Yamamoto sat with total concentration. In his sole hand was the worn brush he had used for the past few months. Beside him were rolls upon rolls of carefully wrapped calligraphy. He had lost track of time and had instead fallen into a routine that consisted of practicing his newfound love of calligraphy while reminiscing about the bushy-bearded monk.
Tea with Sachiko in the afternoon or evenings, while some of the older and more mature kids played as attendants for the two elders in the house. Rarely—very rarely—he took walks. Never long ones. Just around the block, as the whelps called it. A quick stretch of his legs before he returned to his… home.
He had just come back from one of those brief tea sessions with Sachiko, which led him to practice calligraphy once more. He had improved, he judged, as he observed his latest work.
Compared to his first attempts, this one had cleaner brushstrokes. There was little to no splash of unnecessary ink tainting the pages. His trademark aggressive strokes had been refined even further to the extent that not a drop of ink seeped through the paper nor left the designated splash zone.
Yamamoto was at peace once more, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. He had told his students once that the next time he returned to the man he used to be, a herald of slaughter and genocide, the wielder of Ryūjin Jakka. There would be no turning back.
Yet here he was. He had called forth his Bankai once more. Not only to protect but with the desire to slaughter. He had died, and now he lived. Unburdened by the weight of leading the Soul Society.
While he allowed himself to think, a knock on his door drew his attention.
"Come in."
The door was pushed open to reveal Sachiko. Her presence so soon after one of their tea meetings was not part of their usual routine, but Yamamoto declined the urge to raise his heavy brows in question. Instead, he made sure his latest work was dried before slowly and gently wrapping it up, pushing it to the side alongside his past works.
Cleanup was quick, even with a single hand. Dipping the brush into water allowed the ink to dissolve, and while he did that, Sachiko made herself comfortable opposite him. Over the past few months, the other woman had grown accustomed to his presence, and while he would not call her a friend, she was an able attendant and respectful, even if she was oblivious to his true age.
Seeing that he was done with his cleanup, she began. "There was another guest shortly after you came up."
He hummed in response to that. Guests had been… annoying. Unfortunately for him, he didn't have Ukitake and Shunsui around to act as a filter for nosy people. Instead, he had made do with Sachiko and the older whelps to fend off the ridiculous number of visitors that came by almost every day. Sachiko continued.
"It was the ambassador to Japan once more, and once I informed him of your busy schedule, he was quick to offer apologies and retreat while promising to come back another time."
Yamamoto nodded in response. The man had been one of the most… if he were more uncouth, perhaps he would've called the man stubborn, but the ambassador had been respectful despite the repeated denials. And there had been many. No, the man was not stubborn—he was simply persistent. Persistent enough that Yamamoto decided the next time he came around, he would honor his effort with a conversation, at least.
That the ambassador would be the one doing all the talking didn't make it less of a conversation in his opinion.
"But if that was all, I would not disturb you so soon after our tea. Instead, we received a call. A more important call. From the hero Kudzu."
This time Yamamoto's interest was truly piqued. He remembered the man whose abilities revolved around plant manipulation. A man who had been stubborn in the face of death, putting his life on the line both metaphorically and literally to enlist Yamamoto's aid.
A gambit that had worked because Yamamoto had helped. Yet the man's part of the bargain had remained unfulfilled since he had been unavailable. At least, that was the message given when Yamamoto had called the PRT hotline with the aid of the more technologically advanced whelps.
When he informed them of who exactly was requesting information, the call had been transferred to a superior officer, who hurriedly explained that the veteran hero was in a coma. Ever since then, Yamamoto moved on, and the obligation was still owed but not pressing.
Even if the man had died, the organization would take on the debt and pay it, regardless of their feelings. So, he had uncaringly ruled the man dead—at least until now. Seeing his newfound attention on her, Sachiko continued.
"He is alive and claims he has recovered enough, at least to hold a conversation. He promised to send further word by next week on where to meet."
Instead of another hum or nod in reply, as Sachiko no doubt expected, Yamamoto asked a question.
"When was the last time I went on a walk?"
Sachiko blinked in response before her wizened features twisted into a thoughtful look. "I'm not sure, but I think a month ago, give or take a week."
Yamamoto hummed in response before continuing. "Then it's about time I took an enthusiastic walk. No need for a different venue. I'll go to this Protectorate headquarters myself."
It was good to ensure his debtor didn't escape by a sudden case of death, after all, and he didn't mind stretching his legs once again.
Sachiko stared at him in surprise before nodding in response. "I'll make sure the kids prepare your haori adequately as well as iron it."
Yamamoto nodded, and she took it as approval. She stood up and gave a curt bow before walking away.
She was barely a foot out of the door before her voice rang out in a holler. "Where are you brats? Bring out the honored guest's overcoat and prepar—" The door closed behind her, muffling the rest of her words.
...
Random PRT Secretary POV
Kaitlyn Whitrow stared at herself in the mirror. Her formerly long and lustrous brown hair had been cut short to meet company policy. Along the edges, it was still damp from the water she had splashed on her face seconds ago.
Looking at her reflection, she almost didn't recognize herself. Heavy dark circles rested beneath her eyes. Her face looked thinner, her complexion pale from too many days without natural sunlight.
Kaitlyn had become the stereotypical overworked 9-to-5 salary earner. But it hadn't always been like this. A few months ago, things had been better. She'd had more coworkers to share the burden. That was before the Slaughterhouse Nine attacked the heroes' base, the Rig, leaving most of her colleagues as casualties.
Shaking her head, she sent water droplets flying before grabbing a towel to dry her hair. A quick application of eyeliner, lip gloss, a dash of mascara, and some concealer to hide the bags under her eyes, and she looked marginally presentable.
She sighed as the alarm on her wristwatch beeped. Bathroom break over. Just five more hours to go, and she'd be done for the day.
Straightening her posture, she stepped out of the bathroom. Walking down the corridor, she offered tired but polite smiles to her coworkers. They returned them with difficulty. Everyone was suffering from overwork, but Kaitlyn's failed career as an actress helped her hide it better than most.
Turning into another hallway, she gave a respectful nod to the two black-armored PRT officers standing guard. They didn't return it, but she didn't take offense. The officers were even more overworked than the office staff. The attack on the Rig had decimated their numbers.
Stopping by a dispenser, she pressed the appropriate buttons, and steaming hot coffee poured into a plastic cup. Smiling at the comforting warmth, she downed it in one gulp.
While manpower was stretched thin, structural repairs to the base had been completed quickly. Most of the work now was cosmetic, set to finish in a few days.
Kaitlyn finally reached her desk at reception. A tour group of local officials was expected soon. It was something that didn't happen here as much as it did in the Mainland base, but this time they were coming here to see how taxpayer money had been spent renovating the Rig. Soshe needed to be at her best. Setting her new cup of coffee on the desk, she smiled at her dour coworker.
"Thanks for holding down the fort, Daniels."
The younger man gave her a tired nod before heading off for his own break. Unbothered, Kaitlyn sat down, turned on her computer, and prepared to face the rest of her shift. The blessed caffeine was already working its magic, and she felt ready to take on the world—or maybe even an Endbringer.
The world, however, had other plans.
"Greetings." An aged voice broke her reverie.
She looked up, plastering on a welcoming smile. "Ah, a visitor. What can I do for yo—"
The words died in her throat.
Standing before her was a hunched old man wearing a white coat over a kimono. A single visible hand gripped a cane. His face, lined with age, was framed by a heavy beard and long brows that barely moved.
She knew that face.
She had watched the few seconds of footage hundreds of times. It was the face of the man who had flipped the world on its head and then retreated into obscurity. The man responsible for driving 70% of the Empire Eighty-Eight out of the Bay.
The man who had killed an Endbringer.
The reception area fell silent as the others began to recognize him. Even the heavily armed PRT guards remained frozen in place.
"I'm looking for a man, Kudzu I believe." the old man said, his voice calm. "I was told he is here."
Kaitlyn's heart raced, but she forced a fragile smile and spoke with practiced calm.
"Right this way, sir. I'm sure they were expecting you."
Out of sight, her hand mashed the alarm button under the desk, summoning whichever capes were available. She stood, motioning for him to follow.
It was probably a breach of protocol to escort him without clearance or a heads-up, but what was she supposed to do? Tell the man who killed an Endbringer to wait in line?
Leading him to a secured guest room that was typically used for potential Wards or new heroes, she kept her steps steady. The clack of his cane against the floor echoed like a death knell behind her.
..
The room smelled of antiseptic and wilted flowers, a sterile stillness filling the air. Kudzu stirred weakly in the hospital bed. His bandaged chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as his eyes fluttered open. Blinking against the harsh light, he tried to sit up, only to freeze when he noticed the towering yet hunched figure seated by the window.
The man that Kudzu had gotten to know was called, Yamamoto Genryusai didn't look at him at first, his ancient eyes fixed on the gray cityscape beyond the glass. His physical appearance was that of an ancient man. White of beard and hunched over even in his seat. A blind and stupid person would've mistaken him for weak if not for his presence. His presence was larger than life and filled the whole room, and Kudzu felt a cold sweat despite the warmth of the room.
"You're awake," Yamamoto said, his voice carrying in the otherwise quiet room, calm and steady like he was not in the middle of the protectorate base. Kudzu's eyes drifted to the black-suited woman who shook like a leave a few inches beside the door and he vaguely recognized her. Then his attention drifted back to the man sitting.
Kudzu swallowed hard, the effort sending a sharp pain through his ribs. "Y-yes, honored elder… How did yo—" His voice cracked, and he coughed, wincing. And the woman rushed to fill a cup with water before hurriedly passing it to him. He took a refreshing gulp before letting out a sigh and a nod at her. Some part of him realized that she had seen his face as he was unmasked while another part simply didn't care. The director would probably hit her with an NDA after this. "How did you get here, honored elder?"
"Your reiryoku was so low and nearly nonexistent that I could not distinguish between you and the rest of the mortals, so I asked for directions."
Kudzu gave a glance at the woman once more inviting her to speak. "Ah, our guest declined waiting, and requested to be brought up to you." Ah, kudzu realized the dilemma the innocent woman must have been subjected to and he didn't blame her the tiniest bit. He had only seen the clip once a day ago, and it had been enough to make him call the house the man lived in.
He was supposed to meet the Old man in a week, but the meeting had been expedited by his coming over, and Kudzu was a flexible sort, so he pushed the conversation to more familiar ground. "Thank you… for what you did back then."
Yamamoto turned his head now, his scarlet gaze landing on Kudzu. The faintest flicker of something unreadable crossed the old man's face. Acknowledgment, perhaps, or judgment, but it passed as quickly as it came. Kudzu felt exposed like every scar and every sin had been laid bare under that stare. It suddenly made sense why his eyes were closed half the time.
"You remember what you promised," Yamamoto said. It wasn't a question.
"I do," Kudzu replied, forcing himself upright despite the pain, his expression honest. "You saved this city. You saved me. I owe you everything."
"You owe me a favor," Yamamoto corrected, his tone firm but not unkind. "I am here to collect."
Kudzu's fingers tightened around the edge of his blanket, his mind racing. "Anything," he said, the word carrying both desperation and sincerity. "Whatever you need, it's yours. As long as It is within our power, Brockton bay protectorate would come through."
Yamamoto leaned forward slightly, his cane resting against his knee. "Good. I did not come to demand, but to remind. When the time comes, you will honor your word. Do you understand?"
Kudzu nodded, his throat dry. "I do."
Yamamoto's gaze lingered for a moment longer before he stood, his movements deliberate, his presence filling the small room. "Heal quickly, Kudzu. Weakness invites vultures."
With that, he stood up and turned away from them and instead looked back outside, his attention on something else already. Then a split second later, there was a shift and a blur, and the Old man was gone leaving Kudzu alone with the woman who had all but collapsed into the spare bed in the room. Kudzu gave her an encouraging smile before the door burst open and Challenger and armsmaster entered weapons drawn.
Kudzu sighed at the over enthusiasm of Youth as he laid back on the bed and allowed the stream of rapid-fire questions to wash over him.
…
During the brief minute he had waited for the man to wake, Yamamoto had sensed a presence nearby. Familiar, steady, and entirely intentional. It had been close enough to pique his interest and, considering his current walk through the city had no specific aim, he decided on his next destination without hesitation.
With his discussion finished, he vanished from the hospital room in a blur of motion, a swift shunpo carrying him into the skies. He hovered for the briefest moment, recalibrating before another precise step delivered him to his target.
He appeared in front of a human establishment. A modest building with glowing signage that proclaimed Fugly Burgers. Yamamoto ignored the garish lights and the faint whiff of grease in the air, stepping forward. The door yielded beneath his touch, and the small bell above jingled at his entrance.
The sound drew the attention of the occupants: five in total, seated sparsely throughout the dimly lit space. All eyes turned to him, their gazes ranging from curiosity to open bewilderment. Yamamoto, unbothered by their reactions, let the door close behind him and walked with purpose. His sandals clicked softly against the tiled floor as he crossed the room in a straight line.
He stopped at a booth near the back, where a man with jet-black hair sat across from a little girl who shared his features. Her legs swung idly beneath the table, a milkshake in her hands, while her father watched Yamamoto's approach with a subtle tension that betrayed his readiness for trouble.
Without a word, Yamamoto eased himself into the seat across from them, his movements deliberate, his presence overwhelming despite the mundane setting. The man's shoulders stiffened, and the girl froze mid-swing, her wide eyes flicking between the stranger and her father.
"You were looking for me," Yamamoto stated, his deep voice cutting through the quiet hum of the diner. His tone was steady, devoid of accusation or impatience, but it carried the weight of expectation. "Here I am."
A/N: For some reason FFNet eats up my formatting which makes it stressful asf. It just rolled over from there till i had a farther backlog on here. Anyway I've tried to clear it up a bit due to some free time, so this should be the end of the mass updates. I would probably post the rest of the available chapters this week up to 23 or 24... If FFNet doesn't frustrate the hell out of me again. Anyway If you are in a particular hurry or feel like supporting me you can read up to chapter 28 on my P_atr_eon. Thanks for reading as always.