Yamamoto sat across from the child. It had scarcely been a week, but the girl looked better already after the delicate attention Sachiko had no doubt bestowed on her due to his request.
Her cheeks looked plump. Her dull brown eyes, even without the fire in them, had the slightest spark of life. Her previously pale skin had gotten some color.
"Sachiko tells me your name is Mei Mei," Yamamoto began, and the child gave jerky nods in response, making him hum in thought. He peered down on her behind closed lids and watched her fidget under his unseen gaze. Curious.
With slow movements, he got to his feet, surprising the child. "Walk with me." With those words said, he picked up his cane and began to walk, confident in the belief that the child was a step behind him.
He had little experience with whelps this young; even Ukitake and Shunsui were a fair bit older than this when they came under his care, but he remembered his encounter with the little warlord's whelp, and it was enough to let him know he was better served having the child move about instead of sitting nervously in a single position.
Their stroll led them to the door, which was swiftly opened by the ever-present guards, and he passed through, the whelp a step behind him. Then they were in the street—a street that held more people than it had weeks before. People turned to stare at him the moment he stepped a foot out of the house.
Yamamoto ignored their whispers and stares and instead focused on the child that had frozen in wide-eyed surprise at the attention she garnered by the sheer fact that she was beside him.
"Do not shrink and cower at mere words and glances. You walk beside me. Stand tall." Simple words, yet as with all things he did, the gravity of those mere words forced the whelp's spine to straighten, and suddenly what had been a mere spark in the child's eyes blossomed into a bonfire, and the whelp changed.
Not physically, but psychologically. It was a far cry from the meek whelp that had followed him down the stairs and out of the building before shrinking in on herself at the mere fraction of attention sent her way. Now her burning eyes trailed along the crowd, the obvious display of power sending the curious scurrying. Then she turned to him.
Yamamoto cracked his eyes open by a sliver and made eye contact, and she lasted all of two seconds before she was forced to avert her gaze. Truly curious. She got some level of self-assurance from the activation of her powers—a crutch that Yamamoto would not abide, but one he would allow for now.
"Good, now follow."
They walked for minutes, Yamamoto stretching his legs and observing this part of the city with his senses while the girl sent glances everywhere. Culture shock was half the reason for her interest as she looked from the dressing style to the features of the people around, to the character in the way they greeted, bowed, and supplicated.
Yet Yamamoto's attention was on another thing. Fleeting as it was to catch his interest, it was not enough to hold it. When he came to the city, there had been signs of groups and gangs, easily identified by their green, red, or blue bandanas, jackets, or other symbols of affiliation.
He had observed a near brawl on the very day Jin had driven him into the city, yet now those numbers had been cut drastically. Yamamoto assumed that the change was due to his presence. The pseudo-warlord had claimed the gangs had been uneasy and unsure about what to do, especially the Asian ones that resided so close to him, but it didn't seem to be the case anymore. The buffer where he had not been seen had seemingly rekindled them, yet it was not these disparate and scattered whelps that drew his attention.
It was the others. The ones universally clad in white jackets. They seemed to be in every alleyway, every road, and every corner, yet the difference in how they were treated from the other gangs couldn't have been clearer. There was respect. The mundane civilians saw them and nodded in response to their presence before walking further off, while they treated the other colored gang whelps with outright disdain, staring at them aggressively or launching curses at them for the bolder civilians.
It didn't pass him by, the fact that some of the white-jacket-clad whelps were ones he was vaguely familiar with. While taking note of and categorizing the reiryoku signature of mundane humanity was difficult unless it was specifically done with purpose, most of the whelps had been around the building he lived in long enough for him to take note of them, which was why he was able to pick out a very familiar one—in fact, it could be called the very first signature he clocked.
"Honored elder and young miss," a familiar voice called out, slightly less slurred than Yamamoto remembered it. The whelp beside him stopped and turned back in surprise before laying eyes on the half a dozen white-jacket-clad youths. Immediately she saw them, she gave a jerky bow in response.
Yamamoto turned and gave her an approving nod in response. He was not certain about why they gave the child such an honorific, but he didn't care enough to bother asking either. Instead, he simply gave Jin his attention, which was enough to make the whelp straighten up alongside his followers.
"We received word that you were taking a leisurely stroll and wanted to know if you needed us to accompany you."
Yamamoto's reply was silence, and it didn't take the whelp long to realize what he was insinuating, that Genryusai Shigekuni Yamamoto needed their protection.
Passersby slowed to a crawl at the scene, disguising their need to watch the unfolding drama.
Jin's eyes widened, but the whelp was smart enough to recover smoothly, and he bowed deeply in apology. "Of course, the honored elder needs no protection, nor does the young miss while she's in his presence, but it's been a while since the honored elder has walked the streets. There are new shops that I'm sure the honored elder would love to visit."
There was silence. not even cars honked as they passed, as Jin remained bowed, waiting for judgment. Judgment that Yamamoto delivered by walking up to the whelp and slamming his cane into the ground. Using the earth to hold it, he then reached out to Jin, grabbing him by his misaligned jaw and forcing his head up.
His calloused hand glowed green, visible even to the shocked crowd, while Jin kept his eyes closed, leaving his life and fate in Yamamoto's literal hands. Yamamoto did as he intended. Reiatsu restoration was not something he had applied to another in a long time, but it was a practice he had grown very familiar with in self-application, as evidenced by the many scars on his form.
Applying it to others was a technique he could never forget. Yet it was one intended for shinigami, people with enough reiatsu that the pressure was shared between healer and patient. Considering the little store of reiatsu present in Jin, Yamamoto had to bear the brunt of the process himself. Not that it was a problem for one such as he.
Jin's reikyoru remembered what the body looked like, and that was enough for Yamamoto's reiatsu to go to work. With a sharp click and pop, the jaw forcibly realigned and locked into place, along with a dozen other injuries that had healed poorly and been left to fester. Unfortunately for Jin, Yamamoto had never learned more than what it took to heal the body itself. Cosmetic changes, such as removing scarring, were the purview of the medical corps and Unohana.
Jin took a step back in wide-eyed shock as he moved his body and worked his jaw. "How— what— but— " The whelp stuttered in disbelief, speaking clearly for the first time in months. For the first time since that thug had broken his jaw.
"I grow tired of your lisp," Yamamoto declared, turning away from the whelp, uprooting his cane, and walking off in a smooth motion that sent his haori billowing behind him. "And I have no need of your company."
The child stared at his back, then at Jin and his gang, who stood confused, then at the crowd of people who watched, mouths agape, before hurriedly turning to follow Yamamoto as he cut a path through the throng that had formed.
"That was really cool," the whelp finally said as they walked a few feet away and turned into a food district. "Can I learn how to do th—" The child sniffed the air once, twice, then turned to the side, her mouth opening slightly.
Yamamoto replied to the unfinished question. "Maybe. Maybe not. We shall see."
They stopped at a food stall that had drawn the child's attention. Yamamoto recognized that, even with the excitement of the past few minutes, the child had grown hungry during their long walk. The seller stared at him with wide eyes while Yamamoto considered how to procure some of the meat-on-a-stick the young man sold.
The seller glanced at Yamamoto, then at the drooling child beside him, before coming to a swift conclusion. With a speed that belied experience, he quickly wrapped up three pieces of food, packaging them neatly, and passed them over with two hands outstretched and a bow.
"A gift, honored elder," the young man said. Yamamoto frowned in response, but the child had already grabbed the package and begun to tear into it with a vigor that had been missing earlier.
Yamamoto glanced back, unwilling to accept the gift for free. He gave a nod and spoke. "A single favor," he said, cracking his eyes open the slightest bit, pinning the young man to the spot. "Find me, then."
The young man nodded rapidly, his head seemingly the only part of him capable of movement. Satisfied that the whelp understood the gravity of his words, Yamamoto simply turned away and began walking. The child, sated and all smiles, Yamamoto looked down at her and asked the question he had meant to since they met. "Tell me, child, what do you know about fire?"
...
In the shadows of an alleyway, a black-clad figure, designated Number 034, watched the girl and the old man as they walked past. He made quick notes in a small jotter, keeping his movements minimal.
The only reason he remained unchallenged was the old man's indifference. His gaze never turned, his steps never faltered. Yamamoto had deemed him inconsequential, a threat so minuscule it wasn't worth acknowledgment.
Yet the figure's intent was not fixed on Yamamoto. No, the old man was a force of nature, an unshakable pillar. It was the girl walking beside him who commanded the figure's interest. The way she moved, unburdened and at ease, as though she belonged in the orbit of a man who could crush anything with a glance.
...
In a room within the PRT headquarters, previously tagged as the "Brutish Japanese old man Counter Office,"the nameplate had been hurriedly stripped and replaced following the Endbringer incident. All records of its former designation were expunged, buried as deeply as bureaucratic red tape could manage. Now, the space was repurposed solely to surveil the enigmatic cape tactically classified as Old Man Yama.
It was an open secret. The lack of any official identity for the man coupled with the fact that even the average Brockniteknew where he slept, down to his particular room, made the offices existence feel both redundant and necessary.
Officers in charge of monitoring him gathered around a flickering screen. On it, grainy footage from an agent's body cam played, displaying the old man walking calmly alongside a child whose eyes quite literally burned with flames. The two were intercepted by a fast rising gang that acted more as a neighborhood watch that revolved around the old man and the orphanage home he lived in.
Words were exchanged and the old man turned. With casual grace, he placed his hand on a gang member's obviously fractured jaw. Green light flared, and the injury he had on his jaw mended itself instantly.
The room was silent for a beat before one officer broke the tension, slamming his coffee cup onto the table.
"What the actual— how many powers does this guy have tucked into his pockets?" the man exclaimed, sinking into his seat and rubbing his temples. "I swear, every time we think we've got him pegged, he pulls out something new. Green healing light? Since when?"
"Right," another officer chimed in, arms crossed as she leaned against the desk. "Is it even healing, though? Could be some kind of temporal reversal, or hell, what if he's stealing injuriesand dumping them somewhere?"
"That's absurd."
"Is it?"
Their spitballing gained momentum, questions spiraling until a heavy, metallic sound cut through the noise.
A figure stepped forward from the corner of the room, radiating authority. Encased in gleaming silver power armor adorned with blue accents, the sole cape in the room carried a palpable presence. His helmet obscured most of his face, revealing only his jawline, which was set in grim determination.
"More importantly," the man said, his voice sharp and quiet enough to command immediate silence, "the child with him, who is she? why is she so calm around him?" Armsmaster muttered. "Everyone else reacts to him like they're staring at the sun, this kid's walking beside him like it's a stroll through the park. And that's not all, look at her eyes."
The team turned back to the footage, studying the child more closely.
"Holy fuck, are those on fire?"
"Does that mean-" A trembling voice questioned.
"He has a child?" Armsmaster whispered, his words heavy with something the others could not identify.
The realization dawned on the room, raising hairs on the back of necks and sending cold dread slithering into the pit of their stomachs.
Two seconds passed in silence.
Then the officer from earlier, still holding his coffee, muttered hoarsely, "Oh, hell no."
The unspoken horror was written across every face in the room.
What if there are two of him now?
A/N: Happy new Year.