This story takes place in a nebulous era post-canon. I've only read through the manga once, and I'm not going to pretend I remember many specifics about the Quincy War, but I remember enough to get along here. Basically, the important bit to remember is that I'm taking some bits of canon for granted.

So, there are going to be some spoilers here, but I'm also going to be following my own pet canon from "Best I Am," so this is effectively an AU still. So, honestly, unless you already know the details, I'm not sure how many of those spoilers are going to stand out against all the little things I tweaked last time.

Just take it all for what it is and play along, if you like.

It ought to work.

.

Rangiku Matsumoto did her best to look official as she strode down the dusty streets of Junrinan; she was quite sure that any other soul reaper would know, immediately, that she was avoiding some kind of official duties, since a vice-captain doing patrol work wasn't just strange. It was literally against current protocol, as decreed by Captain-Commander Kyoraku. Nobody wanted to admit it out loud—except maybe Captain Kurotsuchi, but he never held back his thoughts in the name of decorum—but the Gotei 13 couldn't afford to risk high-ranking officers on grunt work. Not anymore. Not since . . .

Well. Anyway.

If Matsumoto got caught going off on her own like this, only the Soul King would know how much trouble she'd be in. She knew better than to do this; she knew it was a matter of safety, and that she couldn't afford to act like she was invincible. She'd done it before, and it nearly got her killed. Matsumoto knew all this, but some things just needed to be done.

Stupid or otherwise.

There was something soft, something comforting, about the way ordinary souls went about their business outside of Seireitei. There was something about the lack of the Quiet Court's rigidity that made it easier to breathe, somehow. She got some suspicious looks, to be sure, but she didn't think she could blame anyone. After all, Matsumoto had once been one of these people. She'd once been on this side of the gate.

What gall she had, to come back now that she'd already crossed over.

It was a betrayal to them.

These people owed no allegiance to the Gotei 13, and Matsumoto wasn't the sort of person to insist on deference that she hadn't earned. She'd never pulled rank on a spirit of Rukongai, and she had no intention of ever doing so.

At least, that was what she told herself when she left the Tenth's grounds that morning.

Matsumoto found the object of her interest in an open-air market, studying fabrics with the discerning eye of someone who knew precisely what they were looking for, and the patience of someone ready to wait until they found it.

Two rough-looking men—who walked rigidly, like puppets trying to pretend they were human—came sauntering up to the ancient woman with a contrived air of decent youths just trying to help a doddering elder. Matsumoto knew the look of danger. No matter what streets she walked, men who wanted trouble had a certain aura to them. Some hid it better than others, and these two were endeavoring to hide it.

But Rangiku Matsumoto had been ripping through men's facades for centuries.

"Terribly sorry, madam," said one of the rough men, leaning down over the shoulder of the old woman, not touching her yet, "but these goods is reserved. It's a right shame no one told you. It's quite rude, is what it is. I'll have to speak to the proprietor here. Make sure it don't happen again."

"Indeed," said the other rough man, loftily. "Honestly, the way people treat their elders these days. Even here, in the peace of our lovely little forests. It's simply disgraceful. Come, come with us please. We'll show you somewhere suitable for you to spend your rings."

The old woman didn't move.

"I think I'm going to be staying right here, thank you," she said.

Matsumoto's hand made for her blade. She didn't want to shed blood here, but she knew where her loyalties were. There wasn't going to be any testing of them today. All the same, the old crone sounded so self-assured that it gave Matsumoto pause.

The rough men certainly looked surprised enough to be rebuffed.

". . . Perhaps you ain't hear me," said the one.

"It's reserved," said the other.

"Oh, I heard you just fine," said the old woman. "It's just that, terribly sorry, I don't recognize your authority. Perhaps this routine works for other, less discerning, folk. If you could excuse me, please. I'd like to look over here for a moment."

The rough men looked at each other, over the old woman's wispy white hair.

Anger made their faces ugly.

"Listen, you old bag—"

The old woman turned her attention directly on the rough men for the first time. Matsumoto couldn't see her face, but they could.

"Excuse me. I'd like to look over here."

Matsumoto had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as the rough men with all their blustering bravado tucked between their legs, went clacking off like they'd just remembered urgent business. Why were they moving like that? It was like someone else, someone who couldn't see them, was directing their limbs.

Matsumoto put on a smile as she approached the old woman next.

Carefully.

"Pardon me, ma'am."

Toshiro Hitsugaya's grandmother glanced over, and her weathered face lit up. "Ah! Miss Matsumoto! What a pleasant surprise to see you here! Hello, hello! What brings you out to the market today?"

"Well," said Matsumoto, unable to keep the grin from her face any longer, "actually, I was looking for you. I wondered if I could speak with you for a bit. Pick your brain, if you'll allow the expression. Your dear grandson's birthday is coming up, after all."

The woman who Matsumoto had only ever known as Nana beamed at her.

"Oh, of course! Come along, dear, come along, follow me. Just this way."