Title: Genesis
Chapter: 2
Fandom: Bleach
Characters/Pairings: IchigoxRukia mostly, though others are included.
Rating: T-M. Nothing too graphic really, but it's a darker story at times, with some more mature themes in it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. However, if I did, this is how the story would have continued had I been given control of it at about chapter 286, excepting the events from TBTP BC those - being flashbacks - would technically have been part of the story already. If that makes sense. XD.
Spoiler Warning: Obviously, anything up to Ch. 286, as well as the Turn Back the Pendulum flashback arc. Anything else, from Ch287 onward does not impact this story because it was initially created before any of THAT was created. TBTP is included simply BC it's back story and that's easily allowable. I will potentially be including characters/situations/references to the three Bleach movies because they do not have a distinctive canon time-line and so do not interfere with my story.
Summary: Every story has a beginning, just as it has a middle and an end. Lives are lived, wars are fought, loves are found and lost. This is one such story. This is the story of a beginning, but it is also the story of a journey. The story of how one man and one woman found their way through obstacles and hardships to finally stand on the cusp of their own destinies. It is the story of three worlds, and the friction between them. It is a story of change, of hardship. A story of prejudice, loss, and heartache. But above all... it is a story of life. Life, in all it's colours and shapes.
Standing up and tossing the blanket aside to land in a crumpled heap against the back of the couch, she padded across the carpet and made her way into the kitchen, snagging a convenient blue plastic bowl from the cabinet below the microwave as she punched the white button to send the door swinging open. Reaching into the white plastic box, she grabbed for the paper bag resting on the upturned plate, drawing back her fingers with a sharp hiss and a grimace of discomfort as the butter-scented steam puffed from the corners of the bag. Well, that wouldn't do any good, to burn herself before she even got the treat out into the bowl.
"Iiiita ta ta...that's hot..."
Chewing on her lower lip in concentration, she curled her other arm around, the motion made all the more awkward by the bandaged cast still encasing her forearm, and carefully balanced the blue plastic bowl in the hollow between her arm and her torso. There... that should work. The cast was frustrating at best, but at least Yoruichi-san had told her that it would probably be able to come off in a few more days. Turning her attention back to the microwave, she reached back in, gingerly pinching one corner of the paper in her fingers before dragging the package out to drop into the bowl. Raking her other arm across her forehead, she couldn't help the triumphant smile. That wasn't so hard, after all. Turning to one of the upper cabinets, she pulled open the door with her free hand and studied the contents in the spice cabinet for a long moment before reaching up and snagging a few of the little shakers, muttering to herself as she did so.
"OK... chili and garlic pepper... cinnamon... maybe some Cajun sprinkles? I guess I can just get them all... oh, and can't forget the wasabi spread."
Satisfied with her selection, the walnut-haired girl dumped the bottles and tubes into the bowl along with the bag of popcorn and made her way back over to the couch. Setting the bowl on the small coffee table, she plucked the various topping containers out, lining them up beside the blue plastic hemisphere before turning attention back to the popcorn. That would prove a little bit trickier, and ultimately she was forced to concede that a pair of scissors would make opening the troublesome paper packet a bit easier. Snipping off the top edge, she upended the snack into the bowl, taking a moment to close her eyes and inhale the warm scent of the popcorn before setting the bowl back down and turning back over her shoulder.
"Rangiku-san, the popcorn's ready."
"Oooh, really?~"
The bathroom door slid open with a soft swish, the steam from the interior billowing out into the room as the strawberry-blond shinigami stepped out, her long hair twisted up in a damp knot at the back of her neck, innocuously clad in simple sweatpants and a T-shirt that still somehow managed to seem too small in spite of the fact that Orihime knew for a fact it was the biggest one she owned. With a wide grin on her face, Rangiku hopped over the back of the couch to land with a thump beside the younger girl, cornflower blue eyes wide in wonder as she studied the puffed treat in the blue bowl before picking up one of the cream-coloured pieces to turn it over in her hand.
"So this is 'popcorn', huh? And humans really eat this? It smells wonderful..."
The shinigami's mood was infectious, and in spite of her own mood, Orihime couldn't help but smile as she reached for one of the half-dozen shakers sitting on the table, holding it up for Rangiku to see.
"It tastes great too. I like to put toppings on mine, you try some too!"
Within a few moments, the mood in the room had relaxed considerably, and the two women were cheerfully ensconced on the couch, the bowl of popcorn between them as they debated the merits of individual toppings for the popcorn and shared laughing commentary of the ridiculously over-acted kung-fu movie on the TV. It was enough to almost completely distract Orihime from her troubles, giggling and holding up one arm to shield herself from the popcorn as it went flying in response to Rangiku's loud assertions that the particular fighting move the hero in the movie had just used didn't go like that, it went more like this. Only, 'this' was punctuated by the swing of her arm as the older woman made attempt to demonstrate the difference in the poorly-acted farce on screen and the actual move.
"R..Rangiku-san! You're spilling the popcorn!"
Laughing as she was showered with fluffy white kernels, Orihime turned gray eyes back to the screen, watching the hero of the story - he was easily identified by the ridiculously over-done armour he wore and the fact that he was wielding the 'sword of legend', which in her opinion more resembled a plain old katana with a bow around the hilt than anything legendary. But that didn't really matter in stories like these. Stories where the handsome hero came fighting through all obstacles to save the princess about to be condemned to an awful fate. Like Kurosaki-kun... and Kuchiki-san...
Sighing as she tried in vain to push back to sudden thoughts couldn't she get peace from them even in a fantasy movie she tucked one hand under her head and leaned against the cushions, quicksilver optics trained on the Technicolor action flashing across the screen. It was true, no matter how much she may have wanted to deny it. The hero in the story even looked a little like Ichigo, with his spiky hair though his was black and the red tie he used to keep the legendary magic sword sheathed at his back. Even his brash way of acting, the way he fought - if melodramatically - through the hordes of enemies blocking the mountain pass up to the castle where the princess was being held captive were like Ichigo. Like the way he had fought through all of Soul Society, taken on captains and vice-captains, even been willing to take on Aizen himself. For her. For Rukia.
Biting her lower lip against the sudden prickling of tears at the corners of her eyes, she pushed them back, determined that this time the feelings wouldn't win, that the loneliness and despair that she felt at times when she considered the undeniable bond her two friends possessed, the bond that she knew, without having to ask, transcended mere friendship. It was only that much harder that neither Kurosaki-kun or Kuchiki-san seemed to notice it, that they both seemed so oblivious to the fact of their own relationship, to the closeness that they shared that so excluded everyone else. It was like the story on the screen.
Kurosaki-kun was the handsome hero, fighting through every obstacle that came into his path, no matter how daunting the odds were. Pushing forward with loud declarations that no matter what happened, he would prevail, and save the princess from her awful fate. And Kuchiki-san was the princess. The beautiful, isolated and reserved girl of the hero's dreams, lofty in her tower and in her perfection, standing in the clouds where mere mortals could never hope to be. Ironically enough, the ornate white kimono the actress in the movie wore even looked similar to the white that Kuchiki-san had been wearing during her imprisonment, in that tall white tower before her execution.
Munching half-heartedly on the popcorn, Orihime couldn't help but feel the dull ache that always went along with feelings like that. That walked hand-in-hand with the realization that while Kurosaki-kun was the hero, and Kuchiki-san the white-clad princess in the tower, she herself was nothing like that. She wasn't the princess, wasn't the destined love or the object of his quest. All she was, when it came down to it, was the village girl running by his side, silently helping the man she'd adored since their childhood together save the princess. Never mind that it was Tatsuki, and not her, who'd grown up with Kurosaki-kun, it was still the same. The girl who couldn't have her love returned, helping that same love into the arms of another. That was how these movies always ended, anyway. The hero rescued the princess and together they'd go off into the sunset sky of forever, hand in hand and hearts intertwined.
Sometimes the village girl would sacrifice herself, die in a tragic way as she enabled their quest, often bidding her unrequited love farewell at the last moment. Sometimes, as the pair went on their way, she would watch and wish them well, a smile always on her face though Orihime couldn't help but feel that same smile was a mockery. No one would be able to smile that way, not without sadness in their eyes, at watching the one they love with someone else. But, she supposed, that didn't really matter in a movie. Movies weren't real, not when it came down to it. They were just someone's fantasy, someone's ideals and imagination. Like so many other things in life.
She didn't notice she was crying, not until the first hot salty tear splashed onto the hand she hadn't realized was fisted in the blanket, shaking slightly as the loud sounds of the latest fight scene echoed through the room. What she did notice was Rangiku's arm as it slipped around her shoulder, the shinigami cocking her head to the side as she studied Orihime with concerned blue eyes, her other hand picking up the slim rectangle remote control, they'd said it was called and pressing the button that Orihime had shown her earlier made the images on the screen stop moving and freeze.
Setting the remote back down on the couch, Rangiku shifted to face the younger girl, watching as her un-bandaged hand came up, almost unbidden, fist screwing into her eyes in a vain attempt to hide the tears that had welled up and spilled over the edge of her eyelids to track faint shining trails down her cheeks. She couldn't say she was surprised at the tears, she'd been waiting for the wall to break since they'd returned to Orihime's apartment. Something was bothering the girl, and the 10th's fukutaichou would have been willing to wager that it had at least something to do with the conversation they'd shared the other night. Letting her breath out in a sigh, she ran her free hand through Orihime's coppery hair before raising an eyebrow at the other girl.
"What's wrong?"
Gray eyes looked up at her with a slightly bewildered expression, as though the girl was surprised that the slip of her smiling mask had been noticed, their lashes moist with still unshed tears as the liquid glimmered in the TV's blinking lights. Watching as the girl valiantly at least it was in Ran's opinion, seeing as Orihime was still so young and it was hard enough hiding pain when you were as old as most shinigami tried to force her hurt back into the box she'd undoubtedly been keeping it in, she simply waited for a moment as fingers clenched slightly in the blanket and lower lip trembled before her younger companion turned and buried her face in Rangiku's ample bosom. She hadn't really expected that, but long-unused motherly instincts kicked in and she sighed softly, petting the girl's bright hair and tightening her arm around Orihime's shoulders as she simply let the teen cry, listening to the blubbered words that escaped between sobs.
So... she's noticed, I guess. Not surprising, she's sharper than most people give her credit for.
It wasn't hard to gage at least some portion of the problem, or at least the fact that it had to do with the rather complex - and triangular, she was learning - relationship between Inoue Orihime, Kurosaki Ichigo, and Kuchiki Rukia. Nor did it take much difficulty to guess the dynamics of that mess when one simply paid attention. And in so many ways, it wasn't fair. Not that much in life or love really was, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with. Murmuring soothing things to the girl, Rangiku rocked her gently, hoping that the scant amount of comfort she could provide would at least serve to do some good for Orihime. There wasn't much else she could offer her.
She, like so many others, had certainly noticed the closeness between the petite shinigami and the young man who had become her substitute, her partner. It would take a blindness of more than simply the eyes not to notice the subtle signs, the way they simply fit together, like two pieces of a whole, two of a pair in so many ways. They understood each other, they connected, on a level that surpassed any connection that either of the pair had with anyone else. It wasn't even that that same connection was necessarily romantic in nature as far as she could discern, it wasn't but there was little denying that it had every indication of having the potential for that. Rukia and Ichigo had the sort of bond that only came around once in a lifetime. What you did with it, however, was ultimately up to you. Stroking Orihime's long hair somewhat awkwardly, she pondered what to say to the girl to make the hurt better. Or even if there was anything to say to make it better.
Listening silently as Orihime's sobs quieted and her words became clearer, less muted and fogged by her tears, she nodded slightly as the other girl pulled back, wiping her eyes and turning to face the TV again, legs drawn up to her chest as she sniffled slightly before turning to Rangiku with a faint, weary smile. Frowning, she narrowed her eyes at the girl she wasn't fooling anyone, there was no reason to act strong and crossed her arms over her chest with a raised eyebrow.
"Stop it, you silly thing. If it hurts, then it hurts. You don't have to try and pretend that it doesn't."
Blinking back tears, she chewed on her lower lip before nodding to Rangiku. The shinigami was right, of course. It wasn't as though she hadn't just spent the last few minutes pouring out her troubles albeit half of them probably hadn't been decipherable to the female shinigami, but still it was hard not to automatically pull on the mask, to smile through the pain and the tears as though they were nothing. Turning back to the TV, she pulled her knees up to her chest, the fingertips on her uninjured hand reaching down to trace little circles over the toenails she'd painted pink a few nights ago when her house-guest had insisted they try out the nail polish. Swallowing, she studied the minor imperfections in the polish before pulling in a shuddering breath.
"I... I'm sorry, Rangiku-san. I... I didn't mean to get so upset."
It was only polite to apologize, as she was rather certain that the long-haired woman sitting next to her on the couch had certainly not counted on having to deal with an armful of sobbing 15-year old girl, even though all it earned her was a stern look of disapproval from Rangiku, as though she ought to be rethinking the need to apologize. Shifting slightly on the couch, she drew the blanket up around her and looped arms loosely over her knees with a sigh. At least now that she was calmed down, it was a bit easier to explain, to make her earlier words make sense.
"I... I know you told me before... that it doesn't matter. That Kurosaki-kun needs both me and Kuchiki-san. That... we help him in different ways. But... but I... I can't help it. Kuchiki-san is so much braver than I am, she's so strong and beautiful, and... I'll never measure up to that."
Leaning backwards, she felt the soft cushioned shape of the couch catch and support her weight with a slight sinking as the foam stuffing in the pillows shifted to accommodate her form. Fiddling with the pink polish on her toes again, she shrugged her shoulders before pulling arms up to rest her chin in her cupped hands, gray eyes locked onto the frozen images on the television screen.
"It's like in the movie. Kurosaki-kun is the hero. So strong, and brave and he's fighting so hard, so hard to reach the princess and I'm not her. I'm just the girl along for the ride, the one who can't even really do anything to help him fight. The one he doesn't even see..."
She could see the shinigami out of the corner of her eye, could read the concern evidenced there in her eyes. Rangiku didn't understand, at least not on the level that Orihime wished she could, but then she didn't iexpect/i the strawberry-blond haired woman to understand. Rangiku wasn't like her, she was like Kuchiki-san. Certainly not in appearance, as there was little in the way of physical resemblance between the blond, buxom vice-captain and the elfin, dark-haired unseated other than the fact that both were shinigami and both were female, but resemblance and similarities often had little to do with physicality. Rangiku was strong, she was brave and courageous and above that she wasn't afraid. She wasn't afraid of the possibilities, of what might lay ahead and of what potential heartbreak awaited her in the war that was looming ever so closely on the horizon. If there had been someone she loved, Orihime doubted it would have been any contest. How could someone not choose a woman like Rangiku?
Before her house-guest could say something, however well-intentioned it may have been, Orihime shook her head, drawing her knees up tighter to her chest and biting her lower lip before continuing in a shaking voice that matched the trembling in her heart.
"I...I know you say that things aren't decided, that I shouldn't feel this way, but... but I can see it. I can see it in Kurosaki-kun's eyes, when he looks at Kuchiki-san. When he knows she isn't looking, and he thinks that no one else is either. His eyes are... they're different when he looks at her, they have a different expression when he says her name. It's there, even if Kurosaki-kun doesn't know it, or won't admit it. And... and there's the way they just are together. The way they talk, and the way they stand together, it's like... it's like there's some whole world that no one else can see, that only has the two of them in it."
She drew a shuddering breath, the tears beginning to leak over her eyelids again as her voice broke and she pulled a corner of the blanket up to dab at the gathering moisture that welled up and trickled down her cheeks.
"And... and it's in Kuchiki-san's face too. When she's watching him fight, or even when they're fighting. It's... it's something that's so different from anything that I have..."
Burying her face into the blanket again, she felt the slight shift in the seat cushions as Rangiku's weight settled onto the couch beside her, followed by the comforting warmth of an arm looped about her shoulders as the shinigami drew her halfway into a soft embrace, murmuring words of encouragement. It was well-meant, and while she was grateful for the concern, the compassion that the 10th's vice-captain was giving to her, it did nothing to assuage the raw hurt that bubbled up from within her, the spark of resentment for what her dark-haired friend had that she would give the world for. And the part that stung the most was that Rukia didn't even seem to be aware of it. Pulling back, she knuckled the teardrops from her eyes with a stubborn shake of her head before resting her cheek against Rangiku's shoulder.
"Even if I hadn't already suspected... I could tell last night. When I was healing Kuchiki-san, the look on his face... it was like someone who's lost the center of their world, like a little child who's wandered away and can't find their way home. I... I've never seen Kurosaki-kun look so lost, so defeated before, so... so afraid..."
Swallowing, she let a soft sigh slide from her as she shifted yet again, pillowing her head more gently against the shinigami's comforting warmth. It had frightened her, seeing the man she adored looking so lost, so helpless and unsure of himself. As though without Rukia's steadying presence a constant at his side, he didn't know where to turn, where to look for the grounding that he needed. Grounding that she somehow couldn't give him.
"Rangiku-san... is it even worth it to keep hoping? To keep wondering and praying that things will turn out differently? Or am I just running in a race that I've already lost?..."
Slowly letting out a sigh, the shinigami raked manicured nails through long strawberry tresses as she studied the tired gray eyes peering into her own cornflower blue irises. She wouldn't lie to the girl, Orihime deserved more than that, but there was a very fine line between lying or giving false hope and telling someone what they needed to hear to not give up. Cocking her head to one side, she raised an eyebrow at the teen.
"Is the race really over?"
Pulling the girl closer to her, she raised a hand to press Orihime's bright head against her shoulder.
"I know what you see. And how it makes you feel. And... honestly, I don't know. I don't really know Ichigo that well, so I can't tell you where his heart lies, but I do know that if you give up now, then you'll never know if you may have missed a chance that was just waiting for you. Perhaps you're right, and if that's the case well then you'll cry for awhile, and then you'll get back up and move on. But if you don't keep hoping, and keep trying... then you'll never even have that chance. So don't give up quite yet. If it isn't meant to be... then time will tell you that."
Ruffling Orihime's burnished hair, she chuckled slightly before picking up the discarded popcorn bowl with a smile.
"Now come on, we haven't finished the movie yet and I still have to show you how that one back-flipping move went."
Her eyebrows bobbed in question as she waggled the plastic hemisphere with it's puffed contents, the kernels bouncing against the interior of the bowl in a playful staccato rhythm. Watching carefully, she saw the corners of the girl's mouth turn up slightly, a giggle beginning to make it's way from her throat as the ease of the moment brushed away the tears.
"Can you really do that, Rangiku-san?"
"Just watch me!"
The small apartment was dark that night, though the dimness of it's interior was not in and of itself a strange thing. It would have been considered odd perhaps, if there had been a family dwelling there, a collection of happy smiling faces and laughter. Children with giggles and games, parents cooking dinner and perhaps friends sitting in the living room to share in the togetherness that such nights always brought with them. The apartment in question, how ever, was no such thing. It housed no children, no smiling parents to fix lunches for small hands to carry. The sole inhabitant of the small 1-bedroom unit at the end of the 3rd floor hallway was certainly old enough to not need such things. Indeed, a typical night in this place would have consisted of a small bowl of rice paired with a carefully-selected pack-lunch from the nearest convenience store beside a small mug of warm tea or a can of whatever new sort of soda that vending machine a block down the street had stocked their metallic dispenser with tonight. It was comfortable, routine. Normal.
But tonight, that normal practiced routine had changed. There was no light in the small apartment, no faint glow of desk lamp as it's occupant sat and studied over his work for the next day. The usual pack-lunch sat untouched on the counter, it's neatly-wrapped shape still resting in the innocuous white plastic of the bag that Sado had carried it home in, the smiling cartoon face on the plastic somehow mocking in it's saccharine expression. Indeed, it seemed as though everything in the apartment had slowed, winding down from it's normal slow and steady pace to a grinding halt. The only motion in the darkened interior was the faint rustle of the nondescript white curtains as they blew faintly in the breeze. Sitting beside the opened window, Sado himself was as still as his home, dark eyes trained on the outside sky, chest rising and falling with a faint regularity. Still, almost statuesque in the moon's light, the tall man took a deeper breath, one hand raising up to brush over the small round scab in the center of his chest.
He could still feel it, still feel the dangerous press of reiatsu all around him, the faint prick of pain in the center of his sternum. Everything had seemed to slow down when it had happened, the hands of time winding almost backwards in their mocking as the world around him stilled, every faint mote of breath taking an eternity to leave his lungs. He'd been conscious of everything at that moment, every bead of sweat on his skin, every brush of the night air against his face, the way that same breeze combined with the air disturbance of the arrancar's movement around him. The way it seemed as though every hair on his head had set itself on end with a prickling sense of mortality as he'd stared down at the fingertip embedded in his chest. There had been another hand there, almost before he'd realized it, those familiar fingers curling around the arrancar's wrist with an angry, bruising tightness as he'd heard Ichigo's voice far away, almost, as though there were some invisible barrier between them and he'd somehow stumbled back, his heart thundering in his ears as he'd glanced down to see the faint trickle of warm blood as it ran down his chest.
Sado had realized it then, realized what had nearly happened. He'd nearly died, and this time for real. This was not an opponent such as he'd faced before. This was not the laid-back captain of the 8th division, with his flowered haori and drawling speech, who'd fought for real and yet in all likelihood never truly intended to kill the young ryouka he'd been charged with stopping. That man's entire countenance had spoke of honour, of something higher and more noble. The man in the pink-floral coat had been a good man, a just man who had followed his orders because he truly believed in them. That was something that Sado could and did respect.
This was different.
There was no such honour in the arrancar's manner, no sense of justice or righteousness in his actions. This man standing in front of him, linen-wrapped mask obscuring much of his head and face, was not like those he'd dealt with before. This man was far more dangerous. A killer, pure and simple, his face twisted into a derisive smirk of glee at the sheer pleasure he would have derived from snuffing out someone so insignificant as Yasutora Sado.
He had no doubts that the Arrancar had felt as such, it was plain to be seen in his mannerisms. And because of that, he'd been grateful for Ichigo, grateful as he always was for the bond between them, the tie that bound them together as friends, that had existed since they were younger, since a day long ago beneath a bridge when he'd sat there, bruised, battered, tied to a chair, leaning down to lock eyes with an equally-battered orange haired man. They'd made a pact that day, a promise.
You fight on my behalf, and I'll fight on yours.
That had been the promise, the oath they had made to each other, both as friends and more simply... as men. It was an oath that Sado had taken to heart, that he'd held dear to himself every day since then. That oath was the reason he'd fought, the reason he'd followed Ichigo into Soul Society to save Kuchiki Rukia. Certainly the girl was nice enough, he couldn't say he disliked her, but the real reason he'd gone had had little to do with the raven-haired shinigami. It had been because of a promise made, a promise between dear friends.
But now, it seemed as though Ichigo had forgotten that promise.
He'd scarcely believed his ears, been unwilling to accept what he'd heard as Ichigo had held out a hand, telling him to stay back. Stay back. Not help, not fall back and come in together, as they'd always done. He'd been dismissed, as simply as that. Dismissed as useless, as too weak and incapable to fight beside his friend anymore. There had been no arguing it would have been pointless anyway and so instead... he'd ran. He'd listened to the other man, though not for the same reason he was sure Ichigo probably assumed. He'd ran not out of respect for Ichigo's wishes, he'd ran... because he couldn't face the truth.
Sighing, he cast dark brown eyes downwards, tracing a single fingertip over the scabbed wound. It wasn't deep - he had Ichigo to thank for that, as well as for his life - yet it burned as a brand, a mark of his own failure and shortcomings. A figurative scarlet letter on his chest, marking him as a liability to those he cared about. Those he'd fought beside. Without volition, his other hand curled into a fist, muscles tensing against the smooth painted sill of the window. Didn't they understand? Didn't Ichigo understand? Back to back, he'd always said. Watching out for each other in all things, the way they'd promised. That had been the way, it had been understood. But now, all of that had been thrown to the wayside. Because of his own weakness.
He could have rationalized it away, acquiesced to the fact that regardless of strength or situation, it had been Ichigo who had made the flawed decision. Ichigo who had pushed him aside and sent him away. Blame could have been levied and perhaps that would have assuaged the hurt in someone else. But he couldn't focus on that. Ichigo's decision hadn't been made based on selfishness or some other such mundane reason. It wasn't for want of glory or desire for revenge that Ichigo had pushed him aside. Such things were beyond his friend, not because the orange-haired shinigami was somehow above them, but because Kurosaki Ichigo simply didn't work that way. His friend's focus had never been on himself, never been on what he could gain from a fight. Ichigo didn't fight for himself.
He fought for those around him. For those he considered friend, comrade. Nakama. It was for those precious people in his life, those he most wanted to protect, that Ichigo took up his sword, that he faced enemies far stronger, enemies who would have thought nothing of snuffing his existence out the way you snuffed out a lit match dropped onto the cement floor. Ichigo fought to protect. And that was at the heart of the problem. Yasutora Sado had not been pushed aside because Ichigo wanted to fight instead. He'd been sidelined because he'd needed protecting. Because in those amber-brown eyes, he'd been a liability.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
He'd grown weak. Fallen behind along with those around him, their human selves powers notwithstanding grown so insignificant next to Ichigo's nearly limitless ascension. They'd fallen like children trying to keep up with an adult who can no longer see their efforts. And because of that, there was no longer a place for him by Ichigo's side. No longer space for him to fight alongside his friend, for them to watch each other's backs and guard one another from hurt. Ichigo had run farther than they could follow, and now he was being left behind.
The fist clenched tighter for a moment in anger before Sado relaxed. No... it wasn't Ichigo's fault, there was no blame to be levied there. If blame should have been placed anywhere, he should look to his own shoulders. HE had grown weak, fallen behind. And now he had paid for it. Setting his jaw, the dark-skinned teen pushed himself up from the floor, holding his hand out in front of him. He watched as fingers curled, tendons pulling bones as his hand drew into a fist, watching the tension of the sinews and muscles along his arm. There was only one solution. If he had grown weak... if he had reached the limits of what he could do on his own... he'd find another way. Seek out an answer, and find the way to surpass the limits he possessed, to catch up and once more stand beside his friend as an equal.
One bandaged fist slammed into the wood of the door-frame with jarring force, the faintest tinge of red bleeding through the white linen. Lowering his arm, Ichigo stood in the doorway, staring down at the floor as he fought to reign in his own anger and frustration. He couldn't let it loose, doing so would only serve to give the Hollow some other sort of outlet. At least, that was what he assumed. To be honest, he really didn't know how it all worked, what triggered it and what kept it caged up within what he'd come to realize was an extremely shaky barrier in his mind. He knew that his own powers gave the thing a hold, his bankai, the extra strength lent by the black Getsuga Tenshou. That was his technique and to give into it, even to partake of the extra boost of power it gave, was only to invite the Hollow once more to overtake him, to drown out Ichigo and replace him with itself.
That couldn't happen. And yet... there was no easy fix, no ready answer for his problem. His friends had been hurt, hell Rukia had almost died tonight, and all because he'd been completely incapable of doing anything to stop their attackers. He'd been so paralyzed, so impotent with the fear that the Hollow would take him over, he'd been unable to summon up the strength he'd needed. With an angry snarl, the orange-haired shinigami stalked over to his bed, flopping back to lay on his back across the faded blue and white coverlet, brown eyes trained half-heartedly on the stars through the window. It wasn't any easy answer, but he had to find one, even if it meant going beyond his usual comfort zone.
Watching as the faint blinking mote of an airplane's red wingtip lights passed by in the star-spangled sky out his window, Ichigo narrowed his eyes in thought as an idea came to him, misting it's way through his mind almost like an afterthought. Hirako... Something the blond had said stuck in his mind, tickling the back of his subconsciousness even as he tried to piece it together, to pull it out and make some sense of it. The other boy had said something about others... that Ichigo was one of them. And while that in and of itself was pretty well bullshit as far as he was concerned he sure as hell wasn't joining up with anyone the way the grinning interloper had been able to handle and use his mask without losing himself to it...
They'll know something... And if they don't want to tell me... I'll just have to make them.
With a lazy yawn, Shinji surveyed the scattering of figures settled on the various broken and dilapidated edges of what had once been the many floors of the warehouse they'd taken up in as of late. His eyes scanned them all, drifting from where Lisa sat, leaning against the rough edge of the wall, legs crossed and one of her favourite manga opened in her lap, to Rose's half-reclining figure, the small white buds of the iPod stuck in his ears, no doubt brushing up on a few more songs to learn for his guitar. They were all fairly relaxed, considering the recent increase in the shinigami presence in Karakura. But then, Kisuke had warned them of that months ago, so at least they'd had time to make ample preparations. Sticking one long finger into his ear for a moment, Shinji rolled his eyes before fixing his gaze on the only one of the group who seemed to not be relaxed.
"Oi, Hiyori... quit actin' like a kid and sit still."
His response was simply the display of her middle finger before the slight girl in the red track suit resumed her former pose, leaning back on her hands, sandaled feet kicking a staccato rhythm against the edge of the hole where her legs were hanging off of. Not that he'd expected much better - hell, he'd expected to have one of those sandals launched at him - but that didn't mean he wasn't going to try. Scowling, he heaved a martyred sigh before rolling his eyes again and crossing his arms over his chest. If she wanted to act like a petulant 5-year old, that was her problem.
"Fine, since Hiyori's gonna be a brat, anyone else got anything to say?"
That comment had earned him the sandal he'd wondered about, it's yellow plastic sole slamming into the back of his head, it's momentum accompanied by a yelled insult - likely something to do with his supposed parentage or sexual orientation and/or ability, he wasn't concerned - as he spun around to level a glare at her, which she ignored. Choosing for once, something that the others would have been surprised at to take the high ground, Shinji instead glowered at the blond girl before cocking his head to the side and waiting for their answers. He'd posed the question to them earlier, the issue of Kurosaki Ichigo and what should be done about him, and while he'd given them all plenty of time to think it over, no one had as of yet been forthcoming in regards to their opinions for the next step. This wasn't something that they could afford to be of several minds about, it was about more than just the potential induction of another into their midst. Kurosaki Ichigo, Vaizard though he was whether he called himself one or not brought with him an entire laundry list of other complications, Soul Society being first on that list with his association to them. They would have to proceed with caution.
"I don't think we can just leave him the way that he is."
From his corner, Love spoke up, eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses as the sweat-suited figure shifted from his cross-legged position to imitate Shinji's posture. With a slight nod towards the dark-haired man, the unofficial leader of their group gave him leave to continue, simply choosing to watch and listen. Love continued, his words directed not at Shinji himself, but at the group as a whole.
"Certainly there's the concern of Soul Society to be reckoned with, and that shouldn't be ignored. Nor can we put aside the threat that the recent Arrancar incursion has shown us. It's obvious Aizen is on the move, and we can't keep waiting around. We've ibeen/i waiting for nearly a century now. And if this kid is the key we need, the way to gain a foothold, then I say we use him."
There were approving nods from the others, even Hiyori seemed to be considering Love's words as Mashiro cocked her green head to one side with a chirp of her cheerful voice.
"And we could gain a new friend from it too. Maybe he'd help us out. He doesn't seem to like Aizen any more than we do."
Kensei's derisive snort at the end of her sentence had his former vice captain's cheeks puffed up in outrage and Shinji felt a vein begin to throb in his forehead at the looming possibility of another tantrum from the girl. It was enough of a relief that he nearly could have kissed Hachi when the big man cleared his throat and effortlessly drew all the attention to himself. It was like that with Hachi, the former kidou lieutenant just had a manner about him that calmed people. They trusted him. Waiting until all eyes were on him, the pink-haired man straightened his suit before folding his hands in his lap and beginning to speak.
"While both of those points are quite true, there is something else that we need to think about. And that is Kurosaki-san himself. From our own information, he is but a boy. A child, with an ability and power that we ourselves know as dangerous and perilous even to ones such as we with our decades of experience in handling it thusly. Would it not be a cruelty of it's own to ignore such a boy? To leave him to a fate that we know very well he will one day face without the knowledge that only we can impart to him?"
The room was silent for a moment before Lisa set her manga down to adjust her glasses, recrossing one slim leg over the other. With her, it seemed as though everyone had come to their own conclusions, and all eyes turned to Shinji. His would be the final say, the decision that they would all abide by, whether they would admit it or not.
Dropping one hand onto the top of his head, the former captain of the fifth division shook his head slightly for a moment, fingertips adjusting the patterned material of his hat. Fine. If they wanted it that way, he could handle it. After a thoughtful moment or two, he nodded to them, brown-green eyes serious in his face.
"Alright, then. So from what we know, the kid's shit for sensin' reiatsu. Ain't no way he'll find us if we don't help. So here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna lead him here. Pump out all the reiatsu we can, and even he can't miss it. Hachi's barrier'll keep anythin' else from noticin'."
Seven pairs of eyes locked with his, and seven heads nodded in agreement. It had been decided. They would wait. And when the time came... they would move.
Authors Notes: Oh. My. God. Have I mentioned before how much I hate rehash-canon? Or should I say, how much I hate to make storyline that must follow along canon without much deviation. OK, so the first half of this actually wasn't that difficult for me. It flowed very easily, and I really had a good time writing it. I feel so sorry for Orihime at times, and I tried to do justice to her feelings of inadequacy and frustration while still keeping them real. I don't like to portray her as being some sort of angelic thing who doesn't feel anger or frustration or jealousy. It's just not realistic, and taking that realism away detracts from some of the things that make her such a wonderful character. She's believable, and you can't deny that the fact that Rukia who is her 'rival' as such being a friend is a difficult thing for her to face, especially as she's torn by what SHE wants to believe, and what she's beginning to see as an inevitability. That of Ichigo and Rukia becoming a couple. The hardest part of this chapter was Sado's part. He is SO very difficult to write, and I did not enjoy it, and I will admit that I drew HEAVILY from my one shot fic called A Promise Kept for his thoughts and feelings to weave into this. Sado was v. much a background character in Genesis' original concept, and I want to try and change that a bit, so that he remains an essential part of the story, along with Inoue and Ishida, BC they ARE essential parts and shouldn't be relegated entirely to the back burner.