RECRUIT

Dreadin' Dead

I'm thinking about how I said goodbye to Rukia. How she had that small

smile on her face; the same one she had on all during her childhood. It always made her look like an old woman. Her eyes would shine and look more purple than amethysts, and more sharp, clear and precious. And for some reason, she always looked so much wiser- so much smarter than me, like she could see something with those crystal eyes that I just couldn't.

I'd gotten that look so many times from her in the past, in Rukongai. In the old mornings, when she'd gotten out of bed early, she would come down to the kitchen and sit at my old, broken table. From the one chair that sat tucked under the tabletop is where she would sit. She would sit there quiet and watch me from across the room. I was younger then, more irritable and quick with her; and I would bark at her to, "quit starin'." And she would look down sometimes, or more often she would have something say. Usually it was a question.

Something like, "where are you going?" She'd watch me packing at the doorway, clipping on bags of rations and fitting myself with weapons. Once she'd asked me, "are you going to kill someone?"

I'd said, "some. Yeah." And she would get that watery, clear look; her mouth smiling as slightly as a blade of grass bends in the breeze. And she'd asked me another question.

It was, "won't you feel bad?" and I laughed at her. I'd looked straight into her eyes and laughed at her.

I said, "won't you?" I'd looked away by then and was reaching for my sword. "Or," I dragged the word on, "you're thinking why should you, right?" I tucked the sword into my belt, "You're hungry aren't ya?" And she'd nodded, her unwashed and unkempt hair swaying into her face. "Any idea how much a loaf of bread costs?" She'd shake her head. "Costs thirty-nine pieces."

I know that as a child she had no concept of money, but I continued to chastise her. At the time, I'd found it amusing. So I'd continued on, "So I kill nineteen men and guess how much I'd get?"

Her voice is tiny and embarrassed. She'd said, "I don't know."

"Not even half that," I'm looking at her now, "so guess how much a life turns out to be worth, kiddo?" She rubs her eyes and shakes her head. "Not even half a piece. So I'm left with this predicament." I'd moved over to her, kneeled down to the floor to look into those wet, purple eyes. "Why pay thirty-nine pieces to feed a girl not even worth half one?" A tear slid down her dirty cheek; it leaves a streak of clean, pale skin. I stand and adjust my sword, "So Rukia, you ask me if I feel bad? Well," I begin to head out the door, "don't you?"

Even though time had passed since then, she still watched. She'd stood looking on, clear and wise; and I am there, geared up and about to leave. This time she doesn't ask if I am leaving. She knows this already. And she doesn't ask if I will kill people. She knows this already too. Instead she says the one simple word absent for her childhood. She says, "goodbye."

I had nodded in return.

And now I'm walking beside Byakuya Kuchiki, who hasn't even begun to say a word. Walking through this darkness, we'll reach the human world soon. I am waiting for him to talk, to finalize my orders. We reach the end of the portal and he follows me through. As we stand on the cement walkways of the living, I'm about to turn to him. I'm about to speak, but anything I'm about to say becomes irrelevant because his sword is through my chest.

If I look ahead of me, I would see nothing but the end of the walkway and the buildings and the streets. Above, I'll see only the dark air with it's millions of starry eyes and below is only blood and cement. So he must be behind me. If I could turn I would see him. How would he look I wonder? Smug? Torn? No. He would look as he always did: indifferent.

In Rukongai, Rukia should have asked me, "How much does it hurt to have a sword pulled through your chest?"

And I would say, "as much as betrayal." You see, kiddo, there's a reason they call it 'getting stabbed in the back'.

…

I don't know what was first, the voices or the blurbs of color, but they're both getting clear now. Kill him. I can see clearly what is about a meter from me, but beyond that is blurry and it's painful to squint. I'm lying down on a cot. Where? I don't know- or when or how or why. Kill him. I just know that I'm here. The lights are too bright so I shut my eyes. It seems so easy just keep them shut and to never open them again.

The voices I'm hearing sound as if they're in the next room. Two men, one older than the other- I'm not trying to understand what they're saying. I couldn't possibly concentrate on it. Soon the beeping, the chatting, the whirring and buzzing all fade again.

A young voice, a boy's- he's saying, "he looks a bit odd." Everything is black, but as my eyes roll away from the back of my head, it starts to glow red. Slower this time, I open my eyes. I expect the painful brightness, but the place seems dimmer this time, like there's a shadow above me. The boy is saying, "bet he's gonna die soon."

Another voice says, "Jinta get outta here." This time the voice is deeper, but it's still young and edgy. Suddenly, I hear light footsteps scamper away from me. Was there someone so close? Who? Where? What do I remember?

Night. Stars. The human world- I had a mission. It wasn't discreet; it was secret. At the portal, Rukia's voice- she'd said goodbye. Her brother. His sword- through my chest- there was blood on the cement. Kill him.

I'd never forgotten. This has been with me the entire time. This feeling. It's heavy in my chest and circling inside me as if someone had been stirring it. It is desolation and it is rage. Kill him.

Kill Byakuya.

Rukia's voice, small and sheepish. Her hair unwashed and unkempt sways into her face. She sits at the table, like every old morning. "Won't you feel bad? Renji?" Sitting at that broken table, her tiny smile stretches wide- too wide. "After all, he killed you."

It feels like I'm awake, but I know I'm not. I know this because the woman who's standing next to Rukia is dead. And I remember this day and however distorted my mind is making it now; it used to be real. When I walk through the door, it's like walking through the corridors of my mind. I see images floating in the sky instead of clouds. Ahead of me is hazy, as if my mind cannot fully recreate the past. And she is behind me. She puts her hand on my shoulder and I can hear her voice whispering in my ear. She says, "I'm only going out for cigarettes."

Those were the last words Hisana had spoken to me. I don't see her leave; I don't hear her footsteps- she just disappears out of this dream. I remember coming back into the house; Rukia was alone, in the dark, at the table. She says the lights have burnt out and her sister still hadn't come home. She asks if it's my fault. Have I killed her?

No. I didn't kill her.

"Not even for a loaf of bread?"

No, not even for a loaf of bread. I wouldn't kill her.

And Rukia asked, "she's not coming back, is she? Did something bad happen to her? Do you know where she went?"

And I tell her that her sister had a certain way about her. She always wanted and wanted and wanted. I tell her, "but your sister was very unlucky, so instead she smoked cigarettes. Lots of cigarettes."

"Like you?"

"I smoke too, but not as much as her," I'd said. Rukia's mouth went big and round and she said 'oh'. "Sometimes when Hisana- I mean, your sister would talk to you she would be smoking. Remember?" She nodded. "And you remember all the smoke that floated up out of her mouth?"

"Yes."

"Your sister was full of smoke," I tell her. "She sucked up so much that her belly got so full that she floated away too." Rukia had this horrified look on her face. "And that's what happens when you smoke too many cigarettes. So you won't smoke any, right Rukia?"

Kill him.

Rukia's voice is fading as she says, "No, but when is my sister coming back?"

Everything is glowing red again like there is something very bright on the other side of my eyelids. Voices are seeping into my mind again. Male voices. It's that same young, deep and edgy voice saying, "I'm serious Jinta. He may be unconscious, but this is boarding on harassment."

A kid's voice, not Rukia's, says, "I just don't want to miss it if he dies."

The other voice, "That's morbid."

"Can't help it. I've never seen a shinigami die before."

"He won't die. Now get out of here." I hear the kid run off again, and the older one sighs. He says, "sorry. When you wake up, you can hit him."

Is he speaking to me? It's almost funny, how long I'm taking to die, slipping in and out of these dreams and this place. I don't even know if I still want to wake up. Kill him. Oh, that's right. I have to kill him. He's still alive somewhere. Byakuya Kuchiki.

I feel something- something sharp and diving into my arm. It's sudden, but my eyes stretch open. Everything is too bright and I can't see. I start to panic. I try to move; try to get up but there's something like a stiff fabric tying me down. My eyes are adjusting and I start to see the clear outline of a person, but that's not what I'm focusing on. I'm focusing on the hand that's stabbing me with something tiny and sharp. What is it? Where am I? Who is that? This is what's slamming through my head. And it's like chewing; when you chew too fast or when you think too fast, your head just bites you in the cheek.

So I'm struggling against these bonds without thinking. I'm all instinct now and if something gets too close to me, I'll kill it. I feel like a tranquilized animal waking up in a cage. Nothing I'm seeing is very clear, although my eyes are thrashing around the room. I can hear someone talking but I don't understand it. Someone grabs my head. I feel their cool touch on both sides of my face, holding me gently but sternly. I look at him, at his face directly above mine and I see his mouth moving. He's speaking to me, but I can't make sense of his words. I look up at his eyes, serious and brown. His hair is vivid and orange.

My body is still struggling against the bonds. I look back to his mouth, he's saying it's okay, it's okay, it's okay. I watch his lips move in front of his teeth, which are straight and white. He's young. Maybe fifteen. His voice is deep and edgy and I begin to remember him. I stop struggling. I breathe through my mouth and just stare at him- whoever he is.

He's still saying, "it's okay. My name is Ichigo Kurosaki and it's going to be okay." I must look completely distraught because his features change and become soft. He says, "you must have gone through something horrible. I'm sorry."

…

I've been lying here for three days, strapped down to a small, white cot. Cords and needles are protruding out of my arms. I just stare up at the ceiling. They tell me they saved my life, felt my spirit dying just outside their shop. How convenient, how lucky I am to have almost died where I did. How amusing.

The kid with the orange hair has barely left this room. He just sits in a chair about three meters from me and hums. Sometimes he talks to me, but I never answer; although, sometimes I will look back at him. I can tell just by looking that he's so desperate for me to say something- to talk, to confide. I'll do no such thing. He starts to tell me about his day. He says that the teachers at his school never cut him a break, but he doesn't mind so much. Then he pauses and everything is silent except for the machines keeping me alive. They beep and whir. Then he says, "I know you can talk." And I feel myself smiling even though I try not to and I hold my laughter in my throat. He says, "Because you talk in your sleep." Many people have told me this before. I've been known to do quite a few quirky things while I sleep. Talk. Walk. Kiss. Of course I don't remember any of it.

Someone else walks into the room. This one the kid calls Urahara and this one I'm familiar with. I don't know him personally, but I know he's the defected captain of the science and research department in Soul Society. Thinking of that and looking at the plastic vines coming out of me, makes me more than a little nervous. This one says, "Good afternoon Lt. Abarai." And the kid stands up and stares hard at him.

"You know who he is?" the kid says.

"Of course. He was quite notorious during the days I'd known him." He adds, "in Soul Society." He checks the glowing and beeping machines and tells me, "You're healing fast. Your spirit pressure is looking very strong." He motions for the kid to take a seat and continues, "You had a most curious wound Lt. Abarai. Not from a hollow, but from a shinigami." I was expecting this. Perhaps he wants to turn me in? Maybe he thinks Soul Society would hand him a handful of cash, but no. What he would be facing is Byakuya Kuchiki with sword in hand. There's no way he could know this- know that Byakuya and I both wanted each other dead. And I'm not about to tell him. I won't say a word to these people. I don't care if they saved my life; I owe them nothing.

Urahara says, "Well, I can see that you're in no mood for chatting. Maybe another day?" And he leaves both the kid and me alone again in the room.

"A lieutenant, huh?" the kid says. I don't look at him this time. My entire body is stiff and screaming to get up and move. There are fluids leaking into me from tubes and straps tying me down to this cot. Oh, if I could… if I only could, I'd slash Urahara's throat. I would tell him that if he wanted me to talk, to spill my guts and trust him, maybe he shouldn't have turned me into a lab rat. I'd say you don't strap friends to tables. I am not an experiment. I don't want to be here. I don't want his precious treatment.

Let me be selfish. I want so much just to be taken over by my anger, this hatred. Let me stop being a man and become a monster. I don't want to feel any guilt or any sympathy anymore. I will make it stop. I will wage war with Byakuya and if I never feel empathy again because of it, so be it. I tell myself I should have died, or rather every part of me should have remained dead. Instead I am resurrected with pieces missing. Where is my mercy? My heart?

Let all of me die. "Hey," comes the kid's voice. It fills the room. "That's some dark spirit energy you've got there." He states it so simply, putting his palms together and shrugging. I want to know why this kid is always with me. Why does he spend all his free time here? Is he looking for money too? Does he want to ransom me too? Maybe he's waiting for me to divulge Soul Society's secrets in my sleep. Instead he says, "I was the one who found you, you know. Urahara, he told me a little about Soul Society and the shinigami, but I've never met one. That is, until a few days ago." He rubs the back of his head.

Could that really be all? Is that his entire reason? I hear myself laughing. My voice is loud and breathy and then it fades away. He's smiling at me. That boy. He says, "I wanted to know, what kind of people the shinigami are." This is when it hits me. After all this time, I finally give him a thought and it clicks. He's not a shinigami. He's a human and he can see me. It shouldn't be possible.

I look at him and he's just a kid. His mouth is simple and pressed into a grin. His features are set and stern, carved into his face like a sculpture. The structure of his face is both straight and angular, but soft with the roundness of youth. His hands look rough and torn and experienced in battle. They're like his body, skinny but tough. And even though he looks rather ordinary, there is something unsettling about him. Something in his large, brown eyes that caution me. Those dark eyes, they're burning like fire.

He says, "You won't say anything though, eh?" He brushes the tip of his nose with his hand. "Must be me. Urahara mentioned something about shinigami being excessively proud. Is that it? You don't think we're worth speaking to?" He's testing me, trying to coax me into conversation. I can detect the hints of amusement in his voice. He's not serious. And I think, is this a game we're playing? I look back at the ceiling. Do I have time for this? Do I have a choice?

…

On the fourth day, I've had it. I start wriggling under the bonds again. I don't care if it's futile. I can't be still like this anymore, lying back and unmoving. I reason that if I can free one hand then removing the rest of the bondage will be easier. So I start sawing the skin around my wrist against the course fabric. I need something slimy to help my hand slip out of the cuff. Blood will do.

Once my skin is raw and bleeding, I begin to drag my hand through. I breath deeper, it helps me to ignore the burning itch of my wrist. I watch as my skin starts to bunch up around the base of my thumb. The wound I created earlier is stretching wider, creating a growing red gap between my wrist and the skin collecting over my knuckles. I start to think this wasn't such a good idea, but it's too late to stop now. I keep twisting and pulling my hand further out of the cuff. I hear my breath hissing between my teeth as the skin of my hand tears further apart.

Once my hand is free, I take a few more deep breaths. I don't want to look at the damage. I think the rest of this plan can go smoothly as long as I don't look. Looking at a wound only decreases your tolerance of it. So, I'm not going to look at it.

I feel my hand shaking as I bring it to the other side of my body. Under my fingertips is more of that course fabric, but I don't feel any sort of buckle. I'm not too keen on dragging my other hand through it, so I examine the cuff more carefully. I feel something cool, kind of like plastic. I finger it and press it. It takes me a minute before I figure it out and squeeze the clip open. I feel the fabric of the cuff release. Now both my hands are free and I begin to work on the thick strap across my chest.

…

Standing up was painful. My every muscle clenched and cramped and stiffened. I limp to the door and start down the dark corridor. This is when I notice the blood I'm dripping behind me. I can see the dim reflection of the outdoor lights outlining the tiny, black droplets. They're like breadcrumbs I'm leaving behind.

My wrist feels hot and itchy and I resist the urge to claw at it. Instead I clamp my other hand around it. I can feel the gore oozing up between my fingers. I tell myself it just seems bad, but really it's a just scratch. It's barely a graze. In fact, it hardly hurts at all. What burning? What itch? It's perfectly fine.

There are voices rumbling from the walls. Not either of those kids, but the two older men. I'm guessing it's Urahara and Tess-something-or-other. I start to wonder how I'm going to get out of here. This place, it must be a nuthouse.

Like a fool, I'm limping and dripping blood down the hallways. I lick my dry lips and squint into the darkness. It's difficult to see. I feel a pounding in my head. It beats like a drum, humming low and methodically. It beats quicker and quieter as I walk, thumping against my skull. It makes it hard to think, hard to walk straight, hard to keep standing. I brace myself against the wall to keep from falling. The drum beats harder and stomach begins to churn and the walls look like they're rippling. My hand runs against them, but they feel straight and solid. I take a deep breath and keep moving forward.

There have been times when I thought there was nothing worse than physical pain- times when my body had been almost completely destroyed. I have felt it searing and cold, shooting, burning and tearing. Rukia should have asked, "How does it feel to be overwhelmed by pain?"

And I would say, "Well, your body tingles after a while. You don't even feel so attached to it, really." But she wouldn't have understood that. Instead, "It feels like lying in a hot spring; your skin is warm and red. Imagine a rain above you, dripping cold droplets onto your hot skin. This is where you are when you're near death, tingling and detached."

My muscles feel a bit warmer, a bit looser, so I'm walking more smoothly now. I'm leaving red handprints on the walls as I make my way further down the hall and I think, "mind over matter. Mind over pain." I repeat this in my drumming head like a mantra. The nuthouse is like a maze and I cannot find a way out; although, if I'd wanted I could follow the breadcrumbs back to the beginning. I sigh out a breath as my body starts to feel heavier. I want to collapse onto the floor and rest. Maybe I'll bleed out, but I don't care. Suddenly escaping doesn't seem so achievable anymore. Just fall onto the floor, Renji. Let yourself give in. You don't want to move forward anymore.

Mind over pain.

My head beats. It thumps and thumps and drowns out the mantra. The drumming sounds like footsteps, light and tiny footsteps that are softly getting closer. Everything is softening, blurring and darkening. All I feel is the smooth and solid, rippling walls against my bloodied palm. Let yourself give in. I lean into the walls and slide onto the ground. You don't want to move forward anymore. The footsteps sound so close now and the drumming continues quietly.

I hear Rukia's voice. It's not in my head. I hear it, soft and childish. She says, "Mister?" She almost whispers it. "Mister," she repeats. I can almost see her, tiny and frail and sitting at the kitchen table. Only she's not sitting. She's standing. Her hair is longer here, but it still brushes messily in front of her eyes.

She says, "mister?"

I move my lips to speak to her. I want to answer her, but my voice is only

a breath. And she says, "Are you looking for the bathroom?" The edges of her are blurry. It's so dark. I can hardly see anything it's so dark. I try to talk, but my words only come out as more air. So I shake my head. I want to ask her why she's here. Shouldn't she be older now? Rukia?

I am foolish. I'll never outgrow my petty memories. Why am I so unable to forget? The past still sticks inside me like smoke, like glue. I'll never be rid of it. It clings to me like a lost dog.

I force myself to smile at the girl standing next to me. How odd I must look to her, sitting and bleeding with a small curve on my lips. Yes, I must look as much of the fool I am. I look at her. She is blurring and rippling and fading into darkness, this girl, who I mistook for Rukia. The past that won't stop bleeding into the present and the memories that won't vanish, she's all of that.

I remember where I am- no. You can't remember your way out of a memory, or out of the past. What's happened is that I've realized where I am and that she is not Rukia. She does not have Rukia's voice and Rukia is no longer a child. This girl, who is looking down at me, is a different child. And she says, "Um, mister? Shouldn't you be in bed sleeping?" I shake my head again and she frowns. She kneels down and whispers in my ear, "we're not supposed to be wandering in the hallways." With two hands, she grabs under my arm. "We need to go back to bed, okay? Before someone sees." She gives my arm a yank and I hear myself groan in protest. She is small and thin, but somehow she possesses a wicked strength. And she gives my arm another agonizing tug and I fall onto my side. I doubt she's human. My body begins to slide over the floor with her strides as she tugs and drags me down the hall. A nuthouse. This place is a nuthouse.

She sighs and wheezes, "geez, mister. You sure are lazy." I tell myself to get up. It should be easy, but for some reason my body won't comply. I was so bent on escaping only moments ago and now I cannot even summon the will to stand. The little girl yanks on my arm again and grunts. I must have no dignity.

…

She leaves me on the floor beside the cot, the one with the course straps of bondage, and looks down to me. "Oh my," she whispers. "looks like I'll have to tuck you in too." My shoulder feels dislocated. It hangs limply at my side and I cannot make a fist. It's like trying to curl your toes when your foot is asleep, the message just doesn't get through. She looks at me with her big eyes and says, "I hope we don't get in trouble."

I swallow and try to talk again, and although my voice is hoarse, it gets through. I ask her, "do you know a way outside?" And her eyes narrow. She turns to the cot and begins to rummage with its straps. She starts shaking her head quickly.

"You're not well," she says. "You have to stay and get better." I force myself to my feet and I'm not sure why it's so difficult. Again, I can hardly see.

I say, "if you know a way outside you should to tell me. It's not right to keep me here." I say this as calmly and simply as I can. I talk to her like I did when Rukia was a child. Simple logic, right and wrong.

She doesn't look at me and her voice becomes panicked. "No," she whispers. "I can't. You need to get better. You need to stay."

I lean against the wall. It feels like my body wants to shut down, but I can't figure out why. I ask, "what's your name?"

And she answers, "Ururu."

I smile at her and say, "Ururu, I need to find a way out of here. Can you help me?"

Her eyes look to the floor. "I'll get in trouble," she says. It's hard to focus on her because my stomach feels like it's pulsing inside my gut. She whispers and mutters to herself as she fidgets, but I'm finding it more and more difficult to pay attention. She turns her head and looks back at me. Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly; almost as if she's saying, "mister?" My stomach is cramping. It makes my chest ache and my throat burn. A taste of sourness fills my mouth and I vomit. I hit the floor. I don't even feel it.

…

I wake up strapped to the cot. The sun is peeking in through the window, but it seems like it shouldn't be this time of the day. Wasn't it only seconds ago that I'd fallen? A voice in the room says to me, "Hey."

It asks, "you feel okay?" I can recognize him by his hair. That colour that seems like it may once have been dark, but now is bleached into a radical shade of orange. It sticks into peaks and stands up all over his head. There's only one kid I know with hair like this. And he says, "I can't use spells." He points to my arm, torn and dislocated. It lays useless and strapped down to my side. I look at the ceiling. He says, "Sorry if it hurts, but you'll have to wait until Tessai or Urahara get here."

That boy, he's wearing a shinigami's uniform. Only he's layered it with a large, gray sweatshirt. The drawstrings hang at different lengths about his neck. He looks to the side. "The little girl," he says, "that you met last night… She said you talked to her." He says this carefully, slowly and then he looks at me. "I know that you want to leave, but," he licks his lips and his voice quivers, probably from nervousness, "you are sick."

He asks, "don't you feel it?"

And I feel it. Kill him. I feel my body breaking down, failing. I feel my mind drowning and slipping and thumping. Yet, none of it really matters. I just want to leave. I don't care if I die because I won't die. Not yet.

He says, "The atmosphere in the living world is different from your Soul Society. You were born there right?" I don't need to nod or confirm it, the kid just continues on. "So, being here for so long it's like," he looks around the room for words, "putting a fresh water fish in salt water. Or even- well, I don't know exactly, but Urahara said it's acute spiritual sickness."

Poisoning.

It seems that the living world is the perfect place to off a shinigami. Here is where the eyes of the Seireitei are diverted and where the atmosphere is potentially toxic. Here, there are so many ways to be done in. Really, I'm as good as dead. And Ichigo says, "your nose is bleeding," as if I didn't know. As if I couldn't realize that.

He rips a section of a paper towel from the counter and walks toward me. His eyes are focused on my nose and his face seems almost placid, except for the slight edges in his brow. I can't detect the emotion. It's not disgust. I'm sure this kid has seen blood before. I'm sure he's fought before- battled and killed. And surely, the sight of blood cannot disgust him. He smears the blood across my cheek with the towel and says, "this is just another symptom." He smiles with half his mouth. "At least your hair isn't falling out. That could've been a symptom too." I feel the blood drying on my skin. I can't help but sneer at his sense of humor. He starts to laugh, just short and quietly.

"Sorry," he says, "it was a bad joke." Then he points to the machines hooked and drilled into my arms. "Those are anti-spirit meds. Something like that anyway." He heads back to that chair he's always sitting in and then the girl walks into the room.

Little Ururu, with her soft and childish voice, she says, "Ichigo?" There's something in her hand. Something that looks like a very tiny shinigami communicator and she says, "your cell phone was ringing." Behind her is that other child. The boy, his name is Jinta.

He says, "did Red die yet?" And Ichigo shakes his head and takes the phone from the girl. He leaves the room. Jinta walks toward me despite the girl's protestations. She urges Jinta to leave with her, but he doesn't listen. Soon his head is hovering over my own. His face is smug, superior and he says, "hurry up and croak already."

I scoff. I smile and tell him that once I'm free, I'm going to eat him. And his face drops. He looks surprised and scared at the same time. The girl screams and runs out of the room. She yells for Ichigo. Jinta looks at me and backs away. Once he collects himself, his face scrunches and he says, "yeah right." Then he leaves the room.

…

When I wake up my arm is fixed, and Ichigo is sitting across the room. He looks at me and nods. He's disheveled and sweating and chewing something. He has beige cotton wraps wound around each of his wrists and knuckles and a mouth guard in his lap. He tells me that when Urahara had arrived, I 'd already been asleep. So they'd anaesthetized me while I'd been 'snoozing' and went forth repairing my arm. Ichigo says, "you don't mind, do you?"

Yes, I mind. I don't want them to sedate me without my permission; but I know that this concept of individual rights and freedoms is meaningless to them. So I just look back at the ceiling. I hear Ichigo sigh. Whether from exhaustion or frustration I don't know. He asks, "are you itchy or something?" I look at him and then I realize I'm wriggling under the binds. I stop moving and he sighs again. I want to ask him why he spends so much time here. What does he think I'll tell him? What will I give away? It occurs to me that perhaps he works under Urahara. Perhaps he's paid to keep an eye on me, or to try to coax me into a revealing conversation. Maybe, just maybe, this is a nuthouse chalk full of rogue, fugitive shinigami such as myself. Maybe, these quacks are just waiting and waiting for one of us to betray the other.

Before, this boy told me that he'd only wanted to meet me because I was a shinigami. He wanted to understand what he called 'my people'. This could be because he is like one of us. He sees us, feels us and possesses a spirit. Only he is alive. So he is different. He is not a shinigami. I lick my lips and say, "free me." I'm not sure if I'm thinking it, or actually saying it, but the boy responds. He stares at me. His eyes are large and stretched wide. His mouth gapes for a moment and then he swallows. It was only a seconds worth of lost composure; and then his lips broke into an amused curve.

He says, "no can do. You'd take off."

I say it's my right to take off. And he shakes his head.

"Then bring me a cigarette."

…

There are two types of people I know. There are the ones who bring you up and the ones who bring you down. The first type are the teachers at the academy, or the radio personality. It's your mother and father figure. And it's also completely Rukia.

It's Rukia when she says, "thank you," or "congratulations." It's her when she sets your goals for you and waits for you to cook her breakfast. It's her, as she'd count the filthy money you'd bring home with you every other week and say, "this'll get us through."

This type, they want you to succeed even when they don't. They'll wish you happiness even if they're envious or impartial of you. It's not even so much about the encouragement, as it is about the expectations. They want you to succeed, but they don't help you do it.

The second type is the majority of men I've met in my life. These are the people who remind you of your failings, your defects and insecurities. These are the ones who tell you that you cannot succeed. Ironically, they help you do it. This type is Byakuya.

It's Byakuya when he says, "the likes of you" or "figures" or "deplorable". It's Byakuya when he kills you and remains indifferent.

Type one and type two, I've never thought beyond this.

I've never asked, 'where does Hisana fit in?'

Or 'where would that Ichigo kid fit in?'

These 'non-conformists.' Where do they fit in? And as I begin to formulate the boundaries of a type three, he walks through the door. He smiles and says, "okay." Walking toward me, his erect, orange hair swaying with his strides, he says, "you're free." Then his bruised hands fumble with the straps across my chest and over my wrists. I feel the pressure of them ease as he releases them. They dangle down the sides of the cot and the boy steps away. He says, "well?"

If I want to, I could sit up. I could swing my legs over the side of the cot and run. Where? Down the corridor- and he says, "free, but with strings attached. So don't get the wrong idea. You still can't leave."

I say, "then free is bad word choice."

And he smiles with half his mouth. "Not really," he says. "You're free to sit up." He has a sword. Its wrapped in loose bandages and hanging from his shoulder. 'Sword' might not be the right word. Cleaver or weapon is better. The wrapped hilt hovers by his ear- out of my reach.

I sit up. My feet press against the floor and I stand up carefully. As slow as I'm moving, my mind is racing. Thoughts are rushing and replacing the natural noises being created around me. I don't hear the machines whirring and clicking anymore. What I hear is more methodical and menacing. A drum beat, soft and repetitive and whispering like a heart beat. Just thump, thump, thump.

And I look at the kid. Him. He just stands there. I don't need a sword to kill him. His spirit is strong, but sporadic. During my incarceration, I spent extra time sorting through it, focusing on it. What I've noticed is how it dips and spikes. For some hours, its high and overbearing; conversely, it also plunges back down, leaving him weaker and more vulnerable. Now is the time when it's crashing, plunging. Now, if I'd wanted, I could dispatch him easily.

The drum beats in my head. It's as if it had never left. The drum beat, the thumping, its almost like being asleep. Imagine yourself dreaming. Imagine that the drumbeat is really an alarm trying to wake you up. This is how it feels. Have I forgotten something? Am I missing something?

The drum beats.

And it beats.

And I look at Ichigo.

He's grinning and his left brow is lifted.

The walls are rippling.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

Am I missing something? I'm asking myself, kill who? But the drum just keeps on beating. It keeps chanting. I hear Ichigo saying, "hey." I must have forgotten something. I've missed something. Ichigo says, "You alright?"

My eyes snap back onto him. The walls are still. The air is quiet. The drumbeat is gone. And I ask, "where's Byakuya?"

He says, "who?"

So I scream it. "Where's Byakuya Kuchiki?"

And somewhere, I think Byakuya is laughing.

…

I sit in small, panelled entertaining room. I watch Urahara lower himself next to a low table and fold his legs into his lap. He peers at me from underneath the rim of a short-rimmed hat and then looks into a teacup. He must be watching the drink steep. Beside him, Ichigo is standing with his hands hidden inside his large, gray sweatshirt. That cleaver is still hanging from his shoulder.

Suddenly, Urahara says, "It makes me nervous when I see your eyes darting around the room, Lt. Abarai." So I settle my eyes onto him and he laughs. "You know, they tell stories about your eyes." He touches his finger to the cup to test the temperature, and then wraps his hand around it. "When I became captain, I heard many of them; but there's one I've always liked the best. They told it after you killed the third seat of Sixth Company." He blows on the fragrant drink and then says, "they say that you were a mercenary in the Rukon Districts- that during a battle of a thousand men, you were splashed with their blood until you were dripping. In fact, so much blood that it seeped into your skin and changed the colour of your hair and eyes. Now it only shines the colour of blood."

"Ridiculous," I say. "I was born this way."

He laughs. "Of course Lt. Abarai. I was only breaking the ice."

I look at Ichigo. He looks to the floor and pulls his bottom lip into his mouth. His weapon's hilt, it hovers by his ear. I hear Urahara laugh and assume my eyes must have been flickering around the room again. I stare at him and ask why I'm prohibited to leave.

He says, "Oh, you can leave Lt. Abarai, just not quite yet. I would like to offer my extended invitation to you as a guest in my household."

"A guest?" I have my doubts.

"On the condition that you agree to the condition." This is a game of questions; and he says, "I had a choice whether or not to save your life and I'll be completely honest. I wouldn't have wasted my resources unless I had faith that you could be useful to me in the future. So now, I'm hoping you'll fulfill that purpose."

I say, "I'm not indebted to you."

"As you say," he sets the cup on the table, "but listen anyway, for your own sake." I begin to study the room again. I take note of the direction the light is shining and the movement of the air. There must be a door or window in the next room. He says, "Stay as my guest and participate in Ichigo's training. Actually, to be more specific, I want you to teach him."

I say that's not guest; that's a slave, but he keeps talking.

"You'll tell him everything you know about Soul Society and the shinigami there. He'll know everything you know. He'll move like you move. Understand?"

I look at Ichigo. His eyes are stretched and his brows are pressed together. He seems more surprised then I should be. My first reaction, it should be to reject this man's offer and grab that boy's weapon. As a test of my dedication to my real purpose, I should slash both these men and exit this prison. I shouldn't even hesitate. Instead of doing what I should, I say, "fine."

Why? Because I have an idea of what Urahara is up to; and he can help me achieve my real purpose. He can help me kill Byakuya Kuchiki.

…

The man's basement is a desert. Really. Underneath his home, he's walled in an underground wasteland. It's so huge that you cannot see the wall from the opposite side of the room. So huge, that it may take me five minutes to run to the next wall. As I look around the room, Ichigo is lying a few feet away and performing sit-ups. I check the device around my wrist. Urahara called it a watch. Apparently it tracks the movement of the sun because it's able to tell the minutes before dawn and nightfall. A minute, as I've been told, is sixty beats.

We have different ways of counting time in Soul Society. Part of my job is to instil this information in Ichigo. It's almost been two minutes. I say, "Ichigo. You better be in the nineties." His shiny face appears above his knees and then disappears as he lies back down again.

As he sits up, he pants the word, "ninety-two," and lies back down again.

I say, "nine seconds." And he sits back up again. I look back onto the fake horizon. It almost seems there's a sky down here. It must also have very high ceilings. I wonder if this is typical of the living world. I don't imagine it is. I look at the watch and say, "time." Ichigo falls onto his back and breathes deeply.

I ask what his final number is and he tells me, "ninety eight."

I nod my head and say, "good enough. Pick up your sword." And even though I've tested his limits and drained him physically, he picks up the sword despite his exhaustion. I watch him lift the weapon and slide his feet into an appropriate stance. I ask him where he got his sword. And he blinks the sweat from his eyes and shrugs slightly.

"Well," I say, "you weren't born with it were you?" He shakes his head. "So answer me," I make sure to pronounce my words in a patronizing manner, "Where did you get your sword?"

"It was given to me," he says, "by Urahara."

I try not to laugh. He does not even have a grasp at the basics. To my left is a wrack stacked with both steel and wooden swords. This, I've been instructed, is for training and is not to be removed from the training grounds. I wrap my hand around the hilt of a steel katana. "Your sword is different from this one," I say to him. "It has special properties. Am I right?" His face presses into a defensive expression. He doesn't answer me. He doesn't trust me. "Urahara gave me this sword," I say, directing the steel toward him. I run my hand along the length of the sword and as I do, it transforms its shape. The steel grows and darkens and thickens until it reflects my own spirit. The sword becomes an extension of my soul and I can feel my very being resonating through its edge. Now, it's not just a sword. "He didn't give me this one," I say.

Ichigo mouths the words, "that's impossible," and fixes his stare onto my sword.

"A shinigami's sword is a reflection of their character," I tell him. "That sword is a reflection of yours and not Urahara's." I gesture to the bandaged weapon. "You understand?" He nods slightly to me. I lift my chin and look down at him. The way I lift my sword, it catches the light on each of its seven short prongs. "I was born with this sword. Were you born with yours?" He glares up at me. His mouth is a suppressed snarl and as he reaches for his sword. His eyes seem to burn up with what I hope is anger and wounded pride. Once his hand makes contact with the hilt, the bandages loosen and fly away from the cleaver. "I hope you have the skills to back up that sword. Otherwise," I say, "you'll never survive in Soul Society."

His arm swings into a wide arch as he attempts to severe my head. I only have to tilt my neck a fraction to avoid it. As his stance resets and he recovers from his failed strike, I veer and slap the kid in the jaw with the back of my heel. And because his balance was off, the blow knocks him onto the ground. The cleaver clatters onto the rocks. I couldn't suppress it, so I laughed at him. I say, "You're hardly a warrior at all."

He stumbles onto his feet and mumbles, "you're too fast."

And I smile and say, "your moves are too choreographed. Show me your fighting stance." I watch as his back foot slides a step behind him. He points his toes forward and angled. His heels are firmly planted onto the ground and I say, "Here's a foundational problem," and I slap him in the stomach. The force causes him to nearly fall backward. I tell him the reason he's lost his balance so easily is because his stance is too strong. I say, "on your toes. When the stance is less planted, the body can absorb a blow better." I explain this to him as I deliberately walk into his blind spot. "Attack me again," I say. "And this time put some more enthusiasm into it."

I spin my sword in my hand as I wait for him to collect his weapon and ready himself. I nod to him and he races toward me with his sword in hand. He swings it in wide, powerful arcs. His moves are simple, quick and most likely fatal if the boy possessed more accuracy and better timing. As it was, he didn't and I am able to avoid them with great ease. There are no surprises or consecutive attacks, just a no-fuss style of swordplay; and I've seen enough. I don't even have to swing my sword. I just sneak into his guard and chop him in the back the head with my hand. He stumbles forward, but catches himself before he falls on the ground. Something in his eyes tells me that he, as well as I, knows the fight is over.

His brows furrow and create soft wrinkles on the bridge of his nose. The way he avoids looking at me, I can tell that he's conflicted. Perhaps he's never felt this vulnerable or weak before. So I decide to push him a bit further. I say, "you're an amateur at best," and further, "you'll need years of training." His eyes are lit up like fire and his mouth is set into a tight frown. Only the quick swallow in his throat gives away his unease. By looking at him and weighing the look of desperation behind his angry expression, I can assume he doesn't have years; but I had all the time in the world. Byakuya Kuchiki would always be there on the other side. I wouldn't have to pursue a speedy vengeance, because he was a difficult man to kill.

I ask Ichigo how long he has to train and he doesn't answer me at first. I tell him whatever he's sworn not to tell me will only hinder his development under my tutelage. And he looks to the ground and says only, "months." I sigh out a long breath. In a few months, I think, I'll be following Ichigo into Soul Society. This was my best opportunity. Within these months of training, I'll work to coax out every detail of Urahara's plan from the boy. After all, I had my own agenda.

Wow! You read to the third segment? I'm impressed!