shiro only wished he could see the boy flailing his arms in anger and fear—his vision was blurred, and his sight unfocused. Must have been from Nnoitra's abuse.

"Tch. Children." He could practically see the sneer curling on Nnoitra's face and the wide eyes of shock on Luppi's. "I wonder, should I take you all on? Seven against me?"

… Who was this man?

"Or should I say five?"

Shiro's vision cleared, and he looked forward, straight at where Yammy and Rudobon had been standing before—to his shock, they were both felled, lying silently and barely breathing.

And above them stood a boy that he was sure was no older than he was, possibly younger judging by his height—but hadn't he learned from Hitsugaya Toshiro not to judge by height? Pure black locks fell over pale skin and framed almost glazed emerald green eyes lurking with intensity and hatred, thin lips pursed together in a tight frown.

The sun was glaring from behind the glaring figure, and Shiro could barely make out his outline. Wait—was the stranger clutching at a small pocketknife? Yes, Shiro couldn't be seeing incorrectly—he had seen the glint of metal.

That was Yammy's pocketknife.

The strange boy had taken out both Yammy and Rudobon. No doubt about it when Shiro's gaze trailed down to the unconscious bodies behind the new character that had entered the scene so suddenly.

"Just who the hell are you, bastard?!" That was Nnoitra's voice, and turning his eyes to the one who had beaten him so ferociously, Shiro saw a gleam of fear in those narrowed eyes as Nnoitra raised a fist in threatening hatred.

"Hmph." The other hardly seemed intimidated by the display. "How undisciplined."

And faster than Shiro could even comprehend, Nnoitra suddenly lay, hand pressed hard to his stomach as he let out a strangled gasp, and the stranger was delicately balancing the knife in the centre of his palm, looming above the choking Nnoitra and observing it with little interest in his expression.

"N… Nnoitra-senpai!" He saw Tesra scurry over to Nnoitra's side immediately, and he recognized him to be the first-year that practically hero-worshipped Nnoitra."Nnoitra-senpai!" The younger one immediately turned up to the boy that had taken out his idol, and demanded: "Did you stab him?! Did you… did you stab…" The shaky fright in Tesra's words was familiar, and he realized with a pang of shame that he, many times, had heard that tone in his own voice. "D-Did you stab Nnoitra-sama?!"

The cries were laced with sobs and fear. How Shiro pitied him. Meanwhile, the stranger looked unruffled.

"Of course not," he scoffed. "A simple punch is enough to take out someone of his caliber. Why would I need a knife?"

Luppi was trembling, and Shiro delighted in it. That look of shock was perfect on his little face. "Who… Who are…?!"

"Ulquiorra. Ulquiorra Schiffer."

Ulquiorra spun the knife between his fingers, expression dull and eyes displaying apparent boredom. Almost as if he were simply toying with Luppi, yet found him inadequate. Like a cat with its ball of yarn, preparing at any moment to leap and maul its plaything to pieces.

"But for the likes of scum like you, I believe Schiffer-san will suffice."

And then he pounced.

Do not underestimate the importance of minor characters, dear reader. Believe me, it will all lead up to the finale. Do not misjudge. .-.

Oh yeah, and excuse my stupid humour. It sucks, I know.

Next chapter: Shirosaki learns just who Ulquiorra really is and soon begins to wonder if things are all truly as they seem.