Hi people! Guess what – you get a LONG chapter! As in over 7000 words! Because I love you all, and you guys are brilliant.
Thanks to reviewers: Chirpy Hitomi chan, vine, KJC2025, Tsuki no Yukihime, MerryKitten, Phantom Claire, BleachFreak16, Titiaredhead, DLC2904, poooy200, Guest, uzuki-chan, brialees, Miss Namikaze, laughingspider, anon, Darkest Kurogetsu, Debido, ilovebks, Kireina-Ame, Dashita Tichou, 00cLosetFreak00, Mtmeye, blades of blood488, Irishmate, Mugetsu Ichigo.
I don't own Bleach, only the plot, etc. Hope you guys like it!
Unknown to many, the first part of any, or indeed, all, of the shinigami barracks to wake from still slumber and pitch into chaotic commotion are the assorted kitchens of the Gotei 13. For before the first shinigami – officer or footsoldier – tumbles grumbling out of bunks into shihakushuo, their breakfast is already underway, the galleys have already awoken, hard taskmasters waving ladles and soup spoons as efficiently as any zanpakutuo, a hundred cooks and apprentices rushing and stumbling and lurching and crying out in the frenzy that is method in madness. The craziness varies; the kitchens of the Eleventh Division are positively anarchic, reflecting only the riotous lawlessness of their food halls; the galley of the Sixth is ordered and structured, for their captain cannot abide messy disorder, and so neither should they.
The Fifth Division is somewhere in the middle. The chief taskmaster of the Fifth's kitchens is not a shouting chef, but a well-rounded, red-faced matron capable of thundering command towards her minions and doting blindness towards her shinigami darlings stealing a snack between meals, the two oxymoronic states of being somehow coexisting almost at the same time.
When Abarai Renji had stormed into the empty mess hall that morning, mumbling murderous little phrases like self-worshipping git and what is he to Rukia under his breath, the matron had taken one glance and summarily slammed a laden tray in front of the new boy's startled face.
"Here, dear," she said, not unkindly. "Bad squabble with roomie on the first night?"
Renji looked vaguely flabbergasted and more than a bit intimidated. He nodded, slowly.
The matron also nodded, but in approval of her own discernment. Yes. The baby needed feeding from that crap they serve at the academy. "Eat," she said, in her most authoritative tone.
Renji snapped to attention. "Yes m'm," he choked, wide-eyed.
"Don't hold grudges. They aren't going to help you in the end." And with that gem of motherly advice, the matron went back into her domain to order her minions to work faster.
Renji had considered her words for the briefest moment, then remembered Kurosaki's face when he had told him that Rukia was none of his business. That had been enough to set his face into a low growl for the rest of the thirty minutes it took for the rest of the division to slowly wake and troop to the mess hall, filing into the seats around him. That arrogant, self-important excuse for a captain…
And so, Renji had remained quietly stewing, Zabimaru lying by his right hand and flat on the table, all the way until his friends had joined him at their own breakfasts, and quite a while after that. Unable to resist the urge to complain about his new roommate to someone, having already promised to keep the information from Aizen-taichou, he had blabbed the entire story in hushed tones to Kira and Hinamori.
His friends are suitably horrified, leaving Renji somewhat more satisfied and a tiny – tiny! – bit less angry.
"Oh my goodness, what are we going to do?" Hinamori squeaks, eyes gigantic. "This is dangerous, we've got to tell someone! We've got to report this now!"
Whoa. That's a bit of an unexpected reaction – Renji had thought they were outraged for him, not afraid of a security breach. He frowns. "We're not telling anyone, Hinamori," Renji says shortly. "The sooner this guy goes back to his time, the better."
Kira's calm tones interject at this point. "Abarai, I've got to agree with Hinamori-chan on this. This guy is an unidentified quantity. We've got a duty to report if there's a danger to our division. I suggest we go to Aizen-taichou first thing after we eat."
Hinamori nods repeatedly, head bobbing.
This is spiraling out of Renji's control, now. "Whoa, wait a sec, guys," Renji says, holding his hands up. "As much as I hate this guy, he's sort of a prisoner here, and he did say that he was going to become a scientific experiment if anything else was revealed about him – so can't we just let this go?" A twinge of guilt blossoms in Renji's chest. He had sort of given his word to keep the events of last night to himself.
His friends frown at him.
Renji sighs. "Look, this guy, annoying as he is, just wants to go home. If anything else freaky happens, we'll report it immediately, alright?" Next time the portal opens, he'll probably make it back to his time anyway.
Kira looks unconvinced, but nods without a further word. Hinamori still looks unsettled, giving Renji little glances. She opens her mouth, about to reply, but a single look from Renji shuts her up. She bites her lip, returning to her food unhappily.
The assorted shinigami around them chatter on unreservedly, yesterday's gossip about the supposed time-travelling taichou and fukutaichou still rampant. Only their table is uncomfortably quiet.
Then, ten minutes before the end of breakfast hour and the start of shinigami duties, when even the matron of the kitchens is allowing her minions to slow down a bit, a figure dressed in haori and shihakushuo, orange hair untamed, and armed with a fabulous scowl strides into the mess hall.
The arrival of Kurosaki Ichigo takes about five seconds to register in everyone's minds. The minor delay is due to the fact that he is determinedly not looking at anyone else, and his reiatsu is clamped down to a bare minimum. But after his silky white haori catches the first glance, the mess hall explodes into a wildfire of whispering.
Ichigo grits his teeth, and accepts the tray of leftovers handed to him by the matron wordlessly. Only hunger had pushed him to enter the hall in search of food. He would have barricaded himself in his room until he felt the first pulse of Urahara's portal, if not for the knowledge that if he starves himself, there is next to no chance of his reiatsu replenishing itself.
Whispers drift from around the hall into his unwilling ears. Is that him? Is that his zanpakutuo? It's blooming gigantic! How is he even allowed here?
Ichigo puts down his tray excessively hard, and the cuffs on his wrist contact the table with a sharp crack. Zangetsu is placed leaning against the table, and the sword's weight thuds as the metal hits the ground.
Silence falls like a heavy blanket. Ichigo draws out his chair – it scrapes on the floor – and sits down with a tired grace, pointedly ignoring Renji and his friends at the other end of the table.
Eat, then leave, Ichigo thinks, clamping down on his annoyance.
The whispers start again, accompanied with a lot of staring.
Ichigo tries to deter himself from reviewing his policy of not going berserk and slaughtering entire divisions of the Gotei. He attempts to distract himself with the food, which is surprisingly quite edible.
Hinamori edges away slightly towards Kira and away from the orange-haired captain. Ichigo pretends not to notice, and hides the spike of hurt that surfaces – Hinamori-chan and he are good friends in the future.
Chew, swallow. A few more repetitions of that, and he can leave this place. The culmination of the stares, the hissing whispers, the expressions of fear makes Ichigo feel like a caged animal. Dangerous, chained, and the object of much fascination. Wonderful.
The tall doors to the mess hall swing open. The sound of two pairs of feet sedately approaching. The next bite of food sticks in Ichigo's throat, but he forces it down and does not deign to turn his head. But his fingers twitch towards Zangetu's hilt.
Here comes the circus-master and his whip.
A voice, warm as spun silk. "Ah, Ichigo-taichou, I trust you slept well?"
Ichigo seemingly ignores him, taking a long, deep drink of water. The pause stretches until the bounds of politeness, too, are stretched to the edge of offense. Several shinigami scattered across the room, including Hinamori, shift indignantly on Aizen's behalf. Then Ichigo delicately sets his cup back on the tray, and raises his eyes to meet Aizen's crinkled gaze.
"Fine," Ichigo answers shortly.
Aizen's smile widens. "I'm glad to hear that." He turns to the trio of newly-inducted shinigami, eliciting a small eep from Hinamori. "And our new friends? Are you well?" His benign scrutiny lands on the suddenly tense Renji.
As Renji stutters a reply, Ichigo turns his gaze to the tall, thin figure standing respectfully two steps behind Aizen. A snakelike grin, slitted eyes, hair the colour of spun mercury, mind as sharp as poisoned fangs.
Ichimaru Gin, the fukutaichou of the Fifth Division, Aizen's second-in-command.
Rukia had told Ichigo once that the mere sight of him sent chills up her spine and made her feel nauseous with fear. There is something profoundly wrong with the man, from outside appearances – for his eyes seem to bore into your soul, regardless of the fact that they are invisible behind his curved eyelashes, and his smile is the grim warning of impending death, for it never wavers even as his blade drives hilt-deep into your chest.
To most, he resembles a serpent in more ways than one.
But Ichigo regards him levelly. Gin's true nature is like his name. Gin. Silver. Tarnished silver. At the core, a heart shrouded in not black, but the grey areas of morality.
A possible ally, if carefully handled. Like one handles a poisonous snake.
Gin tilts his head imperceptibly under Ichigo's gaze.
Aizen turns back towards them. "Ah! My apologies, you have not been introduced. Ichigo-taichou, may I present my fukutaichou, Ichimaru Gin. I am often rather busy, unfortunately, with my work, and so you will be seeing quite a lot of him. I trust you will find his companionship agreeable."
Gin bows once, formally, from the waist in a proper show of respect towards one of higher rank. His smirking visage does not change. "It is my honour, Kurosaki-taichou. So pleased to meet you," he murmurs smoothly.
Ichigo answers with a slow dip of his head.
The light reflects off Aizen's glasses, rendering them opaque for the briefest moment. "Ichigo-taichou, I have a small favour to ask."
Ichigo tenses, although his face remains impassive.
"Would you care to join the mid-afternoon training session for new members of the Fifth Division? Your expertise would be much appreciated, and I am sure it will be an enjoyable expenditure of your time."
Renji and the others jolt in surprise. Ichigo lays down his chopsticks in what looks like contemplation.
"Aizen…-taichou." The honorific is tagged on as an afterthought. "I fail to see how I can be of help when I am…bound…like this." Ichigo waves a hand at his reiatsu cuffs.
Aizen's smile only widens. "I do believe you underrate yourself, Ichigo-taichou. I am sure you can be of exceptional benefit to our new shinigami in ways that do not require the expense of much reiatsu. I promise I will not run you ragged." His tone turns patronizing as he leans forward and taps Ichigo's reiatsu cuffs lightly, at the cracks that the tightly locked hinges are.
Ichigo has to bite his tongue to avoid flinching and stabbing Zangetsu into the man's face. But he controls himself, because there is no room here for error, if Rukia and he are to get through this alive.
Aizen is still waiting for an answer, smiling mildly.
"Fine," Ichigo says coldly. It is only the third time he has spoken since their entry, and it is the exact same response as the first. He pointedly avoids looking at Gin. The silver-haired fukutaichou is the only reason he is complying. It is imperative that they talk, and soon – Gin may as well be the lynchpin to his plan.
If Aizen is surprised at his quick agreement, he does not show it. "Thank you, Ichigo-taichou," he says, looking pleased.
A moment of silence.
Then the sound of the morning bell splits the air, a shrill ringing that signals the beginning of official shinigami responsibilities, and the fact that approximately eighty percent of the people seated in the hall are supposed to be hearing the clanging while at duty. Of course, they are most decidedly not, at the moment, having been absorbed in the little conversation between two taichou and one fukutaichou.
The whole of the Fifth Division is late for duty.
The bell ends, as abruptly as it starts. Aizen turns, and smiles at the whole cafeteria, clapping his hands together. "My apologies. I do seem to have distracted you all from the time. Forgive me."
The tension snaps like a razor-thin cord, and suddenly the mess hall is a chaos of sound and movement as bread rolls are stuffed last-minute into shihakusho pockets, muffled sounds of panic at their tardiness rising to the rafters. Renji and his friends also rise, bowing their leave. Renji strides away with a glance at Ichigo, and Kira follows him, but Hinamori dithers, wringing her hands and looking nervously back at Aizen.
"Renji-kun, Izuru-kun, Momo-kun," Aizen's voice rings out after them, "remember, if you have any concerns, feel free to come to me. I'll be in my office all morning."
Renji and Kira bow quickly, then are gone around the corner. Hinamori lingers momentarily – then seems to relax, bowing so deeply her hair almost touches the floor. She leaves the cafeteria – in the opposite direction that her friends had gone.
"Good day, Ichigo-taichou," Aizen says genially, patting Ichigo's shoulder as he leaves. Ichigo manages not to regurgitate his breakfast. Aizen turns the corner.
Gin glides after his taichou, but gives Ichigo a longer look than is necessary on the way out.
The matron sends her minions to collect the dishes.
(BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK)
The halls of the Tenth Division are appropriately bright, the midmorning sun making the pinewood flooring glow almost golden-yellow. Kaien strides through the hectic corridors, gracefully weaving his way around the assorted shinigami running to and from their duties. It is almost a tradition for the Tenth that, unlike the majority of the other divisions, everything is done last-minute. So it is unlikely to see anyone in the halls who is not running full-pelt as if an arrancar itself is chasing their tail. Fortunately, for Kaien, his fukutaichou's badge marks him out as a person of importance, and so these charging black-and-white (cough) slaves of his sadistic uncle know to slow their steps long enough to avoid crashing into him, and also to nod passably respectfully.
Still, it takes a shunpo or two to the side sometimes to dodge the ones going too fast to stop.
Sighing, Kaien makes his way towards his uncle's office. It would be good to keep Rukia informed about any plans that Isshin might have in keeping Byakuya busy and away from his own house. Rubbing the back of his head absently, Kaien turns the second-to-last corner from the office –
– and nearly runs headlong into Kuchiki Byakuya.
Kaien tips backwards and to the side. "Ah! I'm sorry, Kuchiki-taichou. Please forgive me," he says quickly, with a deep bow.
Byakuya is oppressively silent, forgoing even the characteristic "Hn" that one might expect in a situation like this. Kaien straightens, and finds Byakuya practically white-lipped with suppressed fury, radiating irritation so intense that he nearly steps back. Kaien is intelligent enough to see that nearly colliding with him is most definitely not the sole reason for the captain's ire.
He looks ready to murder someone, Kaien thinks. "If you would excuse me, Kuchiki-taichou," he murmurs, and slips around the captain, whose reiatsu warps with infuriated annoyance.
Thirty feet later, Kaien edges into Isshin's office without so much as a knock. "What on earth did you do, Uncle?" he asks mildly to what seems like an empty room.
Isshin's head pops up from behind the desk, a beatific smile on his face. "Yo, my most honourable nephew!" He waves, then disappears behind the desk again.
Kaien rolls his eyes and crosses the room, looking down at his uncle, who is sprawled on his stomach on the floor behind his desk, sorting through a pile of assorted paperwork and letters, kicking his feet jovially in the air. "Uncle. Kuchiki-taichou looked angry enough to kill someone. I would at least like to know the reason for your sudden and tragic death if I am so informed of it tomorrow morning."
Isshin looks up with a pout. "Nehhh. You would curse your poor innocent uncle. It's disrespectful, nephewww…"
Kaien pointedly ignores him. "Rukia is coping better than I expected."
Isshin's expression turns serious for a moment. "Good," he says. Then his goofy grin comes back as he shuffles the papers on the floorboards. As he does so, Kaien catches a line of words on one of the letters. The Shiba clan graciously invites your eminence to attend –
Kaien catches the edge of the paper with one toe, and drags it out of the pile, snatching it up before Isshin makes a half-hearted grab at it. "What's this?" he asks.
Isshin rolls over, stretching. "My awesomeness," he says unhelpfully, grinning even wider.
Kaien scans the letter, written on beautifully pressed official paper, with slowly widening eyes. His fingers scrunch the corner of the paper. "Uncle!" he hisses sharply. "Is this – Is this –"
"Yes it is, my dear boy," Isshin giggles.
"YOU SENT AND OFFICIAL INVITE FROM THE SHIBA CLAN TO THE KUCHIKI CLAN IN AN OFFER FOR BYAKUYA TO COURT MY SISTER?!"
Isshin blinks in a picture of innocence. "Why, nephew-mine, I don't understand your confusion. You're married. This sort of invite gets sent all the time. You know that as heir to the Shiba clan, I can send these things. Why the high drama?"
Kaien is actually speechless. When he had left Isshin to figure out something to keep Byakuya busy, he hadn't expected this. "I – I –"
"Yep, and a plus is that Byakuya will have to spend allll afternoon and possibly part of tomorrow getting to know Kukaku-chan, just out of politeness! He can't possibly decline. That's a good window for Ichi-chan and Rukia-chan to make their escape. I'm a genius, hehehehe."
Kaien has the sudden vision of his baby sister, Kukaku, in a formal kimono with a ferocious scowl on her face, refusing to put on formal slippers and going for patent-leather boots instead. He has a bizarre inclination to laugh hysterically. "…has my pity," he chokes.
"Who?"
"Kuchiki-taichou."
Isshin laughs loudly, nodding his assent. "Ah, dear Kukaku-chan will probably slaughter him. Poor man."
Something occurs to Kaien with a jolt. "Er, Uncle," he says.
"Yes, nephew?"
"You did tell her, right?"
Isshin looks up with baby-round eyes. "Why would I need to?" he says.
Oh no.
As if in answer to that ominous thought, a figure smashes through the office window with a gigantic CRASH and barely seems to touch the floor before gripping Isshin's collar in a death hold and smashing the wide-eyed uncle into the wall.
Everything stops for a moment, the instant immortalized, Kaien standing with his hands in the Don't Shoot Me! position, and Isshin looking down his nose into the spectacle that is Shiba Kukaku, glaring daggers and breathing heavily from high-speed shunpo.
"Hi!" Isshin squeaks, eyes crossed down the blade that Kukaku is holding.
Kukaku takes a deep breath. "EXPLAIN, UNCLE," she snarls.
Isshin grins. "I, ah, yes – as your dear and loving uncle, I thought that maybe it's time for you to settle down, my darling – kyaaaahh!"
The dagger is touching his nose now. Kaien winces, and edges away.
"Try again," Kukaku says, no less vehemently.
Kaien decides to intervene before familial homicide occurs.
"Um, sis?" he tries.
Death glare. He tries not to shiver.
"It's really important that you play along with this just for two days because our cousin from the future is in really big trouble and Byakuya needs to be away from his house for the next couple of days so that our cousin can go back home and I know it's really a big thing to ask of you but this is family and the Shiba family always takes care of its own and so please don't kill him."
Kukaku takes that in with narrowed eyes. "So this isn't about the elders pushing me to 'settle down' or some crap like that?"
"No, sis."
"And is the part about our cousin true?"
"Yes, sis."
"Okay." She lets Isshin down. "But I am NOT finished with you."
Kaien and Isshin sigh in relief. Near-death experiences are good for appreciating life.
(BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK BerryBREAK)
Precisely one and a half hours past meridian, the first of the new members of the Fifth wanders into the empty expanse of the training grounds, looking side to side surreptitiously as if unsure of whether he is supposed to be treading on this holy ground or not. The winter cold does not soften the glare of the midday sun, concentric rings of glowing light shining in a kaleidoscope of colours and hues, beating down on the small dawdling figures trailing aimlessly over the field and reducing their shadows to small pools by their feet. Fifteen minutes before the official start of the training session, five of the six newbies have already appeared, all looking somewhat unused to the black uniform, zanpakutuos fingered nervously.
Not a single instructor or ranked officer is in sight.
Renji and Kira mill around the sun-scorched field, avoiding the eyes of the other three initiates. Their sudden entry into the division through the process of "cherry-picking" as many call it has engendered much debate, most polarized – either they're bootlickers, or mind-bendingly talented for their age. Neither stereotype particularly tends itself to camaraderie, and so the two are quite used to slightly uncertain staring from other members of the Fifth.
"Hey, Kira –" Renji says quietly.
"What's the matter?"
"Where's Hinamori? I didn't even see her at lunch." Renji looks around, as if the topic of their conversation is extremely private.
Kira frowns, flipping his blonde hair out of his eyes. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen her at all after breakfast," he says equally quietly.
Their private conversation is broken by an uncertain call from one of the other new shinigami, a tall man slightly older then them and sporting a badly grown goatee. "Hey, um, don't you think we should, er, start doing some warm-up exercises or something?"
All four of the others are suitably relieved at the plainly studious suggestion, and fall as one into warm-up exercises – which, coincidentally but very predictably look exactly the same. The standard practice regimen of senior students in the Shinigami Academy. Economical, rigid, and tailored to concentrate students on the art of shinigami skills.
Twenty paces away, ensconced in the flowing, dappled shadows of the silver-green leaves on an evergreen tree, a figure lies comfortably hidden in the cool darkness, feet crossed nonchalantly on length of a rough branch. The figure shifts in suppressed laughter, and only this small movement and the scattered sundrops of crystalline light reflected off a haori reveal his presence.
They look like mindless robots, Ichigo thinks, chuckling to himself and shaking his head. He closes his eyes again. Let them embarrass themselves. Only an idiot decides to tire himself out before a group training session for shinigami. The five newbies seem to think they're still in the academy, and that they will be doing exercises for students.
At this rate, they might as well be half-dead in the dust two hours later.
Idiots.
A tapping of approaching feet. Ichigo cracks open an eyelid. Ah. Hinamori Momo, slightly breathless from running, skids to a stop next to the other initiates.
"Sorry," she says in a tiny voice, dipping her chin quickly. Renji and Kira both give her questioning looks, but she ducks her head.
Then the brash tones of a shinigami used to command rings out over the courtyard, sending all six rookies into custom-made ramrod-straight attention.
"What in the name of Soul King himself are you lot doing?" The voice belongs to a stout man with an elegantly trimmed crew cut in full shihakushuo.
Ichigo stifles a smile, still half napping behind his eyelids.
The rookie with the goatee snaps a bow. "Sir! We were warming up, sir!"
The man, obviously a seated officer, looks at him with a sort of pitying exasperation. A pause. "You're all idiots," the man says. He says it without derision, as if it is plain fact.
Renji and the others wince as one.
Agreed, Ichigo thinks, concealed behind the cover of leaves.
"I'm your supervising trainer today. You may call me Hagane-san," the man continues. "I'm here to get rid of your academy-trained rote-learning absurdities you call skills. Ah, welcome, Ichimaru-fukutaichou." The last sentence is addressed to the eternally smiling Gin, who materializes seemingly out of nowhere to touch lightly upon the ground next to the instructor.
Gin's hair is blindingly bright under the sunlight, a halo of shimmering silver so intense, it seems like a shock of white lightning. But even from his distance, Ichigo can see the curved eyelids, and the slight turn of Gin's head that signifies his full awareness of the hidden captain's presence.
Then Gin turns towards the students, and the serpentine grin stretches. "Ah, hardworking children. You must be wondering where Ichigo-taichou is. He was invited to be present, but considering he does not wish to grace us with his presence, I suggest we continue as is." His mocking tones carry easily to Ichigo's ears, and although his eyes are still slitted, Ichigo is sure that the comment was meant for him.
The six students look, if possible, even more intimidated at the fukutaichou's smooth tones.
Hagane-san gives Gin a sidelong look, then claps his hands, a thunderclap crack, and says authoritatively, "Right. Let's begin. I want you all to come forward individually and give me a show of your best in a timeframe of two minutes."
The newbies look suitably horrified. They had been expecting kata, sparring, zanjutsu, group work, not a show-me-what-you've-got exhibit.
Hagane-san dismisses this with a wave. "Yamanaki-san." A light-haired man jerks reflexively. "You first."
Ichigo settles back to watch, folding his hands behind his head and reflexively bringing his reiatsu down to a barely detectable level. With the reiatsu cuffs, he suspects even Hagane does not know that he is there.
Yama-whatever is horrifically bad. Really. A haphazard mix of academy katas and basic shunpo, tossed into a melting pot and merged into something resembling a whole with agonizingly incompetent footwork. If the basic chunks of the academy katas are like key ingredients of any meal, the resulting two-minute fiasco is like melted cardboard strips with added cat sick for colour on top. And about as useful in a fight.
Hagane-san looks suitably grim. Ichigo rolls his eyes. Gin is unchanged, smile as mocking as ever.
"Next," Hagane says. "Abarai Renji."
Ichigo leans forward slightly. Pineapple-head. Renji in the future is a formidable opponent, if a bit headstrong at times. But this, younger, version…
Renji strides out, steps relaxed, although his taut shoulders and clenched fists belie his nervousness. He executes two sharp bows, once to Gin and the other to Hagane-san. Taking a deep breath – Ichigo can see his shoulders rise and fall even from his distance – he springs into a passable display of shunpo and zanjutsu.
As dust flies in sparkling arcs that catch the light in gilded beams that spring from Renji's blurring feet, Ichigo raises an eyebrow in appraisal. Not bad – for a student, anyway. At least the pure zanjutsu moves, shunpo and hakuda techniques are combined to an intensity reasonably close to cohesion and two steps behind flowing.
Renji actually gets an approving nod from Hagane-san when he spins his sword low to the ground and, instead of rolling to the side like any student would in a sparring match, flips into a passable aerial back kick. Ichigo is actually half-impressed.
Then, true to traditional Abarai form, everything dissolves into – well, cat sick.
Renji, having assumed that he had been doing quite well, had translated this into a surge of overconfidence, and activated shikai. Not a bad idea, if he can pull it off.
He can't.
Immediately upon shikai release, the added length to Zabimaru's blade slows Renji's footwork considerably, and his zanjutsu collapses into what Ichigo can only call swing-my-arm-in-gigantic-circles mode. And his hakuda is pitifully inadequate to fend against openings in his guard.
A thunderous frown now occupies Hagane-san's brow. Ichigo winces repeatedly in a shadow of pain as his experienced eyes picks out chasm after chasm in Renji's defence, and sees, as if projected onto a misty film, all the possible injuries that he must have taken now if in a real scrap. Broken ribs. Strike to the gut. Heel into solar plexus. Dislocated left arm –
Renji retracts Zabimaru, and flings his arm backwards to regain the sword's momentum.
Killing side-slash to the neck.
The image is horrendously vivid, and slams into Ichigo's mind as if of its own will, the fading after-echo of a dozen more similar strikes he had seen during the war, the reverberation of an image tainted with shimmering crimson, and scarlet-laced tears –
Ichigo's reiatsu warps violently even as he yanks it back within himself. At the exact same moment, Hagane pinches the bridge of his nose and roars, "Stop." Renji falters, unsure. "Just…stop."
Then the wave of Ichigo's reiatsu washes over the entire group, and all jerk in surprise, save for a smiling Ichimaru Gin. Seven heads snap in Ichigo's direction. Hagane draws his zanpakutuo with a metallic rasp.
Brilliant.
But Gin's icy fingers are already on the hilt of Hagane's sword, as the unblinking curve of his eyes turn towards the tree. "There's no reason to panic, Hagane-kun, assorted Newbie-chan. Kurosaki-taichou has strayed into our company. We should welcome him, as is polite." He does not raise his voice, but the words carry through the still air like the unwinding coils of a snake. "Kurosaki-taichou! We are honoured by your attendance." His tongue dances lightly over the greeting.
The six students-turned-shinigami narrow their eyes as one, trying to glimpse an edge of a haori. The emerald green leaves shift in a nonexistent wind, showing their silvery undersides, and then a figure drops lithely from the high branches and lands soundlessly on the grass.
The students blink, and Ichigo is suddenly beside Renji, haori resplendent in the sunlight. That was really barely shunpo for him, but to the newly inducted members, his speed is stunning.
"Yo," Ichigo says shortly, by way of greeting. Renji catches his eye and looks away immediately, his face changing from frustration to defiance to anger, emotions easy to read as an open book. That display alone was sufficient to show the gap between their skills.
"Welcome, Kurosaki-taichou," Gin says, bowling sleekly. The other hastily follow suit, Renji jerking his head forward unhappily and ignoring the look of disapproval that Kira gives him.
Gin tilts his head, strands of silver hair half-covering his slitted eyes. "Kurosaki-taichou, I imagine we could all benefit from your instruction. Please do give any advice you might have to our Renji-kun here."
Ichigo gives him a long, level look. If he had some sort of excuse to talk to Gin after the training session… Ichigo turns to a slightly sulky Renji, who is standing off to the side. "Renji," he snaps in his captain's voice, "get back over here."
Renji gives him a suspicious glance, but complies, settling into a ready position
Ichigo crosses him arms, and looks him straight in the eye. "If you fight constantly like you did just now, you will die a very messy and painful death during the first serious battle you enter."
Renji is predictably outraged, opening his mouth to hurl an insult back into Ichigo's face, when he realises that other people of rank are present. With visible effort, he works his jaw into submission, and grinds out, "Well, how would you advise me to fix it, then?"
A blur of movement, and Ichigo is standing thirty paces away, directly in front of Renji. "Attack," he says in a matter-of-fact tone.
"What?" Renji says. "Attack you?"
"Yes, dumbo."
"But…"
"Are you going to stand there all day like a pineapple?"
Now that got Renji ticked off – unsure as he is where pineapple came from, being compared to a spiky fruit must be an insult. With a roar of determined fury, Renji springs forward, lunging with Zabimaru in full shikai mode, swinging his arm in a cleaving arc of whistling steel –
Ichigo stands serene, Zangetsu still strapped to his back, the silk ribbon on its hilt coasting upon the wind. He does not move.
Renji is within striking distance now, elbow curving inwards as the row of deadly metal hooks on Zabimaru's edge flies towards Ichigo's temple –
But it impacts nothing but air, as Ichigo darts not outside the circle of Renji's reach but inside it, stepping into the arc of his zanpakutuo. His face is still placidly tranquil, only a thin line between his brows revealing his concentration as, barehanded, he strikes like a falcon in a series of blindingly fast palm strikes. Sternum. Ribcage. Solar Plexus. Carotid artery.
The strikes are calculated to barely sink into Renji's skin – contact, then retreat – and do no real harm. But as each hit thuds home, Ichigo hisses under his breath, too low for anyone else to hear except Renji, "Dead."
Dead four times in the space of less than a second.
Ichigo hasn't even entered shunpo.
Twisted off balance by the overextension of Zabimaru, Renji tips forward just as a foot hooks his ankle, and abruptly his face is zooming towards the ground, and his sword scythes out of his grip, and there is a hard hand where his skull meets his neck, forcing his head to the floor.
One last resounding palm strike to the back of the neck.
"Dead." Ichigo's voice is loud enough for everyone to hear this time. The word is not shouted, nor is it scathing. It is merely a cold, bitter fact.
Renji breathes in the smell of dirt and grass, rivulets of sweat running off his hair. Around him, he hears the other initiates shift, and several sounds of mingled fear, pity, and admiration.
He is also absolutely clear about where the pity is directed to, and where the admiration is.
Renji is about to wrestle the rising fountain of humiliation into a seething morass of hell-bent anger when the pressure on the back of his neck is lifted, and someone is roughly helping him to his feet.
Ichigo's voice is quietly frightening as he wheels on the sniggering three initiates. "Please, do tell me what you find so funny. Would you like to come and have your go?" Frantic shaking of heads. "Then shut up."
They shut up. Renji is silently amazed. First he creams him into the dust, and then he defends him?
Ichigo looks Renji up and down. "You okay to continue?" he asks.
"Er. Yeah?" Renji manages, too surprised to say more.
Ichigo looks at Gin and Hagane-san. Gin's smile widens, and he waves a pale hand. "By all means, continue, Kurosaki-taichou," he says, shrugging his narrow shoulders casually.
Renji blinks, and focuses. Ichigo nods, and steps back. "Right, tell me your shikai's biggest flaw."
Politely appalled, Renji stares. Ichigo rolls his eyes. "I know what it is, Renji! I'm not telling you to reveal your weakness, I'm asking so you know yourself. So stop looking like I've told you to tell me about any secret crushes you have."
Renji blushes furiously. "Uh…I suppose…its three attack limit, and its inability to defend while attacking?"
"Exactly. And those defects are unchangeable. So what should you do?"
Hagane-san is nodding in assent behind them.
Renji fumbles over his words. "I suppose…I should…fight faster?"
A corner of Ichigo's mouth twists upwards. "Yes. That's exactly it."
Renji has no time to feel good about himself, because Ichigo follows it up harshly. "It is pointless for you to work on shikai without first perfecting shunpo. Get shunpo down, and the chances of you splatting on the battlefield diminishes spectacularly."
Renji nods. The two take up their former positions across the field.
Ichigo lets go of a long, slow breath as he turns to face Renji. Cooperating in this training session is likely to create an opportunity to talk to Gin, and there is an added benefit of making sure Pineapple-head doesn't kick the bucket at the next available opportunity. All the same, he had been trying to conserve reiatsu, not even using shunpo – he intends to use every last drop in breaking out of the cuffs when the portal is opened again.
He drops his hand as a signal to begin.
Renji powers towards him, face scrunched up in absolute concentration, and Ichigo only time to think I can actually see a bit of Pineapple-head in there before a flurry of screeching metal and whirling blades forces him to duck and dodge like an agile cat. Renji's speed has markedly improved – Ichigo actually finds himself put under pressure at some points, providing that he is neither using shunpo nor Zangetsu.
In between the thudding beat of his pulse against his temples, Renji notices that there is something almost like pride in Ichigo's eyes, as the captain flickers and darts back and forth around Zabimaru's reach. He frowns, surprised.
Ichigo takes advantage of this momentary lapse in focus and decides to fling himself into a single burst of shunpo – not a waste, merely to teach Renji a lifesaving lesson.
For a moment, tunnel vision descends as it always does at high speeds, the sky and ground and spectators all distorting into a heaving whorl of white and black and flashes of colour, and all remains is Renji's look of terror at imminent defeat, framed by his shock of scarlet hair.
Ichigo grins.
Then the world shudders, and Ichigo nearly trips over his own flying feet, as the cuffs on his wrists drive machete-like blades of a foreign reiatsu into his system. This should not be. The restraints cause pain when a large amount of reiatsu is channeled, not a measly use of shunpo. And the cuffs themselves hold no reiatsu of their own. In the timeless period that is his mind during shunpo, Ichigo feels a flare of alarm. His hawklike eyes zoom in onto the shackles, where the smooth metal is broken into slim ridges where the hinges are.
Something scattered and red pulses crimson and deadly, pieces of a horribly familiar crystalline substance, shoved into the cracks of the cuffs…
How did they get there? What are they?
Then an image that slams into his consciousness like a well-aimed fist, a revelation of boundless horror –
Aizen's patronizing smile, glasses reflective…
Aizen reaching down to tap the reiatsu cuffs. Bile rising in his throat, threatening to regurgitate breakfast…
And the final realisation that freezes his soul in a cold fist of fear.
The Hogyoku was red.
There is no time to breathe, no time to think, no time to panic. Zangetsu flings up walled shields around his inner world, even as the quasi-Hogyoku's reiatsu floods his very being, the screams of a hundred murdered shinigami and reiatsu-sensitive souls burrowing into his consciousness, men, women, children, nameless reiatsu signatures, Matsumoto Rangiku, and the wave of blood-red reiatsu sweeps through, and the voices turn into a hundred hollow cries –
Ichigo's inner hollow awakens with a roar of wrath, throwing a torrent of hollowfied reiatsu back at the incoming wave, trapping the red reiatsu between his core and his skin, preventing the poisonous power from leaching towards the six initiates. His inner world explodes into a war of two reiatsus.
His inner hollow shrieks. Boss is my human! MINE!
Ichigo gasps a breath, and twists his body into a powerful roundhouse kick that slams into Renji's midriff, sending the redhead flying twenty feet away into the soft grass. Get away from me!
Renji chokes, eyes bulging as gasps for air. But he is able to struggle to his feet a second later, showing no lasting damage. He holds his side and glares at Ichigo.
But Ichigo is artificially rigid, eyes glassy and breaths coming in short wheezing gulps. His reiatsu is almost undetectable, held to shimmering layer above his skin.
"Hey," Renji says, "are you okay?" He had half-imagined in the moment before impact that Ichigo had concern on his face, before the kick slammed him into the ground. Behind the captain, Hagane is also frowning. But Renji narrows his eyes. Is Ichimaru-fukutaichou…grinning? Not that he isn't usually smiling, but the man's smile is now infinitely more predatory.
What's going on?
Then Ichigo suddenly straightens, and relaxes, unclenching his fists. His reiatsu is still almost invisible, an unnatural state for a shinigami of his power. "My apologies," Ichigo says stiffly, a weird glint in his eyes, "I cannot channel much reiatsu without infringing on these restraints. I find myself unable to participate any further."
Renji tenses. The style of Ichigo's speech has abruptly changed, and the faraway look in his gaze almost suggests that he is concentrating hard on something else while trying to maintain a semblance of conversation. Something's up…
But Gin's smooth tones break in. "Of course, Kurosaki-taichou. Thank you for your…contribution."
Ichigo turns in that stiff, awkward way, and bows. "Ichimaru-fukutaichou. I wish to speak with you. May I have a moment of your time?"
Now that was unexpected. Gin actually flicks his head to the side, the only indication of his surprise. But then he answers silkily. "Naturally, Kurosaki-taichou. By your leave, Hagane-san?"
Ichigo and Gin sweep away from the training grounds as the seven bow their farewells, Ichigo still walking with less grace than he usually does.
Renji returns to his place, just in time to hear Kira hiss, "What was that all about?"
"I dunno," Renji shoots back. When he looks, Ichigo and Gin have already disappeared around the corner.
In his hand, Zabimaru feels heavier.
Now, I hope you guys liked that. Next chapter is when Gin is (hopefully) persuaded, and things literally snowball after that. Our two separated dears will be like so not for much longer.
Review please, I love you guys! :)
Replies to guest reviews:
vine: Thanks for the review! And no, the blood butterfly is not canonical, it's just something I made up and threw in. As I see it, anything to do with blood is generally an acceptable extension of kido/magic/power spells in any fandom. So I just threw it in :)
Guest: Why thank you :)
Anon: Thanks, and yes, I do think so :) Definitely the origin of that :)
blades of blood 488: Thank you for the review! I'll definitely keep on going :)