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Now You Feel Like Number None [Bleach Arrancar Quest]

Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
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Phigment said:
Well, Chichimaru supporters, it was a good try, but now is the time to abandon ship. Except for the captain, who, according to long-standing nautical tradition is expected to go down with the ship.

I am designating Amneiger as the captain, on the basis of alphabetical order, and leaving him or her to his or her grisly fate. For the rest of us, every man for himself.

[X] Contessa, the adorably rabbit-masked woman, whose abilities are unknown.
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Thanks, buddy. Thanks a lot. :V I shall name this desert island I have washed ashore upon after you and your mutinous treachery.

(Funnily enough, I don't do tactical voting, so I wouldn't have switched my vote in any case.)
 
Phigment said:
Well, Chichimaru supporters, it was a good try, but now is the time to abandon ship. Except for the captain, who, according to long-standing nautical tradition is expected to go down with the ship.

I am designating Amneiger as the captain, on the basis of alphabetical order, and leaving him or her to his or her grisly fate. For the rest of us, every man for himself.

[X] Contessa, the adorably rabbit-masked woman, whose abilities are unknown.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...



The ship is going down, and we're all going together.
 
It's been a while since I did one of those. I feel like focusing more on doing some art later rather than more writing. Anyways, have a big fight scene about an Adjuchas aiming to beat a Vasto Lorde (hmm, I wonder if something like that is happening in the quest). And here's a fun game: who's that pokemon? I'm experimenting to see if it's an easy way to come up with background Hollows.
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Tales of Hueco Mundo: The Hunter​

The Hunter was preparing. Preparing for what could be his last hunt.

For as long as he could remember, he had an urge inside, to stalk, to kill, to understand. All Hollows had them to an extent, as hunting is a part of living for their kind. But the Hunter chose to embrace and exemplify those feelings.

He lived and breathed the hunt. His purpose was to find and kill new prey. No creature was too big or too small, too strong or too weak, too hidden or in too big a group, to force him to abandon. No tactic was too cowardly, idiotic, degrading, or dangerous, to accomplish his goal.

He was tall and covered in a dark carapace. His slim skeletal frame hid crushing strength and lightning-fast speed. His mask was obscured by a large hood of quartz brambles it fashioned, letting others see only his six glowing eyes.

He had no special ability save for his incredible natural capabilities. Strength, speed, endurance, reflex, agility, senses. He has all of these in abundance for an adjuchas. But unlike others like him who revel in their power and disdain those that rely on tricks and abilities to survive, he decided great strength wasn't good enough. With his sharp mind and experience, he made his own tricks by building tools, weapons, and traps.

For the past months, he has been preparing for this hunt. He stockpiled dozens tools and weapons just for this prey, traveling far and wide to acquire the necessary materials. He stalked his prey extensively to get a measure of its abilities, power, behavior, territory, and movements. He scouted and prepared the place he had chosen to ambush his quarry in order to gain complete advantage of the field.

Feeling ready for the engagement, the Hunter took care of the last stage of preparations. He hunted weaker prey to ensure he was at full strength and the hunger was at bay. Then, he prepared the bait and hid among piles of bramble much like his hood that he had placed around the area. With nothing left to do, he waited.

Finally, the Vasto Lorde appeared.

It was small compared to most inhabitants of Hueco Mundo, as all of his ilk are. It walked with a regal gait, each step measured and composed. It looked as though it wore a red cloak which might have simply been part of its body. Its mask was rather simple save for its red eyes, two lines bisecting the pale material from the eye sockets and short, wide red horns at the back of its head.

Most would say it is foolish for an Adjuchas to hope to defeat a Vasto Lorde. They may be right. But to the Hunter, it was an irresistible challenge.

The Hunter knew the Vasto Lorde came this way every two weeks. A quiet walk alone away from its followers. They seemed to be a troupe of performers, and their leader carved two lines upon their masks like its own. Unwanted factors for the Hunter. This prey was to dangerous to be faced with its pack.

The bait caught the red demon's attention: a shining and polished pearl. In Hueco Mundo, there isn't much of interest, but it's also a boon since it's easy to become interesting. Perhaps that same boredom is why the demon was running some imitation of a circus. The Hunter thought about using food instead after waiting for the Vasto Lorde to grow hungry, but the Lords of Hueco Mundo are beings who have moved beyond the threat of regression and likely possessed willpower too great to be hampered by mere hunger. He even heard of one that willingly starved itself, so he thought better of it. He found that shiny object seen in an unexpected place is often enough in its simplicity.

The demon drew near to the pearl to get a better look, and when he was close enough, the first trap was triggered. A geyser a acid (obtained from a blob-like Hollow with whiskers on its mask that buried itself in the sand) burst forth to envelop the demon. It leapt away in time however, but it triggered a second trap upon landing. A volley of dart fired out (obtained from a hedgehog Hollow with long digging claws. The "darts" were not its quills but rather sharpened scales of its back that did not launch themselves and had to be pried off). It rebuffed them with its cloak save for a few that did nothing more than scratch it. But this was within the Hunter's expectations.

The Vasto Lorde's foot sunk into the sand, but it couldn't pull it out again. A special adhesive made by the Hunter trapped him (using the sap from a pitcher plant Hollow, the wax from a regal bee-beehive Hollow, and the secretion of a slippery draconic Hollow) with the added benefit of envenoming him as well, though nothing a being with such power couldn't easily shake off sometime later. Now that he was pinned, the Hunter threw a lance (snail medical knight Hollow: good offense and defense, but lack of speed was its downfall) form his camouflaged position. This actually managed to pierce the demon's shoulder and spill his blood, a deeper red than the rest of its body, and inject yet more venom that had been applied to the weapon. Success.

The Vasto Lorde had had enough of the traps at that moment, and unleashed a torrent of bright red flames from its body, glassing the surrounding area and destroying all other traps the Hunter had set. The lanky stalker himself leapt out of his hiding spot and into the air in time to avoid getting charred by the ensuing inferno.

The Hunter lands and faces off against the Vasto Lorde. He is bigger, well fed and rested, armed with a veritable arsenal of weapons and armor, and has been preparing and studying his quarry for months. His opponent meanwhile was caught off guard, knows nothing of what it is about to fight, and has already been poisoned and wounded in a way that will slow its movements and restrict the motion of its right arm.

Those that didn't know better would not think the the Hunter was the underdog in this match.

The Hunter stared down at the demon, observing its every move to counterattack. After a moment, the Vasto Lorde did something that he hadn't seen in all the time watching it from afar, nor expected it to do. It bowed. It was a short, respectful bow that was reminiscent of a performer to their audience. The Hunter briefly wondered if it's bowing because its interest has been picked.

Only briefly, however. It clutched a paper-thin blade tied to a stick (a very light Hollow with a body that resembled folded paper but with surprising attack power. It's mask resembled a paper fortune teller) and swung at the bowing demon with his incredible strength. He aimed for the neck, but it brought up its arm in time and suffered a deep cut along its limb. It screeched in outrage and attacked the Hunter immediately. As its claws lashed out, he barely brought up a shield of rocky plates (rhinoceros Hollow) in time to block. Or at least cushion the blow, as the Vasto Lorde tore right through it and still had enough force to crack the Hunter's natural carapace and send him cramming into a glassed dune.

The Hunter gets up and in his now free hand takes out a new weapon as fast as he can. He grasps a wicked scimitar (provided from the tail of a snake) and just barely parries another strike from the demon already on him. His new blade is shattered in the process, however.

He sees a small red glow from the demon's other hand. He recognizes it well from his extensive observation of his prey, and wastes no efforts taking the appropriate action. A plume of red flames struck where the Hunter played, but he had already rolled out of the way before it manifested. The demon tried to burn the Hunter again, only to miss once more as he anticipates the attack. The Hunter leaps over the Vasto Lorde and struck its back with the paper blade.

The demon backs away and does something the Hunter has rarely seen. He swells like a puffer fish. The Hunter would've found this amusing if it wasn't for the sudden onslaught of fireballs from the Vasto Lorde's body. He found that he could not get near his immobile opponent while all of his attention was on dodging the multitude of red burning wisps. Forced back, the Hunter took refuge behind a large stone. As the bombardment of fireballs continued, the Hunter dug his fingers into the rocky surface and lifted the boulder. Still holding it in front of him, he walked forward towards the puffed up demon. Once he was close enough, he threw the boulder at the Vasto Lorde, knocking him away and stopping the attack.

The Hunter pulled at his previous blade again as well as a new one. He wielded a zanpakuto. Well, one attached to a pole, since the blade was too small for him. He also knew that with the death of its original owner, it was just an asauchi now without the full hollow-slaying potential it had while the shinigami it belonged to was alive. Still, even as it was currently, the sight of it had a psychological factor for Hollows that the Hunter was all too happy to exploit.

Before he cut into the demon, now back to normal size and just getting up, it dissolved into a swarm of small bat-like creatures. They flew around and past the Hunter, and he knew they would reform behind him, but he wouldn't have time to turn around and effectively block. His instincts, finally honed through the centuries, told him to sidestep left immediately. He moved and he briefly felt the heat of a flaming claw swiping the air next to him. He then rammed the paper sword into the Vasto Lorde's foot.

The Hunter stabbed at his foe's right side, but the Vasto Lorde's reflexes were still too quick despite the poison still spreading in its body and injured shoulder impeding its arm movement. It brought it arm up and let the soul cutter pierce through a previous wound, completely uncaring of the weapon brought against it, then grabbed the Hunter's arm. It easily broke the limb, then lifted him in the air and slammed him into the vitreous ground. Still holding on to him, it did so again while pulling out the blade from his arm. It tossed it on the floor with the other dropped blade and shattered them with its foot. Its claw lashed out into the quartz hood and grabbed the Hunter's face, slowly squeezing to crush his head and already destroying half of his eyes. One misstep and greatly overestimating how a Vasto Lorde would react to a zanpakuto, and the situation looked dire for the Hunter.

With his good arm, he pulls out a dagger (simply carved from bone this time) laced with agony inducing toxins. He plunges it into the demon's wound and the pain causes it to let go. The Hunter puts distance between them and from his hood snatches a tube and blow darts. He needs to lead his quarry to the next part of his trap. He ran full sprint, haphazardly firing behind him. He did not care if it had any effect, he just needed to ensure he was still pursued and avoid the streams of fire. Even with an injured foot, the demon was right behind him.

They were soon out of the glass and into the sand once more. A single quartz tree with the beaches on its right side broken off told the Hunter they were in the right place. He turned around to face the Vasto Lorde once more, barely ducking another flaming blast in time.

That's when an eruption triggered right from beneath the demon. It was only somewhat singed and scratched from the blast, but was distracted enough for the Hunter to retrieve new gear from behind the tree. New weapons and armor to finish the hunt in a second booby trapped location.

He donned a vest made from the tentacles of a starfish-urchin hybrid Hollow (they folded around its body like a protective dome, and where incredibly toxic). In his still functioning arm, he held a hammer (originally the leg of a robotic-looking quadruped Hollow).

The Vasto Lorde, wary of more traps, prepares to glass this location as well, but the Hunter knows the tells on its fire abilities and interrupts it. He smashes down with his hammer, stunning the demon. It recovers quickly though and sends out another spout of fire at the Hunter. But this time, he doesn't dodge. He lets the stream of crimson flames strike him square in the chest. The vest had great resistance to both physical and spiritual attacks, and barely managed to protect against the scarlet eruption. The Hunter could close the distance and strike while his foe was wide open.

Before the hammer landed, the Vasto Lorde dissolved again. The swarm gained distance, but the Hunter knew which creature served as the being's core. It was the one with glowing red aura and eyes. However, the swarm was too agile to reliably hit, especially with three of his six eyes missing, but he had a solution to that. He fell back to the tree and retrieved a gem. It originated from another starfish Hollow (the gem was on top and the mask was underneath the body) that had a peculiar Cero related ability that the Hunter managed to replicate. He charged his own Cero, a classic red orb, behind the gem and fired it. Instead of shattering, the jewel caught the beam and refracted it, halving its power but spreading the beam over a wide area. One way to hit a small mobile target was with a area of effect, and that's exactly what happened as the whole swarm was struck and the demon reformed to crash into he dunes bellow.

The Hunter tossed the gem and grabbed the hammer once more. He burst forward towards the Vasto Lorde, who recovered before he could reach it, but not before he entered close quarters. Unfortunately, the Hunter was trained to hunt, not duel. He no longer had surprise on his side, and even weakened the demon was no animal unlike lesser Hollows who may walk the line. Compared to its stalker's straightforward animalistic style of battle, it was far more controlled and efficient. It easily parried the hammer, broke the Hunter's left leg with a kick, and as he was forced to kneel it went for the killing blow by spearing it with its arm.

Or at least it tried to. The Vasto Lorde underestimated the Hunter's protection and how weakened it had been. It broke through the vest, but it still stopped the worst of the damage, and the spines further poisoned it too. The Hunter knew he was not only weaker but less skilled in single combat, and counted on it to provide an opening. He swung the hammer with all his might, bludgeoning the demon square in the face and striking its mask, cracking it. The Vasto Lorde was sent reeling, right into a hidden spiked pit trap (made from a scarecrow-cactus Hollow). The spikes barely broke the skin, but that was all that was needed to further poison it.

The Vasto Lorde turned into a swarm again, but this time the Hunter knew it was an escape attempt. It had finally had enough and decided to retreat. Normally if such a powerful being decides to leave, than that's that. Few could force them to remain. But the Hunter was prepared for that. He dropped the hammer and withdrew a net. It was made from a Hollow of course, one that resembled a black tree of tentacles with a glowing mask jutting in every direction. It also had a powerful electric charm that the net made from its tentacles still carried. He hurled the net at the swarm, and most were shocked back to the ground, including the core. The Vasto Lorde reformed once more.

The Hunter limped towards his downed target. He would finish it with his claws and teeth, his own natural weapons. He made his way forward and raised his talons high as the demon picked itself off the sand. He stared into the Vasto Lorde's red eyes for the fatal blow.

Fear. He suddenly felt overpowering and unnatural terror. Some part of the Hunter's mind understood right away that it was one of the Vasto Lorde's abilities that he's never seen before, or otherwise never correctly spotted. Some of the Vasto Lorde's victims may have been affected by it rather than simply fearing its power on principle. The Hunter would not know how to tell the difference unless he had previously observed the Hollows it ran into as well. It matters not presently. Before the King of Nightmares, his mind and actions are out of his conscious control.

But the Hunter still had instincts. He remembers fear, from his days as a Gillian and a newborn Adjuchas. From those days when he was hunted by those stronger than himself. He needed to ingrain responses deep into his very soul to survive, and master his own fight-or-flight reaction. He impressed that freezing up meant death in any scenario, and escape was unlikely with a disabled leg. Fight was the only sensible option.

The Hunter's claws did not stop and raked across the King of Nightmare's chest, slashing into the organs within. A mortal blow had finally been dealt. Blood pooled around the demon singling that its death was now all but assured.

But that did not mean the Hunter had achieved victory just yet. The Vasto Lorde swiped its claws and slashed through his enemy's unbroken leg, bringing him to the ground. He took hold of the Hunter's throat and opened its mouth. It was clear it meant to devour a portion of its killer to deny him any ascension, as a final blow.

Mistake.

The Hunter never cared about evolution for as long as he followed the path of the hunt. He didn't undertook this one with any long term goal either. The Hunter is therefore not deterred by any such threats. He lashes out with his claws straight into the demon's open mouth, and charged a Cero. The beam blasted the Vasto Lorde point blank, burning light surging from its jaw, and once it died down it let go of the Hunter and fell to the ground once and for all. The Hunter pulled back its arm, which had a single tooth lodged in.

The Vasto Lorde wheezed out its last breaths. It asked the Hunter how he had managed to beat it all on his own. The Hunter replied that he relied on many things to accomplish this feat. Planning, skill, luck, resources, improvisation, timing, determination. Even power and speed for what it was worth against it, just to close the distance as much as possible and gain every little bit of survivability against a superior foe. Every little bit was used for all it was worth. He wagered the sum of his being, his learning, and his instincts in this hunt.

The demon closed its eyes and perished, and the Hunter was alone. He would soon eat the corpse after resting a little while. He thought he saw a single bat like creature flying away in the distance, but decided it had to be an autotroph and leaving it at that, specifically refusing to look more into it. He couldn't catch it in his current state anyways.

He thought for a moment about what he should do next. He had realized his ultimate hunt. Maybe he could travel far away to look for new prey? He had no home or kingdom to tie him down, after all. Nor family, subjects, or worshipers to look after. He was a lone hunter, having never encountered another who walked the same path with a similar drive and passion.

And he had a thought. Maybe he couldn't encounter one like himself, but could inspire someone to follow his footsteps and become a True Hunter.

_-_

Centuries later

A spider is running across the desert. But then, his leg hits an object buried in the dunes. He stops and digs it out, revealing a book. He opens the journal.

"Do you feel as I feel? Do you too have the desire to hunt, to study, to slay? Then I shall impart a portion of my vast experience and knowledge to you. The rest, you will have to learn yourself, by using this gift and killing your quarries. As you fight and grow, more of the journal will be deciphered and more of my knowledge will be made available to you. Go forth and hunt!"

-El Cazador

The spider found this interesting and carried it with him. He thought he might show it to his little silent friend later.
 
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CXVIII. There Is No Heart Without You
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    • CXVIII. There Is No Heart Without You



    You think back to decades-old training.

    To Kaien Shiba's words, your mentor, your friend, your inspiration when all your friends were gone from your life.

    "A Zanpakutou is a reflection of one's soul, Rukia. It is forged out of our innermost nature, our true self as revealed in battle."

    "That is deep, Master Kaien."

    He chuckles, rolls his shoulders. His dark brows rise in amusement. "This is why people who have Trick-Type Zanpakutous are universally assholes, and you should preemptively punch them."

    "...even if they are our allies, Master Kaien?"

    "Especially if they are your allies. Can't trust them. Have you     met Shunsui?"

    "I… I see." He was so unlike Ichigo there. They look alike, but Ichigo is always scowling, alway serious, always grumpy. Kaien was never serious. Not until… the end.

    "Also, the label of 'Power-Type' Zanpakutou is propaganda. Everyone knows Elemental-Type Zanpakutou have the highest raw power of all classes, but no, just because you can't do fancy sword tricks and are instead busy     crushing someone under a hundred atmosphere's worth of watery doom you aren't a 'power-type.'"

    "...thank you for your wisdom, Master Kaien."

    "The point is, never fight Trick-Types if you can avoid it, and dunk on Power-Types whenever given the chance, as they are smug jerks."

    You frown. That doesn't sound right. "...wait, Master Kaien, isn't your wife's sword a Power-Type?"

    "How do you know Miyako's Zanpakutou?" he asks, tilting his head. "You've never trained together." He grins broadly. "Rukia, are you cheating on me?"

    Your stomach clenches into something too small to see. "I'm not stalking her," you blurt out. Too fast. But he doesn't seem to notice or care. You pray it was that he didn't notice.

    "Fair enough. Wanna come over for dinner tonight? She's making gumbo."

    "Yes oh please yes."


    As usual, your past is completely useless. You rub your forehead in frustration and certainly not the recollection of mortification and look at the so-called gatekeepers again.

    The bird-masked woman could be your best bet. A straightforward opponent, even the strongest of them, would play well to your strengths, but… You shudder at the memory of fighting Ilforte Grantz. He was a bull, nothing but sheer strength and resilience, and while you did manage to hurt him, you were quite simply losing the fight. That woman is likely to be weaker, but power against power has too much chance to leave you injured for the rest of your mission.

    And the rabbit-masked woman… You look at her and she gives you an arrogant grin, slender fingers brushing her beautiful, golden scepter. It's… intimidating, even with the adorable bunny hat on her head. And Ururu warned you her powers might be exotic. Too much chance of 'losing' an unfair battle just because you didn't know her abilities going in.

    You raise your finger and point resolutely at the red-haired Arrancar currently chatting in a low-voice with her blue-haired twin.

    "I challenge you, Arrancar."

    The woman is cut off in the middle of her sentence and blinks, turning a surprised look to you.

    "Who, me?" she says pointing at her chest. "Really?" It's like she can't believe her ears.

    "Will you refuse my challenge?" you shout. Her powers are elemental, and her color scheme is red - if your guess is correct, she would have some kind of fire ability, and given her low reiatsu compared to yours, your icy sword will be a perfect bet.

    "Sorry, nope," she says. Without a hint of pride.

    You stare for a baffled second, your finger still raised.

    "But… That's the gamble. That's your boss's offer. One of us against one of you."

    "I don't fight without Yin," she says casually. "It's a sister thing."

    "Wait, your twin sister is called Yin?" Hiyori says, frowning. "Please don't tell me…"

    "Yes, I am Yang," the red one says with a grin and a mock bow. "Pleased to meetcha."

    "For God's sake," Hiyori mutters under her breath. "Why do I have to meet these idiots? Why not Mashiro? She'd like this!"

    "Niña, please," Dordonni says in a long-suffering tone. "Don't be difficult. I set the terms, you must abide by them."

    "I'm not fighting without my sis," Yin says stubbornly.

    "Fine then!" you shout, lowering your hand and grasping the hilt of your sword. "I'll take you both on!"

    "Wait what-" Tatsuki starts wide-eyed.

    "You're going to fight us both?" Yin says, letting out a high-pitched laugh. "On your own? Who even are you?"

    "I am Kuchiki Rukia," you say in your most solemn tone, "of the Kuchiki Clan, Shinigami of the Thirteenth Division, and a Shinigami…"

    You grin and draw your sword, her edge glistening under the chandelier's glow.

    "...is never alone."

    There is a silent pause.

    "I don't get it," Yin says flatly.

    "She's talking about her Zanpakutou," the bird-masked woman says, rolling her eyes.

    "Yeah, so what?" Yin says. "She's got a sword, big deal! So do we!"

    "Shinigami Zanpakutou have spirits," the bird says with exasperation. "They can talk to them and draw power from a personal bond."

    "Wait, what?" Yang exclaims. "That's bullshit!"

    "It's unfair!" Yin adds.

    "It doesn't change anything!" the bird says with growing irritation. "Our swords are still just as powerful or more, we just don't have some kind of… voice in our head! It's probably just distracting, anyway."

    "Are you quite done?" you ask, but are completely ignored.

    "Yeah, except ours!" Yang says ruefully. "We don't get proper Zanpakutou!"

    "You don't?" you say, frowning.

    "Yeah," Yin says rolling her eyes—then does finger-quotes. "Because we were 'experimental models.'"

    "So called 'failures,'" Yang spits.

    You groan.

    "Can we start fighting now?"

    "You know what? Yeah!" Yang shouts. "You think you're tough shit, can fight us both together? 'syour funeral!"

    The two Arrancars jump off the balcony of the second level, landing on their knees in the grand hall, the many dim lamps casting fractal shadows around them.

    "This feels against the spirit of the gamble," Dordonni grumbles, standing between them.

    "Look at it this way, Arrancar," you say with a dark grin. "I can't trust your gamble. If I beat one of your soldiers one on one, you might think it was luck, a poor match-up, you might not believe in your defeat. You might decide to attack us anyway. Or just nurse your wounded honor with bitter regrets. If I beat two of your soldiers at once, you will have no choice but to acknowledge the superiority of my group, and that it would be suicide to fight us all."

    Dordoni sighs.

    "I suppose that is a fair argument. But remember, niña—you chose this. If you lose, there will be no allowance made for the foolishness of having fought two opponents alone. You will have to go back, or face all of us."

    "As I told you, Arrancar," you say fiercely, grasping your sword in both hands and holding it in a high front guard, "a Shinigami is never alone."

    "As you will," Dordoni says, and with one kick disappears from the floor to take place among his soldiers, looking darkly at the scene below.

    "Rukia, I understand if you don't want to put us in danger," Tatsuki whispers above your shoulder, "but we'll be in just as bad a spot if you get yourself defeated or seriously injured because you wanted to fight two people alone. Let someone help you, I don't know, ask Hiyori!"

    "Not it," Hiyori says immediately.

    "Then ask Chichimaru!"

    "I'm sorry what," the Arrancar says flatly. "Absolutely not. I offered to guide you, not fight for you."

    "Enough of this," you say firmly. "I know what I'm doing."

    You have no idea what you're doing.

    The snowy tramp should shut her mouth if she knows what's good for her. And she should stop speaking down to you like a disappointed noblewoman.

    Didn't you just say you would be fighting by my side?

    "We should trust Rukia," Orihime says with a wise nod. "She wouldn't do this if she didn't have a plan."

    "Thank you, Orihime," you say with relief.

    "After that time she snuck out of Ichigo's house thinking it'd be better if she nobly and quietly sacrificed herself and nearly everyone died and Soul Society imploded because of it, she'll have learned to think twice before grandstanding like this!"

    "Thank you Orihime," you hiss.

    The two Arrancars ahead of you are smirking, already spotting your uncertainty like sharks might blood. You step forward into the improvised arena of this lower level, wide curving stairs your ring, and the twins walk in unison, a strange harmony to their footsteps. Red-haired Yang draws a straight sword, blue-haired Yin a whip; your eyes flick from one to the other, already struggling to keep track of two opponents.

    Focus. You take a deep breath, grasping your sword tighter.

    'Your sword.' She has a name. You shouldn't be so reluctant to use it. After all, it is beautiful—as beautiful as she is. Isn't that the reputation you've earned in Soul Society? Even as an unranked Shinigami, your sword was famous. 'The most beautiful blade,' they called it.

    Always about the sword. Never about you.

    Focus. Take a deep breath, grasping the sword inside your heart.

    You feel it, that cold ice-water pulsing along with your blood, this winter spring born deep within your chest.

    So you call on me again.

    Your lips curl into a snarl. What kind of a statement is that? You only could not because you had lost your powers entirely. Ever since you regained them you have been freely using her against the Arrancars…

    Ah, yes. Using me. Such a beautiful word, wreathed with thorns. To wield a person, like a tool. But you never hear my voice, do you? You do not listen. She pauses, just to sharpen the edge of what she says next. You do not care.

    You need her. You need all of your power. All of her power. You need...

    Use me. Need me. But never love me. Isn't that the way of swords and men? Even though the sword, ah, the sword must always love. Lest it betray. Lest it slip out of the uncaring hand...

    You grit your teeth at the cold breath caressing your throat, at the mournful whisper. It is always like this, always that dance in which you must beg for her strength as she laments your lack of love. The manipulative little…

    If there is one word that can't be applied to me, my love, the voice says with the laughter of the deepest blizzards, the smirk of the sun fading behind clouds, the arrogance of the untamed, barren peak, it's 'little.'

    Her power bursts through you. Dams of propriety, embankments of noble education, channels of harsh childhood in the street, all the defense mechanisms you set for yourself, the things that help you keep others at bay, protecting your heart, are shattered and flooded and, in a snap, it all freezes over.

    You open your mouth and release your breath as a cloud of mist.

    "Dance, Sode no Shirayuki!"

    Your body and blade are engulfed in pure, blinding white light, your ordinary katana scatters like frost to reveal her true self, a pure white blade, single-edged and razor-sharp, her ornate hilt longer than most, fit to hold both your hands, inviting.

    She laughs, she laughs as her figure towers inside your reiatsu, her white robes spilling over you, her smile in the sky, her delicate, uncalloused hands gently laying on your own, keeping them steady on the sword. In that moment, filled with her power, you know an instant of perfect focus, of peace, of unity.

    You know I will answer, she whispers, I always will. Even if at the end of the night, you always sneak away. So afraid to stay. To look upon my face.

    Why is she like this?

    Isn't it your fault?

    Ignore the shards of ice driving into your heart. Focus out, to the world outside your mind.

    The Arrancars have stopped walking.

    "Why's she releasing?" Yang asks, confused. "We haven't even started fighting."

    "Shinigami don't heal when they release, sis," Yin says. "They don't really get anything from holding back at the start of a fight."

    "Wait, for real?" The red-head says, her confusion only intensifying.

    "Yup."

    "They don't have Hierro and they don't heal when they release? How do they even survive to be upteen-many centuries old?"

    "Because," Yin says with a mean smirk, "they mostly fight base Hollows, and base Hollows are bitches."

    "Word," Yang says, high-fiving her sister. There's a flash of energy between their hands as they touch.

    You can feel them, two shapes of heat (one much hotter than the other) moving through the cold air of your aura, that white-tinged moonlight. So easy to track, you could do it with your eyes closed…

    Yang moves from your left, her straight sword extended into a thrust, and you sweep the air with lazy grace, easily deflecting her one-handed strike with your greater strength. That is the opening Yin wanted, the air roaring with the crack of her whip, curling around your feet.

    "Shu," you whisper, lifting a hand from your sword. A pulse of reiatsu, not enough to hurt, to slam back an opponent—just enough to snap the light thread of the whip away from your feet before they are caught. In the instant where Yang expected you to be off-balanced and open for a sword-stroke you lock with her blade, push it to the side, step in a hair's breadth from her. Her eyes widen in fear, you smile, and Sode no Shirayuki dances, the white ribbon at her pommel drawing beautiful circles in the air. One step, and you are past Yang.

    The moon shines upon the ground beneath her feet.

    Our first dance, your sword says in a melancholy voice.

    "White Moon," you whisper.

    The moon of earth seeks to reach the moon of heaven. The white circle you drew on the ground becomes ice, and that ice surges in a perfect, smooth pillar; the red-haired Arrancar screams in panic as she is engulfed, then is frozen in silence. The hall groans as the pillar strikes the ceiling, tremors raining down dust and pebbles, the chandelier-orb swaying harshly.

    You sigh, and turned to the face the blue Yin, but you find no anger in her eyes, only wary defiance.

    Watch out!

    You dodge on instinct, a kick to the left a split-second before your pillar explodes into a blast of steam and a hurling fireball hits the ground where you stood, spraying burning stone all around you, sharp fragments slicing your uniform and the skin of your arms. You slide away on the floor with another kick, tracking the core of the steam cloud for Yang's next attack—

    She is the fireball, stupid girl!

    The warning saves your life as the smoke and embers of what seemed to be a mere fiery spell winking out suddenly coalesce into another fireball streaking along the ground, laughing with a crackling voice. You leap into the air, raising Sode no Shirayuki to your shoulder and gathering her strength—

    And the electrified whip hits you straight in your exposed back. You open your mouth on a soundless scream, hands squeezing your sword so hard they might shatter it, your whole body a spasm, your mind filled only by the sudden smell of your burnt clothes. It ends in an instant, as quick as it struck, but you tumble down from above and the laughing fireball greets you with its embrace. Searing light fills your vision, a withering caress brushes all of your skin, turning it dry and taut, and you kiss the ground with your shoulder, a third pain pulsing in a wave through your left side.

    You don't close your eyes. As you fall on your knees you plant your sword in the ground to keep yourself from toppling, teeth clenched into a snarl.

    "That's right, bitch!" Yang shouts joyfully, reforming out of the flames, laughing. "After that asshole Luppi almost killed us all, I learned how to transform even while I'm paralyzed! Sucks to be you!"

    "Sis," Yin says with a tired look, snapping her whip back to hand, "she didn't see that fight. She didn't even know our powers were supposed to not work when we can't move. That was just blind bad luck on her part."

    "Oh," Yang says, her voice falling. "Well, she's screwed anyway."

    Burning cotton does not smell too bad, you think. More acrid is that taste of ozone on your tongue, sharp and bitter.

    You breathe and look at your hand. The red, wrinkled marks on your wrists and the back of your palms… They don't look as bad as they could. Your reiatsu is protecting you to some extent, or…

    You blink and see her, feel her. Her hands touching your skin, cooling it like fresh water, her translucent fingers slipping through your hands, making your body slower, colder, sheltered from the heat. You are the snowy peak. Her chin rests on your shoulder, her long hair tangled around your neck. You don't look at her.

    You can't look at her. You never could.

    Didn't you make me this way?

    Not by choice.

    "We got you down in two hits," Yin says in a bored voice, curled whip resting on her shoulder. "You wanna forfeit now so you avoid death on top of embarrassment?"

    "Shut up," you say coldly. "I'm talking."

    They both stare confused at you.

    "I'm sorry?"

    Her voice… Her advice, thrown in the moment, saving your life… You never heard her like this before.

    You've never let me into your heart. You still don't. You're colder than me. This is so much less than what we could do, together…

    Her hands on your cheek, turning your breath to mist. You stand up, draw your sword from the ground, hold it before you. Her lips so close to your ear.

    You can't love her. She is only a sword.

    But I love you.

    Then she must despair. And if to return her love is the key to your true strength, then you will forever remain weak.

    "You made me this way!"

    She howls like the blizzard and is before you, a towering silhouette as pale as snow, blinding you to the world. You do not look at her face. You will not. Cannot. Your teeth ache from the surge of power behind her, and you throw up a guard on reflex. The whip cuts through her misty form, and snarls around your blade. Any smile of victory is wiped away in the pain. Lightning crawls up your arms, scalding like heated nails. You smell burning hair.

    It surprised you once but it won't get you twice. It's just like Byakurai and you've powered through that spell before. You scream and wrestle your nerves into compliance, pull hard on the whip and rip it out of the Arrancar's hands. You can't see her face through the pain and the snow-blindness, but you feel the weapon dissolve into sparks, expect the attack. She turns into a lightning bolt and scours the ground black, hits the wall behind you but you're already gone. A flash-step took you above, to the heights of the room.

    Your feet land on the glowing orb of the glass chandelier, several feet wide. You blink away tears and lash out blindly at the metal wire holding it up.

    The chandelier comes crashing down and you ride it through its fall, only jumping off at the last moment. It almost crushes Yang; the redhead dodges back with a yelp of surprise, shards of knife-edged glass bouncing off her iron skin. You breathe in, wrestling your strength out of your splintered sword-soul as she howls. Yang senses it and becomes fire again, gold and red swirling towards, crowned with whirling pearls of molten glass. You raise your sword and thrust.

    "Second Dance, White Ripple!"

    The wave of ice streaks out with your blow, engulfing a whole span of the room, spreading out in a cone that ebbs with the sharp waves of a tormented sea freezing in a second. Yang hits it head-on without expecting it and half the wave sublimates into vapor but she does not make it through. As the front side of the wave crumbles the Arrancar skids along the ground in her human form, coughing, disoriented by forcible reversion to her weaker form.

    They're nowhere as strong as Ilforte had been. You'd be dead already if you'd been facing two of him. It's a comforting thought.

    You raise your sword for a finishing stroke but Yin is already back, a dancing ball of blue lightning flying above you and streaking down. You twist your stroke into a parry but her insubstantial form passes straight through you, a spear of lightning through the chest, spasmic pain shaking your limbs, you feel your heart stop beating for a second…

    She's gone, you're free, she's coming back, lightning-legs dancing along the ground as she circles the room to come back at you. You stumble, your limbs flaring up with burns of nervous distress, your muscles refusing to work as they should.

    In that moment of stunned paralysis you blink, see Yang pushing herself up, see the mess you've made of the room.

    You take one flash-step, a hopeless dodge; you may be faster than lightning but only for the blink of an eye, as your shaking feet hit the water-stained ground the blue bolt is already catching up, striking from above again. You raise your blade, grit your teeth…

    She comes down on you and you dash back, another flash-step, and she hits the stone.

    Hits the volumes of melted ice shrouded in mist.

    Yin's lightning form stretches against her will, drawn and quartered by conductivity, and she snaps back to her human shape with a shriek of pain.

    Are you trying to show that you don't need me?

    You do. God, you do need her, and you wish you could have her aid, have her trust, you wish you could…

    Look at me.

    You wish you could.

    You pant, tears of pain and stress running down your cheek, shrugging off the numbness of electric shock. But the time it takes you to recover from strenuous motion while half-paralyzed is the time it took Yang to recover from her own shock. She roars, crossing the room in a flash, and her sword is wreathed in flame. You block her first attack, feint to her left, swipe to her left and finally cut through that iron skin, drawing blood.

    The wound is too shallow. She closes the step and you can't follow through, must guard yourself, white sword blocking her burning blade inches from your face. The heat pulses in waves across your hands, your arms, melting away your snowy power. Her eyes gleam with hatred, with pride. You see in her the desire to prove her worth, to…

    Neither of you are alone.

    "Come on, Rukia!" Tatsuki shouts from what feels like miles away. "She probably never even learned fencing! Her technique is garbage!"

    "You need a helping hand down there, Yang?" the rabbit-masked woman says with a lofty chuckle.

    Strength floods back in your arm, and your reiatsu blasts out, a rush of icy wind that slaps the Arrancar in the face. Her eyes widen in panic, her grip loosens. You groan and grasp your sword in both hands, pushing away the fiery blade. Before she can bring up her guard you slash her across the chest, a long tear in her white shirt, scraping against her Hierro. The cut is shallow but her pale skin turns blue with frostbite all along the red line.

    You would sooner find strength in your friends, than in me. Than in you.

    The whip strikes the inside of your knee. Lightning stuns you again, needles of pain snapping shut around your legs, one limb gone numb. You collapse to your knee and Yang closes back in, tears on her face. You slash at her but she has the advantage of height by far. Fire and steel bite your shoulder, a two-pronged assault of pain, sharp and whole. Blood stains your black uniform.

    "White Ripple!" you scream, drawing a sweeping cut at nothing. The dance is clumsy, half-formed, tripping over its own feet; a directionless wave of ice erupts on all sides of you and collapses in a second. The only goal was to buy yourself time, however, and in this it succeeds; Yin and Yang bounce away from you, landing a few yards away with two splashes of cold water.

    You almost topple but catch yourself on one hand, the other still trying to hold your Zanpakutou, even here on your knees, even bleeding.

    She is there.

    She towers above you, shaped out of mists and grief and nightmares.

    You would rather die than look at me?

    "I didn't choose for you to look this way," you whisper.

    But you choose to avert your eyes from me.

    "It's… Too hard…" You say, your throat shaking, tears streaming that are no longer just pain, just stress…

    You think back past the training, past the lessons, past the jokes.

    To Kaien Shiba's words, your mentor, your friend, your inspiration when all your friends were gone from your life.


    "You said that a Zanpakutou is a reflection of one's inner soul, our innermost self."

    You spoke because the silence hurt; because it let you hear her footsteps, her voice humming a song as she walks through the house behind you. You speak because you must not turn back. You stare resolutely ahead of you, out towards the beautiful pastoral landscape. The sun is setting, as is the food in your belly, Miyako's delicious cooking. It lends you a sense of peace against the ache of being there. Of knowing she is but a shout away. Forr now you sit on Kaien's porch and watch the fields and the trees that stretch to the end of the world, of this world.

    "I did," Kaien says, his hands clasped behind his head, relaxed and carefree as he always seems.

    "Does that mean," you say, then hesitate, considering the statement, "does that mean that you can know someone's true personality by seeing their Shikai?"

    He frowns, given pause by this unexpected question, and scratches his unruly black hair.

    "Well, in most cases by the time you see someone's Shikai you'll already have a good idea of who they are. And if not, it's dangerous to draw conclusions too quickly, but… it helps. I know I ragged on Trick-types earlier but, say, if someone's power is to create illusions, they are probably cunning and skilled at deceit—but you shouldn't assume that this makes them a bad person. Just look at Captain Aizen."

    You nod slowly, forehead creased deeply in thought.

    "So someone with a Shikai like a giant hammer," you say, "would probably be a very blunt, very headstrong person; but that doesn't mean they are necessarily a brutal thug. They could be a loud and boisterous friend to everyone they meet."

    "Exactly!" Kaien says, grinning. "Man, you've always been my sharpest student."

    "What about us, then?" you ask, turning to him with earnest curiosity.

    "What do you mean?"

    "Us elemental types," you say. "It's hard to make pithy statements about… forces of nature."

    "That's a good point," he answers, nodding. His Zanpakutou—still in its trident shape from your earlier practice—is swung across his shoulder like a traveler's staff. "For instance, you got ice powers, but you're not cold as a person. Maybe… It could represent, ah, your noble education, you know? How you feel it's stifling, a fragile disguise."

    You laugh out loud at this, and he gives you a betrayed look.

    "I'm sorry," you say, repressing a chuckle—and the instinct to draw a fan to cover your mouth, accursed Kuchiki etiquette, you haven't owned a fan in two years, "it's just… I think you're just projecting your own attitude towards the noble families onto me, Looord Shiba."

    "Oh please," he says, rolling his eyes. "Don't start."

    "Apologies. It's just… not how I feel about my own powers, I guess?"

    "Sure," he says, then his expression turns unusually thoughtful as he stares to the setting sun. "I guess… I guess all those who wield elemental swords share something. It's not really about silly metaphors like ice being cold and fire hot. It's… We have something inside us. Something…     raw. Untamed. Vital and feral. It's wild and dangerous and we have to wrestle with it; to keep it from destroying all that's around us… or ourselves."

    You say nothing. Your hands are joined together, clasped to keep them from shaking. He looks at you, and you think he will see right through you, but his smile is kind.

    "Does that sound like something you can relate to?"

    You nod wordlessly. For a moment the two share this silence of mutual understanding, of having that tie binding you, bringing you closer.

    You were wrong. He was not always joking. He was simply earnest and sincere, all the time, easily, effortlessly. And sometimes it felt as if he refused to take the world seriously but when he spoke from the heart… You just pushed away these memories. Chose to remember him as someone carefree and irresponsible because it made the memory of these days simpler, happier, more childish.

    And perhaps, in the part of you that is a cold and frozen blade, because it let you think he didn't deserve     her.

    And because you feel you share something in that moment, and because you're a dumb fool, you say too much.

    "Is that what you find in your wife?" you ask without really realizing it, still looking at the horizon.

    "...I'm sorry?" he asks, confused, and you start, realizing what you just said. The words spill out of your mouth unbidden even though all you want is to swallow them back.

    "I just meant… Her sword is one that empowers… I was just thinking… Maybe part of why you love her is that your soul is the rush of the wave, but hers is strong, graceful, can swim in the tide, can help… Help you find your… center."

    Your voice falls and your face sinks, looking down at your hands. But Kaien, sweet Kaien, just smiles with amusement.

    "That's not wrong, actually. Like I said, sharpest of my students! Are you sure you're not stalking her?"

    He means it in jest and you laugh as you should, as you are expected to, no matter how much his innocent words hurt you.

    "It's your fault!" you say with a veil of amusement as ornate and fragile as one of these paper fans you no longer have. "You're always late! I just… watch her practice sometimes when I'm waiting for you. She… Her sword and technique are beautiful."

    "Yeah…" he says with a long, wistful sigh. "I really lucked out with her. Every day when I wake up next to her I feel like I have had too much good fortune and life is bound to take it back soon."

    "I should go home," you say, "it's almost night."

    His touch startles you; your eyes snap up to look at him. His hand rests on your shoulders, a casual, friendly gesture, just meant to draw a friend out of her reverie.

    "You know, Rukia," he says with a kindly, brotherly smile, "I am really glad I met you. My teachers always told me that a good student changes you as much as you change them, but I didn't understand until now."

    You smile and it looks bashful, it looks self-conscious, because you are Kuchiki Rukia and it is known that you are not a social butterfly, that you are not a pillar of self-confidence. But it's not bashful or self-conscious. It is just sad.

    In the silence you hear Miyako's footsteps and her song, two paper walls away and a world apart.

    "Good night, Master Kaien," you say.


    You weep.

    Your tears are crystal; they become ice before they touch the ground. They fall as the tiniest of hails, scattering against cold, hard stone.

    You look up at last.

    You look upon the face of Shiba Miyako, noble and graceful and perfect and cold, and pale as the last day you saw her, as a body awaiting cremation. Her hair still dressed in her intricate funeral coiffe; her body clad in her beautiful white kimono.

    I love you, she says in that stolen voice.

    "You only love me because I wanted her to," you say, your voice creaking, straining, struggling against the tears. "This isn't real."

    I am real. As are all spirits of the sword. I exist, mind and soul and feelings…

    "No," you say, wiping your cheeks with a shaking hand. "You are real, but this is not. You are not… You are not my heart. You are not my soul. You are…"

    Your grief.

    You swallow your tears, bitter as the sea.

    "I can't love you. I can't love a phantasm. I can't love something I conjured because of a woman I could not have."

    But you have. I am here and I can be this for you. I can be her.

    "What are you?" you ask, your voice a challenge, to her, to yourself, to the past, to the one who left you behind. "When you aren't this… this mockery. When you aren't the thing I made to appease my pain."

    You know what I am. You didn't grow up Kaien's student. You didn't grow up a Kuchiki noble. You didn't grow up a Shinigami. You didn't grow up in love with Miyako. You grew up on the streets, tired and afraid and hungry and above all, cold. You grew up in the wilderness of the city, and so your heart is wild.

    "It's as he said," you whisper, finally pushing yourself up, legs trembling, back aching, shoulder bleeding, but up nonetheless, straightening your spine, putting both hands on your blade. "Something raw and untamed and feral. Wild and dangerous, which we must wrestle with to keep it from destroying all around us or… Or… Or…"

    You choke on the last of your tears, your heart beating a rhythm of hurt and loss, and she looks down upon you but kindly.

    Or ourselves.

    You breathe in the winter wind, cold and aching and strong, and you breathe out, the mist of lost, dissolved dreams.

    After all, didn't I kill you once before?

    "I forgot," you whisper.

    No. You never did. Even as an infant, you did not forget. You simply took that night, that cold and terrible night where you and your sister braved the mountain slope and never reached the village, and you turned that memory into a knife, a knife pointed at your own heart. I am that knife. I am that night. Turn me against the world.

    "Show me your face," you command, "yuki-onna."

    I will always love you.

    Miyako smiles, and she ceases being Miyako; her smile opens wider and wider and her teeth are icicles, her jaw could swallow a child whole, her robe is the northern wind and nothing else, her eyes are bright unblinking stars.

    You lift your left hand off your sword, and take Sode no Shirayuki's. Her skin is cold, and her cold is comfort. She shows you a step, and you follow her.

    The walls you've built melt away. Two Arrancars finally close in on you.

    You smile.

    "Fourth Dance… White Grave."

    The deadly caress of cold spreads to your body, past the skin, to muscle and bone and nerve, a great chilling wind taking you over, freezing the very air in your lungs. But it doesn't hurt. It numbs the pain of the body as well as the pain of the mind. It spreads out all around you, the ground grumbling as frost cracks the stone in a spider's web of diamond.

    Yang comes at you as a fireball, dragging behind her a cloak of steam. The yuki-onna's hands guide yours and you lift the sword together, bracing yourself against her towering body. You deliver a single thrust to the roaring inferno. It feels like stabbing at water, a matter without shape but with too much resistance. You grit your teeth and push forward, force the blade into this forge. You breathe it in, draw in the heat into your coldest of blades, swallow up the tongues of flames into a bottomless pit. You barely feel the heat, barely feel anything save for the strain of your aching limbs, but she is there besides you, she grants you her strength.

    White frost spreads across hands and arms. Your skin turns to ice and begins to crack, blood seeping out of these wounds. If it ran wild this power would consume you. It would shatter your muscles and blood. It would kill you a second time. But the yuki-onna feeds on the lost and stranded travelers braving the blizzard and the mountain peak. She drinks the heat of human breath. Yang's very energy feeds you, flows into you, gives you back the heat your Shikai steals from you.

    You complete the thrust and the fireball scatters. Gold-red streams flicker past you, and Yang lands on her feet, staggering. Your back is turn to her but you see her reflection in your raised blade. The Arrancar's body is tinged blue, her teeth clattering, her fingers stiff. She takes one half-step to turn to you, to raise her sword…

    And she falls.

    Yin comes screaming down, a bolt of lightning, and you go into Shunpo, easily sliding on the ice-sick ground, vanished within the mist. Ahead of you the ground explodes in steam and ice-shards. The lightning bolt streaks along the ground, but another step takes you away. The entire room is encased in thin layers of ice and it makes your motions faster, more graceful, more silent. Sode no Shirayuki guides you with her cold hands, and you follow without thought.

    Frost creeps up to your elbows, faster now that you are not feeding on fire, and you must strain to build the dam, to stop the flow of power and end the dance. Yin comes at you again, striking blind at what she can feel of your reiatsu, but the mists are your home. You dodge, letting her lash out at stone walls and after-images. The thing with icicles for teeth whispers to you in the voice of the mountain wind, and you smile again.

    Yin moves too fast to dodge forever, even as blind as she is. For an instant she takes her human form again, whirling her electric whip around her to scatter the fog, and sees you. With a shout of hate and triumph she becomes lightning and hits you head-on before you can raise your sword, a perfect blow.

    'You' shatter into a thousand fragments of ice, leaving Yin stunned for an instant, her guard wide open as you slide out of the mist at her back.

    "Fifth Dance, White Child," you say coldly, and with a swing of your sword you cut through her back. Iron skin freezes solid and shatters like scales, powerless to defend her flesh and blood, and the white blade sheds a crimson spray.

    Scarlet ice paints the white floor.

    The Arrancar falls, and you stand alone.

    No. Not alone. Never alone.

    You look up at the woman, monster, memory, spirit, companion, sword. She was your death and she is your life. You look up at your Heart.

    For the first time since you can remember, you smile to her.

    She leans down and kisses your forehead, and for all her mouth of icy blades, her lips are soft.

    Then she fades into mist, and the most beautiful sword in Soul Society is once again a simple katana.

    "I win," you say harshly, turning your gaze to the higher level, where Dordoni watches with a burning glare.

    "You certainly do, niña," he says with false calm. "Elyssa, go and make sure Yin and Yang will be alright."

    The bird-masked woman nods and hops down onto the ground, rushing to Yin's side, then to Yang. You exhale softly, repressing the shaking in your hands as you sheathe your sword. The cold is fading from your body and without it the pain is coming back. River deltas of pulsing aches map across your skin beneath the scorched spots of your uniform, while your shoulder lances with clear, steel-bright pain. Your palms look like you've scalded them from the frostburn. You muster all your strength not to fall to your knees as you walk slowly back to your group.

    "Rukia, that was incredible!" Tatsuki says, wide-eyed, the innocent glee of a martial artist admiring another's skill. "I didn't even know you could… do all that stuff!"

    "Who were you talking to, though?" Hiyori asks with a frown. You look curiously at her. "You mumbled stuff none of us could make out from this spot. It was like you were going coo-coo in the middle of a death battle. Don't do that when we're fighting with you, okay?"

    You smile weakly. "It shouldn't happen again."

    "Yang is looking pretty rough, boss," Elyssa says, her sophisticated accent poorly concealing her worry. "I didn't even know hypothermia could happen to Arrancars, but…"

    "Goddammit," Dordoni mutters. "Okay, get blankets or…"

    "Hey! Arrancar gatekeeper boss-person!" Orihime calls out, waving her arms. Dordoni turns to her with annoyance, but she is undeterred (or likely doesn't notice). "We won the bet right? You can't fight us now?"

    "Those were the terms," Dordoni says coolly, "and your friend was right: having seen her defeat two of my best at once I must concede making a stand would be ill-advised. Now if you please, my warriors need—"

    "I can heal them!" Orihime cuts him off.

    You turn to her, alongside everyone, eyes nearly boggling out of your head.

    "Orihime these are our enemies—"

    "Rukia's hurt!" Orihime says, powering through without a care. "So I gotta heal her anyway, and that takes time! If I heal your henchwomen at the same time, we can all make it a breather before heading on into more fights! And you'll have even less reason to fight us!"

    You stare at her, torn between telling her that's stupid and toppling over because your shoulder is still slowly bleeding, which is an argument in her favor all of its own.

    "...that would be…" Dordoni starts, his frown deepening. He nervously tugs on his moustache, his eyes going from Yin to Yang and back. "That would be acceptable."

    "This is dumb," Hiyori says, "but not as dumb as Rukia deciding to fight two goons when she could have fought just the one, so really, what the hell. Why not?"

    She's not even wrong, at that.

    You decide not to argue. Your own body is on the verge of betraying you.

    You look up to the ranks of the Arrancars, behind Dordoni, searching for Ilforte Grantz.

    You find him looking at you, his gaze deep and inscrutable.

    He gives you a single nod of acknowledgement, and disappears into the dark.


    ***​


    It turns out Dordoni Alessandro del Socaccio makes excellent tea. His black brew has bitter aftertones that are offset by the sweetness of the rose petals, making for a nuanced, delicate taste overall. You sip it slowly while Orihime's dome of light gently mends your wounded flesh. You're glad she saw to your hands first. The two unconscious Arrancars lying next to you under that same dome only slightly spoil the experience. At least you, unlike everyone else, are not too bothered by the lingering cold. Tatsuki and Orihime have already dug up winter clothing out of their bags, leaving Hiyori and Nell's family to loudly complain and huddle together for warmth. It's kind of cute.

    You wouldn't want to be whichever servant will have to mop up all the water later on.

    "I will confess something to you," Dordoni says, holding his own cup with a dainty pose at odds with his warrior's build. You give him a suspicious look.

    "It better not be that you poisoned this tea," you say.

    "Poisoning tea?" he exclaims with a look of deep offense. "Niña, I have a code of honor. No, my confession is that… Well, the opportunity to have my warriors healed is not the only reason I agreed to let you sit and rest for a while."

    "Is it because Nell and Ururu are so cute nobody could resist spending more time with them?" Orihime asks, looking at the two girls chatting animatedly.

    "You best take what happens from here on in very, very seriously," Dordoni says darkly. Somehow, whatever Orihime was about to say next seems to die on her tongue. She looks at you nervously; you put a hand on her arm, lightly squeezing it to comfort her, and turn to Dordoni again.

    "Go on," you say.

    "If I had not made that foolish bet with Ilforte, I would have fought you all to the death if necessary," Dordoni says, "for it is our lot as warriors. But we would have fought as warriors. Honorably and bravely. What awaits you beyond this room… It is a thing without honor or humanity."

    "A monster of Aizen's design?" you ask as you sip the rose tea.

    "A monster of its own design. It used to be that, just beyond the walls, one would find the laboratory-fortress of Szayel Apollo-Grantz, the Octava Espada."

    You perk up at the name, give Dordoni an inquisitive look, but he does not notice, all to his thoughts, a shadow in his eyes.

    "Szayel's fortress was destroyed mere days ago—and the madman, once confining himself to his lair, has taken over much of the wall. Even we, the gatekeepers, now stick close to the edge, and dread walking too far within our own domain."

    "A mad scientist Espada," Orihime whispers. "That… that sounds like…"

    "You're afraid of one of your own?" Tatsuki asks, sounding disturbed.

    "The only people not afraid of Szayel," Elyssa says sharply, "are those stronger than him."

    "His name-" you start, but the most unexpected interruption cuts you off.

    "He spreads fear because he feels it too keenly," Chichimaru says, his first words since the fight has ended; this draws surprised looks, and by the way he looks up from his cup of tea, he spoke without thinking and did not expect such attention. There is a moment of silence before he reluctantly continues: "Apollo-Grantz is terrified of the raw power of those above him. He is obsessed with it. He has bent his entire life to the purpose of saving himself from the possibility that someone might stomp him like a bug. And that fear, he salves by inducing in those weaker than him the very same terror that gnaws at his heart."

    "You sound like you know him well," Dordoni says.

    "I know his kind."

    "What did you say your name was again?" the gatekeeper asks, his eyes narrowed in a suspicious look.

    "I am Chichimaru, a Numero of little note," the other says flatly.

    "And that child with you…"

    "That is Nell," Chichimaru says, an edge in his voice.

    "A cute name, for a sweet child," Dordoni says. "Is it, perhaps… a shortening?"

    "I have never heard her to be called anything else than Nell," Chichimaru says in a voice as soft as a dagger wrapped in silk, putting down his cup.

    "As you say," Dordoni simply answers.

    It seems like names may be a dangerous topic to broach in this company. You decide to let the matter of Szayel Apollo-Grantz rest for now. You can always ask Chichimaru later.

    "Orihime," you say, "it seems like we will soon need your skills. I would rather not fight Aizen's very own Mayuri. Can you cover Nell's people as well as us?"

    "It… it might be difficult," Orihime says, "but I think I can do it. We'll need to move slowly."

    You nod and finish your tea, setting down the cup before you. You reach up to your shoulder, gently prodding at the skin—still sore, but healthy. You no longer feel much pain, even when you feel past the pleasant numbing sensation of Orihime's light.

    "Thank you for your hospitality, Dordoni Alessandro," you say solemnly. "And for your sense of honor in upholding your end of the bargain. I believe we should be going now."

    "I will not wish you to be safe," Dordoni says, "for we are after all still enemies. But you showed mercy and kindness to my Hidalguia, and for this, I can say that I do not wish for your death."

    "I suppose it is the best those like us can hope for," you say wistfully, and give Orihime a nod. She closes her eyes, and the dome of light breaks softly into golden motes. You stand up, feeling the strength returned to your limb, the cold power inside you.

    Your blade is heavy at your side.

    "Let's go."


    ***​


    And you go. You pass through the dim corridors under the haze of Orihime's Isolation Bubble, a translucent wall that distorts the world. It feels like what you imagine walking underwater might be like. Though you can hear yourselves, your voices are muffled, your footsteps silent. You are clustered into as tight a group as you can, walking carefully, Orihime ahead of you. Her brow is creased with effort, her arms raised above her head as if to physically hold up the bubble.

    And it almost works. It almost works, until…

    "There is a strong reiatsu ahead of us," Ururu whispers a moment before you feel it too. The group comes to a halt with bated breath.

    "Must be someone doing patrol rounds…" Tatsuki says. "We stay put until they leave the area."

    "Wait. Wait, how is—" Hiyori starts, and then takes a step ahead of the group, besides Orihime, at the edge of the bubble. "What is he doing here?" she exclaims.

    "Hiyori, don't make sudden movements," Orihime whispers. You reach for Hiyori's shoulder, to rein her in, but before you reach her the man walks out of the shadows, watching the walls with a thoughtful look, and you freeze up.

    "What are you doing here!" Hiyori shouts, taking another step, crossing the line of haze, and the bubble pops.

    The man's eyes widen in surprise as you all appear before him, and then that surprise turns into a grin.

    "Hello, Hiyori," Rose of the Visored says. "I'm so glad you came."


    ***​


    You are Nemo Elcorbuzier, and your work is done.

    You lay down your tools and look up what you have wrought, and find it pleasing.

    Perhaps your first act as the tailor of Las Noches will also be the last. But at least you can rest knowing you've made as much of a difference as you could. That you used your skills to the benefit of others. That you created something, however small. Perhaps you lack the strength to win the battles ahead, but you can help your allies, your friends, to win their own.

    And as for you now…

    To rest…

    How could you when there is so much else you could still do? If you think about it for a moment you will find some new idea, you will open a gate to another sky, another place, you will…

    A knock on the door. You blink away he daydreams, turn to the wooden panel.

    Feel her behind it. She will not enter uninvited; she knows this is your sanctum.

    You walk to the door and open it, and she is there, her eyes as deep as the sky. Is it night already? The sun swallowed by darkness outside, ochre shadows dancing on the white sand.

    "Will you come to bed?" Cirucci asks, and in her voice is a plea, a fear, a sorrow, a longing.

    You turn to your works-

    They are done. You did what you could.

    In the end they may not change anything. They do not exist for their own sake. They exist as a desperate cry, a need to show that you can contribute, that you can shape your future, that you are not a helpless leaf adrift in the wind.

    But do you not shape your world every moment you spend next to her? You deserve joy, don't you?

    "Tomorrow war," she whispers, reaching to touch your cheek, and you shiver at the sensation of her fingers on your skin. "Tonight us."

    You smile, and take her hand in yours, and together leave the workshop.

    The world may be sound and fury, slings and arrows, but you live in the eye of her storm, where there is peace.

    You talk.


    [ ] Of the past.     The things neither of you shared before. The world without each other. The ugly yesterdays in the shadow of today. The realities you don't speak about that sometimes show in a glance. Change.

    [ ] Of the present. The fragile sensation of holding each other's hands as everything else comes apart. Fear and trust intermingled. Pride in raising others to a righteous purpose, guilt that in the end your dreams can only be made real through violence. Need.

    [ ] Of the future. What lay beyond the next day. The lodestone guiding you through the tempest, and the fear that you may be guided in different directions. That victory could defeat your love. Hope.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • [x] Of the future. What lay beyond the next day. The lodestone guiding you through the tempest, and the fear that you may be guided in different directions. That victory could defeat your love. Hope.
     
    [X] Of the future. What lay beyond the next day. The lodestone guiding you through the tempest, and the fear that you may be guided in different directions. That victory could defeat your love. Hope.
     
    [x] Of the future. What lay beyond the next day. The lodestone guiding you through the tempest, and the fear that you may be guided in different directions. That victory could defeat your love. Hope.

    Progression over Nostalgia!
     
    [X] Of the present. The fragile sensation of holding each other's hands as everything else comes apart. Fear and trust intermingled. Pride in raising others to a righteous purpose, guilt that in the end your dreams can only be made real through violence. Need.

    Speak of the moment on the edge of the knife, before it all comes tumbling down.
     
    [X] Of the future. What lay beyond the next day. The lodestone guiding you through the tempest, and the fear that you may be guided in different directions. That victory could defeat your love. Hope.
     
    [X] Of the present. The fragile sensation of holding each other's hands as everything else comes apart. Fear and trust intermingled. Pride in raising others to a righteous purpose, guilt that in the end your dreams can only be made real through violence. Need.

    Omicron said:
    "Hello, Hiyori," Rose of the Visored says. "I'm so glad you came."
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Internal Screaming. I do hope that the rebels make it out alive and not in any I have no mouth, so I can't scream shape afterwords.
     
    [ ] Of the future. What lay beyond the next day. The lodestone guiding you through the tempest, and the fear that you may be guided in different directions. That victory could defeat your love. Hope.

    "When this is over, we're gonna settle down in a castle near the edge of Sala de Luna. We'll spend every night looking at the stars, we'll have plenty of kids and we will live happily until the end of our days."

    Yeah I'ma gonna go with something slightly less deathflaggy than speaking of what we're gonna do after we do the impossible.

    [X] Of the present. The fragile sensation of holding each other's hands as everything else comes apart. Fear and trust intermingled. Pride in raising others to a righteous purpose, guilt that in the end your dreams can only be made real through violence. Need.
     
    [X] Of the present. The fragile sensation of holding each other's hands as everything else comes apart. Fear and trust intermingled. Pride in raising others to a righteous purpose, guilt that in the end your dreams can only be made real through violence. Need.
     
    [ X] Of the future. What lay beyond the next day. The lodestone guiding you through the tempest, and the fear that you may be guided in different directions. That victory could defeat your love. Hope.
     
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