Note: Play Aizen's Theme song while reading. Shiro SAGISU: Treachery."
AN; Fixed the formating.
"Why are you here, child?" he questioned. His voice was a low thing, hinting at restrained aggression tempered by age.
The jeers stopped. The hooting and cries for violence halted as he looked over them. But his attention was not truly on them. That lizard part of their brain finally realized they were in the presence of something greater than their sum total.
No, his attention was on the whelp directly in front of him. She was a child, barely older than the Kurosaki whelp by human standards. Before the girl could speak again, the man with the detestable insignia on his uniform held her shoulder back before stepping to face him.
"Be silent, Rain. Something is wrong."
Ah, the man had some sense to him, a more self-aware sense of preservation perhaps. From the moment he buried his staff into the ground, he had begun to release his iron-clad grip on his Reiatsu.
Slowly and carefully. The orphanage was in his range, and he had no desire to flatten the building and its juvenile inhabitants.
So he allowed and manipulated the release of his Reiatsu, gently spreading it out and constraining it to mere meters instead of the city-wide range it ached to reach.
Its presence and pressure on them should have been little, nearly indiscernible to mortal senses, but the man had picked it up.
An ability of his perhaps? He was not familiar with the varied capabilities of the new mold of humans he had found himself among.
Yet he knew the masked man was one of the superpowered individuals that littered this world. Everything had Reiryoku. Even in this twisted yet whole realm, he found himself in.
In this strange world, it manifested at basic levels in all humans and more prominently in these parahumans. Yet it was not the true source of their powers, only acting as a layman's way of judging power, akin to what it did back in Soul Society. His observations were paired with his usage of Reikaku.
Every second, the pressure from the slow creeping presence of his Reiatsu increased. Enough so that the gathered whelps at the back were starting to breathe heavily.
"You are unmasked, old man," the black-clad stranger spoke openly, his eyes hidden behind protective equipment.
"Continue any further, and we will be forced to disregard the unwritten rules, thin as they may be."
"What're you talking about, Kreig? He's just an old fuck; let's just—" The girl was shushed once more with a raised hand from the man.
He had not deemed it fit to allow the man's name to stay in his memory longer than it took to register. What use was a name to the dead?
His reply was a slow release of breath as he felt his control continue to slip further, restrained and meticulously released.
Unmasked, unwritten rules. Those terms meant nothing to him.
The whelps had begun to struggle to breathe now, their lungs working thrice as hard to draw in any simulacrum of breath into their bodies. Their bodies stiffened as they struggled to move from their spot.
Eyes bulged in their sockets as their hands snapped up to grab at their throats in a wasted effort to force air through their starving orifices.
Yet the sole man and woman in front of him were not as heavily affected. Their greater well of innate Reiryoku served to bolster and shield them.
For the first time, the girl seemed to realize what was happening as she suddenly found herself putting in more effort to draw every breath. The man was the only person who still seemed to be bearing the pressure of the slow release of his Reiatsu easily, even if his heavier breathing indicated he was not entirely free of the effects.
An aspect of his abilities? These parahumans were curious indeed.
"If you refuse to show us the cordiality and respect we've shown you, then we will be forced to treat you in kind," the man continued, losing some of the calm he had begun with.
For the second time, Yamamoto spoke.
"You speak of respect and come to my abode with the intention to cause harm. You speak of cordiality and yet plan treachery in the same breath."
The man must have heard something in his voice or picked up on his false obliviousness because he barked out immediately.
"Now, Rain!"
"Fucking finally; they were growing fucking heavy," the armor-clad girl barked out with savagery to match her harsh movement, stretching her hand to face him, her index and middle fingers pointed at him before she swung her wrist in a savage motion.
Metal projectiles, crafted since the moment the girl laid eyes on him, hurtled downward at astonishing speeds. Among them were serrated spikes, multi-pronged instruments of death and suffering, jagged spears, and pitted swords, all slicing through the air from great heights.
Their mass and the distance they traversed sharpened their menace, as gravity exerted its pull, amplifying their lethal force.
The next moment, the man snapped his right hand at him, and he could feel a sudden pressure on his physical form, a curiosity and heightened audacity in the same breath. The whelp had thought to hold him down?
Him? Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto.
At that instant, the man gestured toward the descending projectiles with a swift motion of his hand, simultaneously delivering a forceful swing downward.
Their velocity doubled instantly, shattering the sound barrier as they carved a piercing path through the sky. Racing at such breakneck speed, they generated intense heat, noticeable even to him as they hurtled toward their target.
The man sought to immobilize him while the child's conjured weapons ripped through his defenses, their speed further enhanced by his amplification. Such a tactic should have incapacitated any ordinary human.
But he was not human. Neither was he anything close to ordinary.
Centimeters above him, the projectiles were so close that he would have felt the heat of their mad dash through the sky if he were not impervious to it.
At last, he acted. Breaking through the man's restraints was a simple task, requiring nothing more than a breath— the simple rhythm of inhaling and exhaling, the gentle ascent of his chest broke the man's hold on his form, causing the man to stagger back in astonishment.
Dodging the projectiles was well within his capability. A swift flash step would have easily nullified their threat to him.
However, he chose not to evade them. It was a matter of pride— the notion that a mere human could compel him to action without him initiating it was inconceivable.
Instead, he spoke, uttering a single word infused with the potency of his scarcely unleashed Reiatsu.
"BAKUDO #39: Enkosen."
Those simple words laced with power and intent gave shape and form to his Reiatsu, shifting an infinitesimal part of it from pure pressure to a swirling yellow disk of energy that manifested above him.
The projectiles collided with the disk with staggering force, causing the ground beneath to fissure and fracture. The ensuing explosion of sound, born from the rupturing of the sound barrier, shattered windows and splintered the frail, decrepit structures within range.
The impact enveloped the surroundings in a dense cloud of dust and smoke, obscuring visibility from any but him.
...
James Fleischer swept his hands to the side in an attempt to clear the raised dust and debris that filled his vision.
What had started off as a bored curiosity he had entertained had turned into something else the moment he saw the old man.
He had followed along after the fools that Allfather's bastard spawn brought the news of an attack upon them by some uncultured chink that sought to rise above their station of birth.
That the message came in the form of the young man's flock instead of the man reporting it himself was not something James cared about. The boy was a bastard and one that had proven an infertile ground for the power that he should've inherited, as expected when one mixed pure Aryan blood with a mud-skinned negro.
Unlike his true-born siblings, Rowdy Augusta and Solemn Maximus.
Yet he could not blame Richard for his foible and eccentricity. The man had been deep in his cups and no doubt seduced by the despicable mud-colored wrench. That the result of his mistake and weakness took after Richard so much only showed the supremacy of their pure Aryan blood.
It should have been left at that. Unfortunately for him, Augusta felt something for the waste of pure Aryan blood. A sibling's love perhaps? Or more likely an ownership of what she saw as a favored mad dog to unleash at her whims.
The boy had gone from nothing to a lieutenant by riding off the coattails of his true-born sister's favor. A surprising penchant for brutality and a lack of self-preservation bolstered his reputation among the lower ranks.
So it was no true surprise that he was finally dealt a blow that nearly sundered him from his mortal coil.
Yet like an owner who had just seen her dog hit by a car, Augusta had decided to pay the insult back in blood. A thin excuse to inflict pain most likely, but like her father, he excused her her eccentricity.
This was the result of that decision, his own lapse in judgment. He had come along in a bid to temper her acts and hopefully spread the reach of the neo-Reich even more in this city. Thinking surely it won't take much to lay low a mere man.
He was wrong.
His suspicions about the old man were confirmed the moment the man opened his eyes and spoke.
A Monster.
He had seen the scars. The crossed prominent one on his head. The few that were barely hidden in the voluminous white and black cloth the man wore.
It was a tapestry. One that told a story of a lifetime of violence and bloodshed on a scale few had witnessed. A telltale sign of a brute rating his experience called out to him.
The pressure that followed raised his analysis of what they faced. A brute and shaker combo, a deadly combination. A new chess piece on the board that was Brockton Bay. One that had deemed it fit to poke them. That the old man threw the unwritten rules to the side, unwilling or unknowing of it was to their favor.
It gave them the chance to end the looming threat, and he didn't hold back. A combined attack that made use of his ability to affect kinetic forces in combination with Augusta's weapon manifestation made them a deadly combo among parahumans.
Transforming ordinary metal projectiles into divinely propelled ones, the dust finally began to settle around them.
In the midst of the clearing smog, he could hear the sound of Augusta coughing nearby. Shielded by his gas mask, he reached out and grasped her, in an effort to ensure her safety amidst the aftermath as well as help her stand.
She shook his hand off, sending a glare at him for the perceived weakness as she stood straight once more. They looked at the impact point still covered in dust, and she spoke up.
"Was that fucking necessary?"
He loved the girl, but by the supreme father Adolf, he wanted to wash her mouth with soap so badly. He blamed it on Hookwolf's horrible influence, tainting his once innocent goddaughter.
"I deemed it so, Rain."
"Well, it's done, and he's fucking obliterated, and I didn't even enjoy it. Let's get the fuck out of here. I'm sure the fucking PRT are on their way already."
"Sure, as soon as we confirm he—"
The dust cleared further, aided by the timely presence of a sudden gust of wind, revealing the vague form at the center point in the wreckage: the standing form of their opponent.
He stood. Unbowed, unbent, and unbroken.
"No fucking way," Augusta called out beside him. Her little brain, unable to comprehend what her eyes showed her. But he did. He understood more than most.
Before Gesellschaft deemed it fit to send him to this quaint little state in the new world, he had traveled the old world excessively. Seen Parahumans that could be vaguely regarded as such.
Beings of such power and might.
From the moment he laid eyes on the man, he wished beyond all else. Yearned for his analysis to be flawed, his predictions to be incorrect, born from nothing but uncertainty. Yet, his hopes were in vain.
As the dust fully dissipated, it unveiled the stoic figure of the old man. Adorned in immaculate white and black robes, the aged form remained untouched by the chaos surrounding him.
His beards were the only thing that moved in the breeze as red eyes peered down at them from the barely cracked-open slits he called eyes.
He could tell one thing for certain. The old man was unimpressed.
"Run, Augusta."
"What the fuck do you mean, Kreig? Fuck you, even called me by my real name I—"
He spun swiftly, delivering a calculated blow with enough force to send her hurtling to the ground. The slap had been precise, penetrating the protective metal helmet she wore, jolting her brain with enough impact to render her unconscious.
Surveying the motionless form of the girl beneath him, he reluctantly turned away, despite the ache in his heart. A concussion was infinitely better than letting her face this.
When he spoke this time, it was to the recovering and surprised forms of the people they had brought along. His eyes glimpsed a familiar face, a Lieutenant he recognized.
"Take her along, Tyler, and get out of here. When the Allfather asks, tell him to discard any thoughts of vengeance."
"Boss, I—"
In the blink of an eye, the pressure surrounding them intensified tenfold, driving them forcefully to the ground. The sheer weight of the pressure was so immense that even the unpowered goons found it impossible to lift their heads.
Yet he stood. His body was a near-empty shell held upright only with the aid of his power, straining to reduce the kinetic force pressing down on him.
It took all he had to extend the same protection to Tyler and the collapsed form of Augusta. He did not need to repeat his words for Tyler, for the young man now understood the situation they had found themselves in, now more than ever.
The young man lifted Augusta with some effort and began the torturous process of dragging her unconscious form away. It seemed his powers could only do so much.
"What are you doing?" Augusta's voice called out in a slur. He glanced back to see she had somehow managed to force her way to consciousness. What a stubborn child.
He smiled, blood-stained gritted teeth bared behind the gas mask. The lens of the glass mask suddenly cracked, the spiderweb lines distorting the horror that he could see on her face as he felt the pressure increase once more.
With a stiffened neck, he redirected his gaze back to the old man, and if he peered hard enough, he could see what might have been approval on that aged face carved from granite.
The old man extended his hand, clasping one of the few blades that had endured the fall.
A single curved blade that he recognized as a Katana. Ha! He doubted Augusta had even been aware of what she had created.
The old man unsheathed the blade from where it had been buried in the ground with disgusting ease and peered down its length before judging it fair with a nod.
"You are the leader here, correct?" the old man inquired, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "As such, you shall bear the burden that comes with the weight of that mantle."
With those words hanging heavy in the air, the old man started a slow, a deliberate approach that seemed to stretch time as he moved unhurriedly toward the motionless figure of James. James knew Death, and it wore the face of an old man with a scar on his head.