Commissioner Kuchiki was tired. She had spent as little as 48 hours in the office and there was already a stack of paperwork as tall as her by the edge of her desk. Most of her officers had gone home, but Rukia preferred it this way. This way, she could look at all their files and figure out which ones were deep in Aizen's pocket and which ones she could actually trust.
Colloquially, people often joked about her job as the one no one wanted. There was little time for family, friendship, or personal endeavors of any sort. These, however, Rukia considered to be afterthoughts. Her duty-bound brother was a state senator, and she was hoping, somehow, that her progress here would prove to him that she was a worthy successor. Complicated as their relationship could sometimes be, she believed as he did in principle and duty. All she wanted to do was live up to the immaculate legacy that came with members of such an important family.
Rukia sighed. She set aside the files on one group of scoundrels and picked up another. This was more of an interest to her. Inside the files, after all, were the men she'd come here to catch. And among them all stood out two in particular: Sosuke Aizen and Ichigo Kurosaki.
Little was known about Sosuke Aizen; it could be entirely possible that that wasn't even his real name, as there were no birth records, no educational papers, no early life paper trail that evidenced his existence. The only thing she had to go off of were muckraking attempts by bold journalists and word of mouth testimonies. Through them, she sensed a pattern: he was well-read, well-respected and well-connected. Virtually nothing connected him to the world of crime he ruled as one-third of the New York Trident.
Ichigo Kurosaki, on the other hand, was an open book. He'd fought in the World War and gained medals. His father and mother's names, his school, the borough he grew up in…everything related to his background and upbringing was on record. It was only as recently as two years ago that threads began to run thin—around the same time kingpin Baraggan Louisenbairn had been taken down in a shootout outside his apartment.
A suspicious coincidence, Rukia thought grimly, setting aside various news articles that reported the incident. Too suspicious, in fact, but Kurosaki was lawyered up and every man of his that the police nabbed had taken a vow of silence to protect him. They served their time, kept their mouths shut, and then they were back onto the streets, welcomed by Kurosaki with open arms. The same was true of the other camp. Be it out of fear or loyalty, it seemed that neither Aizen's nor Kurosaki's men were ready to spill just yet.
It would be up to Rukia to find the chink in their armor.
..
..
On the other side of New York, the Karasu was undergoing tremendous progress. Over the course of weeks, Orihime had transformed the place from a dusty little establishment to a building of intrigue. The Karasu was now, in name and identity, Highwell Hall — a teahouse and game parlor by day, a secluded speakeasy by night.
"We pushed all the tables and chairs closer to the walls," Orihime explained, escorting an amazed Ichigo through a set of heavy doors. Hachi, the designer, followed them, beaming. "Of course, it looks a little empty during the day, but at night…"
"Plenty of room to dance." Ichigo whistled, examining the floor space. It was amazing what space and a little bit of seductive lighting could do to a place so plain. Up in the balconies were low tables, where he could already picture card games and business deals going down.
Where they were standing, however, with the rickety tables and chairs out of the way, a long, L-shaped counter was the only attraction in the middle of the room. Obviously, the bar—though for now the only things sitting on the shelves were tea bags and old cookies.
Ichigo glanced over his shoulder at Hachi. "Did you have a chance to look over the trapdoor suggestions I sent you?"
"I did." Hachi looked pleased. "Though I must say, she came up with a better idea." He pointed at Orihime, who grinned like a child keeping a secret — ready to burst at any moment.
Ichigo raised a brow, intrigued. So far, the problem with running a bar when the government was hellbent on shutting bars was this: they needed a fail-safe plan for raids. In the initial conception of the makeover, Ichigo had proposed a trap door under the counter where a bartender could—if they worked fast—throw in all the bottles. Of course, there was always the risk of a bottle breaking and trapdoors weren't exactly subtle, but it seemed to be the best possible option at the time.
"Show him," Hachi encouraged, nudging Orihime towards the bar.
An enthusiastic Orihime vaulted herself over the counter and then landed with a little 'oof.' Not for the first time, Ichigo was stunned by her bravado and effusive gestures, but he sidelined those in favor of curiosity over her actions.
Orihime angled her arm a little behind the shelf, where Ichigo was surprised to see a lever he hadn't noticed before. Orihime gave it a subtle tug, and then the entire shelf spun wildly on its axis to reveal the other side—an identical-looking shelf, but empty. The teabag and cookies had disappeared in mere seconds and made no mess in their disappearing act.
"Try it." Orihime beamed.
Surely enough, when Ichigo leapt over the bar and gave the lever a pull, the original shelf returned, but this time there were no teabags or cookies. This side was empty, too.
Ichigo frowned. "Where do they go when you pull the lever?"
Orihime beckoned him to follow her, and then gestured out the window to a little, nondescript outhouse that sat directly behind Highwell Hall. "It used to be a storage space that just sat around, back in Mr Iwao's day, but Mr Ushoda had the builders put in a chute so the shelf would be connected to both buildings," she explained. "In the event of a raid, all we do is pull the lever and all the bottles go there."
"You're a genius," Ichigo told Hachi, who humbly shook his head.
"It was Miss Inoue who told me about the outhouse in the first place. I wouldn't have thought of it otherwise."
Ichigo nodded at both of them. "It's good. I like it." Then, "Make sure you train the bartenders, though. I don't want them playing around with this stuff."
Orihime laughed.
Next, she and Hachi led Ichigo down to the basement, where they'd spent a little bit of the budget on building a secret wine cellar. All you had to do was push a brick, hard, and the false wall would slide to reveal a dingy little room where they would store all their alcohol under cool temperatures.
"You a long lost relative of Harry Houdini's or something?" Ichigo asked Orihime dryly, poking his head into the cool cellar. Orihime flushed, but he could tell from the sheen in her eyes that she was proud of the building's new upgrades. It was not a matter of arrogance; she seemed to be under no illusions that the place belonged to her, considering the way she sent his accountant meticulous reports of where she was spending their money and how, weekly.
No, her pride lay in her ideas, her mind, her eye for detail and for business. It helped that she seemed social, having a good rapport with the construction workers, with Hachi, with the girls who worked for her, and of course, with Ichigo. The more Ichigo considered it, the more satisfied he was that he appointed her and not, perhaps, Chad or Uryu to this venture. While they had considerable talents, they were not half as skilled as Orihime in working with people.
All Ichigo could hope for was that she would not regret working with him.
Towards the end of the day, Hachi left, citing other commitments across the city. Ichigo, on the other hand, withdrew a bottle of liquor from one of the crates and gestured for Orihime to bring them two glasses.
"A toast?" She enquired, wiping them down inside out and pushing them in his direction.
"More like a taste test." He filled a quarter of both their glasses with the muddy brown liquid. He held back from any reaction, waiting for Orihime's lips to touch the rim of the cup. When she tilted her head back to drink, he watched her bare throat move, pale and slow.
She nearly retched.
"Oh my god, it's awful!" She slammed the glass down onto the counter carelessly and cried, fanning her mouth as if it would help alleviate the pungent taste of the liquid. Ichigo half-pitied her, but a part of him felt vindicated at taking her off guard. It was so often the other way around, he hadn't been able to resist the urge to prank her a little.
He quickly filled her glass with water — a truce. He smiled a little when she reached for it gratefully.
"It's moonshine," he explained. "Our distillers are doing the best they can, but we'll have to mask it with something sweeter — sodas, juices, that kind of thing."
"You're cruel." She pouted, though playfully, reaching into one of the unopened boxes for some kind of sweetener. Ichigo was relieved. He knew men who would draw a gun for less, and it was a breath of fresh air to be around someone so unpretentious for once.
"I'll put those on the account," she said when she returned, handing him the bottle so she could write down 'sweeteners' on a notepad she kept around.
Ichigo felt a side of his mouth perk up as he took it from her. "You don't have to account for every penny you spend, you know. I know at least three guys under me who are skimming a little off the top every week."
"You need to work with better people then, Mr Kurosaki," Orihime said sternly, but she was smiling.
I already am, he thought, clinking his glass to hers.
..
..
As with any kingdom, even Aizen's had a carefully crafted hierarchy. At the top was the man himself — formidable, untouchable, three steps ahead of everyone else. Beside but slightly beneath him were his trusted consiglieres, Tosen Kaname and Gin Ichimaru. Although Aizen never made a decision without their input, they were not, in fact, his de facto successors in the event of his death or prolonged absence.
That position went to Ulquiorra Cifer.
"Who the fuck does this kid think he is, huh?" Grimmjow growled, pacing back and forth around the parlor. "First he pushes Baraggan out and Aizen does nothing. Okay, sure, whatever, never liked the guy. Now the bastard takes East New York, and what does the boss do?" He slammed his fist against the table. "Nothing!"
Ulquiorra didn't flinch, but he was mildly annoyed by Grimmjow's aggressive outburst. Pathetic, he thought, watching the man have yet another tantrum about the boy named Ichigo Kurosaki. Out of the corner of his eye, Ulquiorra noticed Tier Harribel pick up her tea cup, as unbothered by Grimmjow's display as he was. Although he had no particular affection for Harribel, Ulquiorra respected the woman's restraint. She was, no doubt, curious about the boss's latest inaction regarding Kurosaki's moves in the east. Yet, she held her silence out of loyalty — a virtue Aizen had repeatedly praised in the past.
With Baraggan gone, Ulquiorra, Grimmjow and Harribel were the three remaining pillars of Aizen's institution. While Grimmjow and Harribel had numerous soldiers of their own, Ulquiorra had only one. He had no need for a family, no need for a foothold of his own. Although all four of them had been of equal rank, their goals were different and so would be their destinies. Where the others were eager to break free of Aizen's influence, Ulquiorra was eager to learn from the man, to pick up what he was putting down.
"Don Aizen has his reasons for what he does," Ulquiorra said coolly, setting aside his own confusion and doubt. "As his capo, you should fall in line."
"He promised me I'd get my own fucking family," Grimmjow spat. "Now I'm sitting here with my dick in my hand while some kid takes the East out from under me."
Ulquiorra stayed silent, but a part of him wondered if Aizen did this on purpose. Sometimes it seemed to Ulquiorra that Aizen was testing them. It wouldn't be the first time, and he was unsure of what the expectation was, what the outcome would be.
Ulquiorra was curious. It was time to see for himself exactly what kind of man Ichigo Kurosaki was — and why Aizen was so interested in him.