The First Course
Nerves crackle and pop like live wires under Rukia's skin. The air feels heavy, oppressive, but, every time her gaze shoots across the room to Brother and sees his calm—standing, book in hand, back half to her, half to the bookshelf, eyes traveling the page at a fast clip—she convinces herself that she's over-reacting. She convinces herself that it's nothing, that it's all in her head.
He can feel it, too, right? The sudden shift, the humming of electricity, the imminent doom-coming.
She kind of wants to ask him, just to be safe.
The problem is she doesn't know how, exactly, to ask. Every iteration of the question sounds crazy in her head.
And, so, she stands there at the spare desk in his office, lips opening and closing like a fish, hands occasionally reshuffling the papers on the desk.
Inhaling a deep breath, Rukia opens her mouth again, eyes flitting from the papers she clutches to him. But, right before her gaze lands on the whiteness of his captain's coat, it stops on something else. Something unexpected.
"Is this the ancestral zanpakutō?" Not quite the question that she wanted to ask, but the tension lessens in her chest all the same.
Too eager for this distraction, Rukia strides over to the side table where the blade sits. Without thinking, she takes the sword in hand.
The sheath is a dingy sort of red that reminds Rukia of the color that blood turns once it begins to dry. The design etched into the guard is a simple one, a pentagon. It's nothing as ornate as she had expected of an ancestral zanpakutō. And yet…
Her brows bunch together, and her head tilts to the side as she inspects the three very sharp-looking spikes protruding off the edge of the guard.
Why would someone forge this kind of detail? You could cut yourself on these!
Undeterred, Rukia continues her examination. Testing the zanpakutō, she flicks her wrist and flourishes the sword in and out of a few well-practiced positions.
The zanpakutō is light. Almost weightless. And, it practically sings whenever it travels, which is also kind of weird for a sword so light. Usually, heft is required for that sort of effect, especially at the lazy rate she is going.
Rukia then speeds up the swing only to find that the blade slices the air like a hot knife through butter. It also gains a lot of weight with speed, which shouldn't technically happen with a sword so light. She could probably slam an enemy off-kilter with little effort.
What the fuck is this thing? she thinks before putting on the breaks to inspect the zanpakutō once more.
As she flicks her wrist to click the sheath to the guard, the sword bites her.
At least, that's what it feels like.
Then, suddenly, her hand goes numb.
Rukia exhales a small whimper, shocked more so than hurt by the nip, and looks down to see that the zanpakutō has indeed drawn blood from her thumb.
The pounding of her heart strangles when she sees the groove shepherding her blood from the offending spike to the blade itself. The moment her blood meets steel, the zanpakutō glows a faint red then brightens and brightens with each new drop it receives.
The activation of the blade sets off an internal cascade of horrors.
First, Rukia feels a tug at her spiritual essence. It starts slow, like smoke pulling into the sky, but, it too, becomes stronger and stronger, as if the blade is trying to draw her—her very soul—into it. The moment Rukia resists, a loud roaring enters her head. Cries, screams of terror and anguish, fill her ears, until she is convinced the sound is actually beginning to eclipse her vision.
Rukia's hand flies off the hilt.
Panic crowds her, squeezing the breath from her lungs, as she watches the zanpakutō fall. Time slows. She's convinced that she could save the blade if she wanted, but fear keeps her frozen, keeps her muscles locked, rooted in place.
Just before the sword can clatter to the hardwood, Brother catches it. His pale hand grips the sheath lightly, as if it might turn on him, too, like a feral animal.
Rukia's chin jerks up. A sharp breath catches in her throat, and she stares, wide-eyed and mortified. Although, she isn't quite sure which fact, out of the dozens, mortifies her the most. Could it be that she had been shadow-dancing with a family heirloom? Or, that she somehow managed to injure herself on the family heirloom? Or, possibly, the fact that, unbeknownst to her, Brother has been watching her the entire time?
"It—" She wants to say 'bit me,' but realizes just how stupid that sounds in her head and stops short.
"Muramasa, the demon blade." Brother effortlessly slides the zanpakutō into his obi. "It curses all who touch it."
"Even its wielders?"
"Especially its wielders. It inflicts madness."
Rukia rubs her wounded thumb against the side of her index finger. It was only a prick, and yet…. "It reacted to me."
A childish part of her waits, hoping Brother might provide the details. She isn't a Kuchiki. It shouldn't have done that she assumes.
Predictably, Brother's response is none at all.
"I'm not a Kuchiki," she adds, shooting him an imploring look.
No luck. Brother has gone back to reading his book.
She waits. She, too, is well-practiced in the art of weaponizing silence.
"You are a Kuchiki," he says after a few long moments as if he is just remembering her standing there, gawking at him.
"Not by blood."
Finally, his eyes flit up from the page. There is boredom in his stare as he looks at her. Or, maybe it's disappointment?
Has she disappointed him, now?
How?
His brows lift, but barely. Like a nanometer, but she catches it all the same.
"Do you think Kuchiki have magical blood, Rukia?" A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Okay, so he thinks she's dumb. For some reason, Rukia prefers this to the alternative. Dumbness? That she can cure. Disappointment? That's harder to come back from.
"I mean, we both have magical swords." She shrugs a shoulder. "It's not like my zanpakutō would let just anyone pick it up and work."
"Because it is imbued with a piece of your soul. It can only react to you, or some approximation of you-ness. There is nothing unique to the men and women of my House."
"But, it's the Kuchiki ancestral sword," Rukia pushes back.
"Yes, because we took it for ourselves, nursed it, tried futilely to control it, hoping it would bring ruination to our foes."
"Did it?"
"It did. But, it ruined as many of us in the process. Power is poison when its only aim is greed."
Rukia crosses her arms in front of her chest. Right now, it sounds a whole lot like Brother is trying to convince her that two plus two equals fish.
He sighs, audibly, before averting his gaze to the door behind her. "My family's name carries power. We have spent a great deal of time and effort cultivating and maintaining this power; sometimes to our detriment. You took my family's name."
"You gave me your family's name."
"You could have said no."
Rukia scoffs. As if. She didn't really have a choice.
"The thing about power, Rukia, is that it is always taken. Even if it seems like a gift. Sometimes its transfer is peaceful. Sometimes it's by force. That zanpakutō," Brother pauses, eyes trailing to the sword at his side, "devours power in whatever form it may assume and in whatever way it may be used. To tame it is madness."
"Why did glow?"
"You gave it your blood." Brother's gaze falls heavy on the thumb that she has been mindlessly twisting with her other hand.
"I didn't give it my-"
"You were not using it? You did not pick it up?"
Rukia feels the burn of a frown, shoulders drooping slightly, as if to concede this particular point. "I did, but I didn't—" She didn't want to give it anything.
"It took your blood, then. Just as you took it in hand. A compact was made. You tested its power, and it tested yours in return."
"It's a blood sword, then?"
"Yes."
"Those aren't sanctioned for battle."
"And, that's why it was sealed away for centuries."
Rukia stops, eyes fixing the zanpakutō. "Have you ever tried to wield it?"
"Never."
"Then, how do you know about its power?"
"From the tales of the many lives it has taken."
"Sister—"
"Hisana was worried."
"Are you worried?" Rukia's stare intensifies.
Brother turns away, back to his book.
No matter. Rukia has her answer, threaded right through her Brother's obi and hanging right next to Senbonzakura.
She stands there for a while longer. The weight of her prior mortification dying, like vines falling from a lattice. When resolution takes its place, she turns to the door.
Brother may choose to think his way out of the gathering doom, but she prefers action. She prefers battle.
With hand pressed against the wood of the door, she begins, "I'm going," but before she can finish, the shrill song of klaxons swallow her words and steal her breath.
First, it's the Second's sirens that sing, then the Eighth's, and the Tenth's, and the Third's, and after that comes the Sixth's, which means one of their patrols must have made contact with an enemy.
Rukia tears around. "Do you feel that?"
The air grows thick and heavy. It thrums with the buzz of electricity. The buzz intensifies until all she can hear is a shrill ringing in her ears.
Brother, however, appears unmoved.
"Fine," Rukia growls to herself, turning back to the door, ready to rip it open and leave.
She knows just where she'll go, too. Right to the center of the frenzy. Right where her mind's eye feels the heat, feels the thrum.
"Wait," commands Brother, attention somehow still glued to the pages of that infernal book he holds.
Every single fiber in Rukia's body tells her to run, but she stops. She waits, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, fingers clawing at the catch in the door, at her chance to escape.
"Follow me." He then snaps the book shut and shoves back the door leading to the division's engawa.
"Where are we going?" asks Rukia, hot on his heels.
The action feels like it is coming from the center of the district, and they are going on the least direct path if such were the case. Does he sense something she cannot?
"To high ground." His voice brooks no argument.
"Why?" Venom coats her question. She stops, waiting for him to explain. When he doesn't, all the frustration, all the anger, bleeds out of her with a growling, "You better not be trying to keep me safe. I'm your second. I am a soldier."
"No." Brother pins her with a look. "What I am trying to do is keep us both alive through the first sortie."
The heat that boils Rukia's blood simmers, but only for a second. Only until the next surge of frustration crashes over her when she feels the volatile fluctuations of spiritual pressure in the distance. "Well, I don't want to retreat while the enemy is ringing the dinner bell!"
"If you'd rather be the first course, then, by all means. But, I fail to see what good you will be to your friends and family dead."
Rukia yanks back as if he had just landed a blow to her face. "You think it's a trap."
"Because it is a trap. An obvious one."
She sucks in a shaky breath.
Damn, she hates it when he makes a point that she can understand. "You're right," she says, albeit under her breath.
Brother's glacial side-eye relents.
But, unable to leave well enough alone, she adds, "We are dessert course kind of people."
Rukia doesn't miss the slow shake of Brother's head. Nor does she miss the flicker of a grin against his lips.
He knows she's right. And, it pains him to admit it, too.
But, they are dessert kind of people.
Just deserts kind of people.
Breath expels from Renji's lungs on impact. He hits the ground, his back making a pretty big dent in the cement. He gasps, fighting to pull in air and getting nothing. The muscles in his neck and jaw pull taut, and he gapes, like a fish beached on the shore. Then, with a jolt, his lungs come back online, his heart flutters, and air floods him.
It takes a minute for the blood pounding in his head to quiet and for the stars that burst in his vision to disappear. When that happens, he expects silence to follow. And it does. For a femtosecond.
What comes next is the howl of thirteen sirens sounding from thirteen directions.
Of all the times for the Senkaimon to malfunction….
Renji arches his neck back and stares skyward. A gray cloud rolls into view. He's on top of a building of some sort. Which one? No idea. It's tall, though. He isn't sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
Before he can make out more of his surroundings, dread levels him. It's the sort of dread that signals an oncoming attack. Reflexively, he throws his weight to the right, narrowly evading impact from on high.
A loud scream enters his head just as Renji finds his feet, eyes locked on the mound of man and rubble barely an arm's length away.
"Who the fuck are you?" asks Renji under his breath, hand on the hilt of his zanpakutō.
"Me?" the man says, chuckling as he pulls himself from the cracked cement. "Oh, I'm the hero of this story, Mask de Masculine."
Renji takes stock of the man for a long moment. He's not sure what to make of an opponent dressed like a fake pro-wrestler, something that he only knows about because he saw a TV advertisement for a live "show" one time at Ichigo's house.
"And, I will defeat all the villains and cowards in this story!" continues the man. "Isn't that right, James?"
Renji follows the line of the man's gaze to find a small, pudgy boy crouching next to a bell. "You brought a fan to a battlefield?"
"I did not bring a fan. Fans find me wherever I go, you see, because I am a star. And you are a horrible monster, who will be defeated!"
"Is this a bit?" asks Renji.
"A bit? No! This is the show; this is the moment that I—"
"This is a bit. Love that for me," says Renji under his breath, thoughts drifting from the man's monologue to figuring out where the fuck he even is.
Based on the shops lining the spoking roads, Renji concludes that he is near the Sixth Division. Figures. He was trying to access the Kuchiki Senkaimon, after all.
Before the man can finish describing his delusions of grandeur in full, Renji unleashes his shikai and a wave of punishing attacks, all of which he can feel connect.
The bubble of hope lodged in Renji's chest, however, sinks like a stone the moment the dust settles, revealing the man to be uninjured, unbothered, and unphased.
Well fuck.
With a long belly laugh, the man grins, eyes twinkling, and says, "Did you not hear me? I am the hero. All you are here for is to be vanquished to rapturous applause."
"Rapturous?" Renji mocks. "Really?" He pauses, eyes trailing to the little fan who sits eagerly cheering on the hulking moron with a hero complex.
"Then, make me your villain, I guess," says Renji. He snaps Zabimaru at the fan dinging the bell. The blow connects, cutting the boy down the middle.
Well, at least that worked, Renji thinks. Hearing the ravings of a masked lunatic is preferable to hearing those ravings and rapturous applause.
"You, horrific monster!" roars Mask. "You, horrific cowardly monster! How dare you try to harm James!" With these words, Mask throws himself up in the air, his large body nearly blotting out the sun.
Renji steps safely out of the way and watches as the sheer force of the man's impact sends him crashing through the roof of the building down several floors below.
"What the hell?" Renji's eyes widen with alarm. If he had been on the receiving end of that blow, he would've been squashed. Like a bug.
So, the man has some real power behind all that… blabbering.
Renji sighs and peers down, hoping to locate his opponent through the billowing cloud of smoke and debris.
"Whoohooo!" cries not one, but two voices from behind Renji.
He wheels around to where the felled "James" laid.
"Great. A cheering section." His lip curls into a snarl when he finds that the boy has multiplied.
Just what he needs for his headache.
Renji glances over his shoulder, sensing the barometric drop that usually accompanies the wind up of a blast. On cue, the ground begins to shake, and Mask rallies for a repeat performance. His large body is surprisingly spry as he leaps skyward.
"I will vanquish you!" he bellows.
Landing with a rumbling thud, dust cascades off the man's body like the molting of a second skin. The thick slabs of muscle in his arms, chest, back, and legs begin to swell and bulge, and his fingers curl into fists.
He even gets a little outfit change.
Renji frowns.
More skin and star-shaped nipple guards. Yay.
Renji's gaze flits from the sad little cheering section to the hulking menace and back again.
Maybe Renji is going crazy, but, by the looks of things, the cheering appears to do more than just hype up Mask. The adulation seems to be making him stronger.
Renji's hand firmly grips the hilt of his sword, and the fibers of his legs and back tingle, ready and willing to take whatever commands are necessary. Which is a good thing. The next flurry of motion, adulation, puffery, and flailing of limbs hits him in a blur.
Deftly, he deflects a flying kick with his shikai, only realizing the damage that a segment of his sword has taken the second after narrowly evading the brunt of the man's full body slamming to the ground.
Electricity hisses up Renji's arm, and he winces. "I know, I know," he murmurs to his zanpakutō.
He needs more. More speed. More stamina to withstand these blows. More power.
Renji assumes a guard position. It must be done, he thinks grimly, hating that he has to resort to such measures in the face of sheer lunacy. "Bank—"
Before the word can leave his mouth, blinding pain interrupts his call for bankai, and the grip on his zanpakutō falters.
The pain feels like it's everywhere and all at once. But, that's just his panic talking. A quick glance reveals the truth: Something or someone ensorcelled his fucking dominant hand with an ice spell!
"Watch out, Renji!"
Music to his ears.
Rukia.
Renji narrowly dodges an artic blast from Sode no Shirayuki, which flash freezes the two James and the masked buffoon.
"That fucking hurt," says Renji, landing next to her.
"You'll thank me later."
Renji's lips part—a protest burning like fire on his tongue—but the sight of swarming cherry blossom petals attacking the frozen opponents stops him short.
"Captain Kuchiki?"
The cavalry has indeed arrived.
"I don't think that's a great idea—" Renji starts just as the two James burst into a million shards of ice.
"What?" asks Rukia, eyes locked on Mask.
"Just…." Renji sighs. "Never mind."
Three things happen next. In what order? Renji isn't sure. What he does know is none of these three things is good.
First, as he predicted, Mask remains very much alive, very much unharmed, and very much amped up, which, while not a real shocker to anyone, leads to the second problem: There are now exponentially more Jameses. It's a true audience now. Which sucks. A lot. Mostly because the adulation from the crowd sends Mask into overdrive, but, also, because hearing people cheering for his demise isn't really the soundtrack that Renji planned on dying to.
The third—and maybe most troubling problem—is that Captain Kuchiki's full-on assault against Mask has been interrupted by what looks to be a fucking wraith. This wraith also seems to be a lot more menacing than the idiot in the wrestling costume, but neither Renji nor Rukia can shake Mask long enough to help the captain, even as they feel the imminent threat from the other opponent at their backs.
"Wait," says Renji, catching sight of something that he had not expected to see from this opponent.
Blood.
Beautiful, bright red blood.
Rukia lands close to him. She sees it, too. For all their flailing and failing, they finally landed a blow. But, how? What changed?
"How dare you!" Mask roars. "This is not possible. You're not even captains!"
Rukia and Renji trade glances.
Renji has no delusions that they are anywhere close to felling this foe, but they can… maybe … incapacitate him long enough to turn their attention to Captain Kuchiki's battle.
"Let's go," murmurs Rukia.
Don't need to tell him twice.
And just like that, they launch a frontal assault, giving it everything they have, which is just enough to force Mask off the side of the building.
Howling, the man plummets with a speed that Renji did not think possible. A loud explosion confirms that the ground broke his fall.
Reflexively, Rukia freezes the cheering—now, crying—section of Jameses.
Any sense of victory, however, is short-lived.
Renji barely has the chance to catch his breath before he feels the swell of Captain Kuchiki's reiatsu surge toward them.
"Brother," Rukia gasps, her head snapping to the side.
Senbonzakura's petals barricade them from what Renji can only assume is an enemy attack. Then, fear pierces him just as fast and sharp as a knife to the heart. Reflexively, he reaches out for Rukia. Pure instinct and luck guide his hand to her shoulder, and he yanks her back right as something whizzes past her.
Her eyes widen. "What was that?"
Captain Kuchiki lands beside them, looking like he has been put through his paces, and the barrier of Senbonzakura's petals dissolves.
Renji inhales a deep breath. Pain continues to pulse in his hand, and, reflexively, he tests it, squeezing his hand into a fist then releasing it. Once. Twice. Three times.
It's still weak. It still hurts. He's still real pissed about it. Especially with the black death creeping toward them.
He glances over at Rukia and the Captain. All three of them stand there. Staring. Waiting.
If there's a plan, it must be one of those telepathic plans that only Rukia and the Captain are privy to. Because Renji doesn't have a fucking clue what to do.
"So," he says, clearing his throat.
"Yeah?" asks Rukia, her gaze locked on the enemy.
"I wanted to take this moment to express my sincerest gratitude—"
"Shut up, Renji," she bites out. "Do you think that battle would've been easier had your bankai been turned against us?"
"What?" Renji cuts her a sideways glance. "The intel is that the bankais get sealed."
"Well, the intel was wrong," she snipes back. "They're stealing them."
His eyes widen. "So, what are we going to do?" Renji badly wants to get a look at the Captain, but something keeps his gaze fastened to the danger ahead.
Fear.
Fear is what keeps his eyes focused on the wraith.
He doesn't want to see what he already suspects to be true. He doesn't want to see the Captain's face, knowing his usual expression of arrogant apathy has been replaced with fear, too.
They're fucked. Beyond fucked. They should be digging their graves now.
"We need a bankai to do any damage," he says, refusing the impossibleness of the situation. His fingers clench the hilt of his zanpakutō tighter.
"Brother." Rukia's voice sounds all wrong in Renji's head. It's twisted, and breathy, and scared. What is happening?
He glances over to find that the Captain has drawn Senbonzakura. The blade is pointed down. It's the position the Captain takes before releasing his bankai.
The Captain's other hand, however, grips the hilt of another zanpakutō, one that Renji's never seen before.
"Brother, don't," warns Rukia. "Please."
It's been a minute since Renji last heard Rukia plead with her brother. Shit was messy then, too. It got even messier after when he didn't listen.
Renji's got a sickening feeling that the Captain isn't going to listen now, either.
Renji watches. Brows furrowed. Mouth as dry as cotton. Heart rattling against his sternum. His grip on the Zabimaru's hilt is so tight, he can feel the stitching of its wrapping imprint on his palm.
Rukia's right. This feels like a fucking bad idea. The last thing they need to contend with is a pissed-off out-of-control Senbonzakura.
"Brother, no."
The Captain releases his grip on his zanpakutō.
"Bankai."