A/N: Hello everyone, enjoy!
Disclaimer: Don't own bleach… unfortunately.
#22#
He had not been expecting it.
Up until this moment, he hadn't really understood when one could be at the wrong place at the wrong time. He's strong, he can easily beat up anyone who comes up to him looking for a fight, more so when his enemies are humans that he can beat with his fists. For Soul Kings sake, he had been trained in Karate since young and then Shihoin Yoruichi herself had taught him more than enough Hakuda to be a menace to hardened officers from the second division.
Humans weren't even as sturdy!
But really, one would think that'd mean that Ichigo was ny impossible to kill in a straight up fist fight –okay, he could handle a knife fight too If he was being honest. But a gun, and a gun when he hadn't been expecting it? No, his death probability would rise. Then again, he's fast, his reflexes are inhuman –which yeah, that makes sense!- and he might have been able to dodge the bullet, but this hadn't even been a hit on him. He had been at the wrong place, at the wrong time.
Renji was gonna die laughing when he heard. He just knew it.
He had been in America for a literature conference. Nothing new really, he was a teacher at a University, continuing to gain knowledge of his area of study was pretty much part of his job anyway. It hadn't been the first time that he had come to America, and it wouldn't have been the last. His English major meant he could fend for himself, and usually people only gave his hair a casual look of disinterest before continuing on their busy lives so he didn't even stand out that much. This case really hadn't been different.
He had been walking back to his rental car, he had parked it a block away from the hall because he hated having to look through rows and rows of cars in the underground garage and it really was just easier to park a road down in his opinion. It was after dark, and the amount of pedestrians amounted to close to zero. People really didn't seem keen to walk around much in this country, and well, with everything so big, Ichigo couldn't blame them. So he was walking alone towards his car, his pace languid and relaxed when a women had come barreling out of an apartment complex, looking frantic and scared out of her wits. She had crashed into Ichigo, and he had automatically steadied her while she mumbled a jittery apology that he hadn't even had the time to brush aside before a man –a psycho really- rushed out the same door, a gun grasped in his hand and waving manically as if it were something docile before zeroing in on the women and Ichigo with pinpoint accuracy. Ichigo was barley moving to push the women behind him when gunshots rang in the silent air, the multiple bangs more than attention grabbing.
He had felt a weird sort of numbness and realized belatedly that he had been shot –more than three times, maybe- when his knees buckled under him and he spat out a mouthful of blood. In the distance he could hear shouts and sense the women falling to the ground too and then a heavy set of footsteps that had Ichigo turning in the direction of the man. He hurriedly jumped into a car and turned on the vehicle and rushing like if the hounds of hell were on his heels.
The last coherent thought Ichigo had before the darkness swallowed him, was the license plate and the man's ugly mug.
When he awoke next time, he was standing beside his body, the area was surrounded by police, two ambulances and more than a few gawkers. He was not happy. At. All.
"We found his wallet." One of the men in a trench coat and a badge said softly. "The IDs I found were in an Asian language, but we found a badge in his bag from the Conference Hall down the street. Name is Ichigo Kurosaki."
The man butchered his name so bad, that Ichigo would have been hard pressed to sucker punch the guy in the face if he was corporal.
"Hm," the other guy looked pensive, his eyes sharper and more analytic. He reminded Ichigo of Kisuke, and once he made the connection, he couldn't decide of that was a good thing or not. "We will need to find out where he came from and who to contact. We don't even know what happened."
"Crime of passion?" The idiot offered hesitantly.
"Not exactly." The smart one countered. "While the women has twelve gun shots, this man only has four. Critical for sure, but it almost looks like he was just collateral damage."
Ichigo growled low in his throat. "I'll tell you what happened." He answered in frustration. "That psycho wanted to kill her" he pointed an accusing finger at the women "and killed me for good riddance!"
As expected, the detectives didn't even twitch.
"Ugh!" Ichigo turned in frustration, his hands coming up to yank at his hair before he took in a deep breath and exhaled softly. He needed to cool down and figure out his next course of action.
Maybe he could leave signs to the detectives? Problem was he had regained conscious too late, if the authorities weren't here yet, Ichigo could have written the license plate with his blood or something. By now, the entire scene should have been cataloged and any new evidence would be taken with a grain of salt –blood writing was not something you just missed.
Really, he should just leave. Open a Garganta and make his way back to Karakura to tell his family the bad news so they wouldn't be surprised when the police found a phone number.
He should.
"Okay." He told himself with conviction. "I need to find a real medium, plant a pamphlet or something in my hotel room, and herd the detectives in the right direction."
The idiot laughed, his eyes zeroed on Ichigo's discarded suitcase. "Shakespeare! What a nerd."
"That means he's probably into literature, maybe the latest conference at the hall can give us clues." The smart one reasons. And really, Ichigo is totally entitled to the face palm he does.
This is going to be an agonizing task.
Not to be continued…