Mortal Devices

by A_Fine_Piece

Summary:

When research and schematics are stolen from the Twelfth and end up in the World of the Living, Soul Society scrambles to retrieve the documents before they can be used for mass destruction.

Chapter 1: PART I: THOSE WHO BECOME ABANDONED

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Chapter 2: We Didn't Start the Fire

Summary:

Suì-Fēng briefs House Shihōin on the status of the Second's recovery efforts regarding stolen research.

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Sometimes, when she’s alone, the realization of where she is and why she’s there creeps up on her.  It’s unpredictable.  Like now, as she stares into the little stone fountain that’s tucked away in the hedge maze of House Shihōin’s garden.  An old memory bends the reeds of her thoughts, and she is transported with a jolt to the first time that she ever laid eyes on the cracked stone of the obelisk trickling water from its base.  Then, also like now, two yellow lotus flowers float between panes of ice, as clear as glass.

Then, the Captain of the Second and the Commander in Chief of the Onmitsukidō was a different woman, that woman being the incomparable Yoruichi Shihōin.  Yoruichi had snuck up on Suì-Fēng not too unlike this memory.  She had set her chin on the top of Suì-Fēng’s shoulder, right on the very bone of her clavicle, glanced down, and grinned.

‘You know,’ she had whispered in that oily voice of hers, the one that always made Suì-Fēng feel special, ‘yellow lotus flowers in winter are a warning.’

Suì-Fēng had laughed even though the words weren’t that funny.  But, how else could she have responded to a claim so ludicrous? 

Flowers as portents? 

Surely, not. 

That was the stuff of fairytales, of myths, of legends written down in dusty old tomes.

Except . . . .

Yoruichi’s delivery had been so matter-of-fact, so smooth.  Something was off.  Yoruichi was rarely this direct, and her tone was rarely this drained of its usual sarcasm.

Doubt bubbled up in Suì-Fēng’s chest, but she was quick to shove it down.  At the very least, she shouldn’t seem too easy, too eager.  Such earnestness would’ve betrayed her, would’ve laid her bare…. 

And, well, Yoruichi had always been prone to fits of fancy and high fantasy, especially when it concerned her family and the myths that veiled them like shadows. This was no different. Yoruichi had only meant to tease her, ready to pounce with a wry grin and breathy laugh the moment Suì-Fēng lowered her guard.

Right?

How quickly uncertainty soured. 

Suì-Fēng shook her head and shoved Yoruichi back with a firm shoulder shrug.  Half-expecting laughter as payment for seeing through the Captain-Commander’s feign, Suì-Fēng was surprised to find nothing of the sort.

No, what she found instead was a grave expression.

Yoruichi’s amber-colored eyes clouded, and her lips shortened from her usual taunting grin.  “It’s true,” she said, gaze diving into the flowers.  As quick as a cat’s paw, she plucked one of the yellow petals and held it up to her face to examine.  “Winter lotuses in this fountain warn of trouble for the year ahead.”

Lungs, tired from clinging to breath, deflate, bringing Suì-Fēng back to the here, back to the now, back to the sunny yellow lotuses gliding across spiderwebs of ice.

She blinks, her fingers suddenly going cold as realization crests:  Yoruichi had not been wrong all those years ago.  Indeed, that year took much from Suì-Fēng, from Soul Society, and from the Shihōin family.

Suì-Fēng’s fingers curl into fists.  The crush of thick velvet whispers in her ears, reminding her of why she’s here.  To enter House Shihōin, one must come armed with purpose.  While no noble family suffers fools lightly, few are as brutal and deft in the dispatching of them as the Shihōin. 

And, Suì-Fēng is no fool. 

Nor is she a soul to be thoughtlessly trifled with.  These facts were ones that her mentor had known well, as evidenced by the ceremonial garb that she had selected for Suì-Fēng to wear during the meetings between the Shihōin and the Onmitsukidō.  The uniform is as dark as night and studded with silver spikes. 

“The Family is ready, Commander,” a man’s voice sounds in the distance.

“Of course,” she replies, her breath misting in the winter air. 

 

There has always been something just left of center about the Shihōin compound, something not quite right, something a little wrong.  Suì-Fēng used to believe the compound’s unsettling nature was due to its many metamorphoses.  Even when her visits were more frequent, the interiors were never the same twice.  The walls seemed to move monthly, if not daily, transforming spaces previously visited and revealing more rooms than had been accounted for on prior outings.  These changes convinced Suì-Fēng that one could never truly know the compound without having been born there. 

What draws Suì-Fēng’s agitation today is not the compound’s unpredictable configuration, but a persistent low frequency hum.  The sound rattles her, echoing in her bones, especially the bones that cage her heart.  It’s unnerving, drilling into her as if it means to cut the threads of her spatial perception. 

Had it always been this way?  Or, has she become more sensitive with age and experience?

“Captain and Commander,” comes a voice.

While seated in the center of the chamber, Suì-Fēng cannot see which Shihōin elder is addressing her.  Such is the protocol of these meetings.  Today, there are three inlets on each side of the elevated dais, where the current head of the Shihōin, Lord Yūshirō Sakimune Shihōin, presides as a mostly ceremonial figure.  Each inlet is walled by a screen that is opaque enough to let light through but little else.  The light flashes bright depending on which elder is addressing her.

Suì-Fēng believes the elder’s identities are further obscured by voice modulators, but she can’t be sure.  Maybe it’s the humming that interferes with her hearing, turning their voices into grit and hisses.

“Provide a summary overview of efforts to date to retrieve key documents from the Shinigami Research and Development Institute that were stolen twelve months ago,” the voice continues.   

Unsurprising they would ask for an update, and yet….

Suì-Fēng inhales a sharp breath, tips her chin down, and girds herself. “We have made good progress identifying the source of the theft and where the information has traveled.”

“Cell systems?”

“Five independent cell systems have been established to target key individuals who we strongly believe are involved.”

“Do we know where the documents are?”

“We have several promising leads.”  Suì-Fēng represses the urge to wince at her delivery.  It sounds like she’s dancing around the question because… well… she’s dancing around the question. 

The truth is that they won’t know until they know.  Speculating about such things serves no one well, especially her, especially now.

“Where are the documents, Captain-Commander?” another voice chimes in.

Every fiber in Suì-Fēng’s body tenses at the truth.  It’s a truth she knows in her heart but lacks solid evidence to say with certainty.  Hesitation, however, is a condemnable offense in House Shihōin.  

“Well, where are they?” A new light flashes bright on the right side of the dais. 

Suì-Fēng’s gaze drops to the ground.  Beneath her hands is the dark wooden inlay that makes up the Shihōin seal.  The seal flanks her on all sides, sprawling far and wide.  Her heart squeezes hard in her chest, harder than her fists had clenched in the garden when she examined the lotus flowers.

The fucking lotus flowers.

“Captain?”  This time it’s Lord Shihōin’s boyish voice that cuts through the static roaring in her head.  “The documents?”  His tone is soft and gentle.  Too gentle. 

“Likely the World of the Living,” she answers through gritted teeth, reminding herself that kindness is poison here.

There.  She said it.  The news is bad.  So bad, in fact, it silences the room.  Even that infernal hum seems to quiet.  Perhaps the compound knows the gravity of the situation as well as the occupants do.  Or, perhaps the compound knows because its occupants do.

“What application would these schematics have there?” scoffs an elder, their light brightening on the left side of the dais.

They scoff because they’re afraid.  She’s afraid, too.  More afraid than she would like to admit. 

Never one to fall on the sword for a colleague— especially now and especially this colleague—Suì-Fēng lifts her chin slightly and answers with a voice that is sharp and clear, “You’d have to direct that question to the head of the Shinigami Research and Development Institute.”

“Is it true that the plans could have wartime utilization in the World of the Living?” a different voice enters the fray, and a new inlet on the right goes bright.

“That is what the Shinigami Research and Development Institute has indicated.”

“Do we know if the Western Branch has been alerted?”

“They have been coordinating with us, yes.”

“Coordinating?”  The word falls from the elder’s mouth as if it burns. 

Not knowing how else to respond, Suì-Fēng keeps her answer brief: “Yes.”

“So, it is fair to presume that they, too, have seen the documents.”

A long silence blows across the chamber, and the low humming noise resumes. 

“Answer the question, Captain-Commander,” comes a stern rebuke.

“There wasn’t a question.”  It was rhetoric.  The elder had only desired to make a point.

“Well, then, let me fashion one for you.  Has the Western Branch seen the documents?”

“I cannot confirm or deny whether the Western Branch has come into possession of the documents.”

“You know they have spies,” says another elder.

Suì-Fēng closes her eyes and clenches her jaw.  Of course, she knows they have spies.  What do the Shihōin take her for? 

White-hot anger skips down her spine, lighting her blood on fire, but she lets it go.  There’s nothing she can do.  They called her here to get their licks in, and so, here she is. 

“What is the current plan, Captain?”  Lord Shihōin’s tone rinses away some of the tension, and, for a brief moment, Suì-Fēng glimpses him through her lashes.  His face is young and round and disarmingly sincere.  He wears his youth well; he wears it like a shield. 

“We have an operation tonight.  If all goes to plan, we believe we will confirm the location of the information,” she answers, careful to keep the gravel from her voice.

“What about taking possession?  When does that happen?” demands an elder on the left. 

“Our operatives will be ready to seize the information once we obtain confirmation of its location.”

“Tonight, then?”

Suì-Fēng hesitates. 

The Second has done its best to hone in on the five most likely areas where the stolen schematics and research have been stored, but certainty is an elusive bitch.  “Yes,” she finally decides, voice stronger than she feels. 

“Good.  We expect to read about the resolution of this matter in the morning briefing,” an elder stationed on the far-left states.  “You are dismissed, Captain-Commander.”

Suì-Fēng gives a performative bow before moving into the corridor outside the chamber.  Rarely does she like to linger in House Shihōin, and today is no exception.  Usually, the annual briefing goes more to plan than this one, and while she expected questions on the stolen research, she had not anticipated it to be the sole item occupying the Family’s consideration.  Information and spiritually-imbued items go missing all the time in Soul Society.  The Second probably has at least five high-priority retrievals occurring at any specific time.

So, what is special about this one? 

A heavy breath filters from her nose.  It’s the World of the Living component.  Has to be.  Stolen arcana capable of apocalyptic proportions have never resulted in this level of scrutiny from the Family.

Maybe the Shihōin had a hand in this theft.  Maybe they funded the underlying research.  It’s possible they have a passive interest in the documents that could generate unwanted attention if not appropriately isolated and scrubbed before details of the retrieval are made public. 

Of course, the Onmitsukidō would take care of any intelligence concerning the Shihōin.  That’s the price of the arrangement between House Shihōin and the Onmitsukidō:  House Shihōin supports the unit and pulls all the strings to keep it off the Central Chambers’ radar, and the Onmitsukidō protects the family’s interests.       

It isn’t ideal nor is it pretty work.  But, it’s the job. 

“Captain?” A small voice chases her down the corridor, and the moment she recognizes its source, it stops her dead.

Lord Shihōin.

Exhaling a long, heavy breath, she turns, and there he is, standing a few meters behind her. 

Stripped of the grandeur of the briefing chamber and dais, his youth practically slaps her across the face.  The beloved baby brother of her mentor clings to his childhood in a way that was never afforded to Suì-Fēng.  But, he isn’t a child.  Not strictly speaking.  He’s been alive for almost a century, a fact that is sometimes hard to square in her head.

“Milord.”  She gives a polite bow before issuing a glance over her shoulder sharp enough to send her escort forward without her.  “Is there a matter you wish to discuss?”

The young lord lowers his head.  “Do you think tonight will be the night?”

Her vertebrae slowly snap into a straight line, and her face softens. 

There is a keen glint in his eyes that reminds her of Yoruichi. Yūshirō isn’t as confident or ruthlessly goal-oriented, but he is capable of such things. It’s in him. Millennia of breeding for strength and power ensures that he is every bit as formidable and terrible as his predecessor, and yet….

“I do,” she says, squaring her hips and shoulders like a proper soldier. 

The boy nods to himself as if he is finishing a thought that is too private to share.  “The lotuses are blooming, Captain.  Sister always said—”  He stops himself short.

Suì-Fēng’s lips lengthen.  She hasn’t offered a placating smile to someone in a very long time, but it appears to appease him. 

“It’s almost been fifty-five years,” he says, his gaze going distant. 

A lump forms in her throat at the realization. 

Has it really been that long?

How quickly time passes, and how slowly grief dissipates.  Even now, Suì-Fēng’s heart trembles at the memory of learning the news that her mentor was gone, presumed dead. 

Shoving these feelings aside, Suì-Fēng opens her mouth to say something—something comforting, something kind, something at all—but a raspy breath at her ear steals her words.

“Code XX, Captain—Operation Overcast.”

The news knocks the breath from Suì-Fēng’s lungs and fills her belly full of ice water.    

This simply cannot be.  Her brain simply won’t allow it.  Not now.  Not a Code XX.  Not another betrayal.

“Duty calls, Captain?” asks Lord Shihōin, his quiet soprano drawing her back to him, back to the labyrinth of House Shihōin.

“Yes, milord.”  Her voice goes tinny, distant.  Her gaze, too, turns hazy, capturing the lord and her surroundings in a dim mosaic of colors.

“Good luck, Captain.”

Suì-Fēng manages a tidy bow before making haste.

 

 

The first thing that Suì-Fēng hates as she enters the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility is its location.  Beyond it being a shitty metal shed in the middle of Fucking Nowhere, it’s also in the World of the Living, which adds a metric ton of red tape to an operation already bound and gagged by the shit.  The largest ongoing concern at present is that Shinigami are not supposed to interfere with the inhabitants of the World of the Living.  This is the most sacred principle of the Gotei 13.  So sacred, in fact, that the hair-dos at the Chambers got off their asses long enough to enshrine it into law. There are exceptions, of course, such as when those inhabitants involve themselves in potentially devastating Soul Society ordeals.  Under those circumstances, Shinigami have a duty to intervene. 

Before briefing the Shihōin elders, Suì-Fēng wouldn’t have classified the stolen research as a “devastating Soul Society ordeal.”  But, now?  Now, she isn’t so sure. 

This uncertainty dovetails rather uncomfortably with the second thing that Suì-Fēng absolutely hates about this operation: The staffing.  As in, there aren’t enough agents.  The cells dedicated to this mission are siloed and small because, originally, Suì-Fēng had trusted the Shinigami Research and Development Institute’s assessment that the research was “insignificant,” “not worth anything,” and “certainly had no apparent application for the average soul or human.” 

In hindsight, this was an obvious miscalculation on her part.  One should never take the Shinigami Research and Development Institute at its word.  Not since its founding has Suì-Fēng believed a single word from that entity or its leadership.  Why now? 

She blames convenience.  Everything has gone to shit over the last five years due to the activities in the World of the Living that would otherwise not concern her in the slightest.  She realized her mistake when weapons dealers in both Soul Society and the World of the Living came calling, apparently having come to very different conclusions about the usefulness of the research.  By then, her missteps with staffing could not be undone, especially after two agents assigned to the operation went MIA and another agent betrayed them, killing his partner in so doing. 

Another Code XX will surely destroy the chances they have to collect further information from this group of arms dealers as to the potential whereabouts of the research.  Worse, this group was their most promising lead, having the greatest resources of the five targets and the best chances of acquiring the stolen information for their well-financed and very motivated buyers. 

The motivation for the buyers in this particular marketplace gestures at perhaps the largest source of inconvenience among the comedy of inconveniences comprising this operation:  Winning a war.  Oh, yes, war.  Anytime the humans decide to blow up the World of the Living, every other dimension is forced to pay a hefty price.  From the rise in hollows and hollow attacks siphoning the Gotei 13’s capabilities to the territory disputes between squads, governmental powers, and even Soul Society branches, it’s problems all the way down.   And, at this point, Suì-Fēng is ready to tear out some throats out at the first sign of a mistake.

That first sign happens almost immediately when her lieutenant looks up from the grainy black-and-white images flashing across the monitoring system and opens his big, stupid mouth.  “Well, lookey at that, Captain is all gussied u—”

“Finish that sentence, and I will cut out your tongue,” growls Suì-Fēng as she shoves her way between him and the technician, Kutaragi, who was sent from the Twelfth to secure and operate the technology in the SCIF. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Ōmaeda grunts under his breath. 

Reaching forward to adjust the settings on the monitoring system, Suì-Fēng frowns.  “These aren’t to my specifications.”  Irritation gets the best of her, and she slaps the side of the monitor.  “Why?”  Her gaze flits to Kutaragi, who is frantically trying to undo the interference her anger caused.

“Can’t say,” he answers placidly before reaching forward to grab a clipboard.  “These were the only specifications provided.”

Suì-Fēng tears the clipboard from the officer’s hands and proceeds to rip through the pages.  “That’s not my signature.  I never signed this order.”  Before Kutaragi can say a word, she turns to Ōmaeda, eyes laser-focused.  “Explain this, Lieutenant.” 

Ōmaeda gapes like a big-lipped fish gasping for air.  “It was all Red Knot’s fault!” he blurts out.  “She’s the one who forged your signature and forced me to sign and send the order to the Twelfth!”

Suì-Fēng folds her arms against her chest.  “A junior officer forced you, a Lieutenant, to co-sign this?”

“Convinced me, then.”  When Suì-Fēng doesn’t immediately pummel him, he continues, “Yeah, she convinced me.”

Suì-Fēng purses her lips and glances back at the monitor. 

She’s heard enough.

Ōmaeda, however, doesn’t appear to take the hint. “Bribed me, more like it.  You know how wily she can be.  To be honest, it’s not like I read it or even knew what this order was about.  You know me.  I’m not particularly interested in technol—”

“Enough.”  The less Suì-Fēng has to hear of her second’s prattling, the less her head pounds.  And, boy, does her head pound.  One look at the grainy feed from the room sends her guts into a twist.  Nothing is to specification. 

“I take it Red Knot knew about the Code XX.”  Suì-Fēng’s inflection is too steady to be mistaken for a question, but she waits for confirmation all the same.

“Affirmative, Commander,” one of the men lining the back of the SCIF says after a short pause.  “Red Knot called in the Code XX fifteen minutes ago.”

“For her to have changed the specifications, she must have suspected this outcome for—”  Suì-Fēng turns to Kutaragi and holds up the clipboard.  “When did you get this order, again?”

“Yesterday evening, Captain.”

Suì-Fēng spares Ōmaeda the barest of glances before asking, “Did Red Knot tell you why she needed you to sign the forged orders, Lieutenant?” 

“Probably, but I don’t—”  His lips quickly shut with a wet smacking sound, as he appears to rethink his response.  “No.  I don’t think she did.”

Not believing that answer for a single second, Suì-Fēng exhales a heavy breath and leans over the console to get a better look at the screen and the room it’s projecting back to them.  There are four men huddled around a table.  All of them are dressed in heavy dark coats.  Two of the men have sizeable chest bulges that cause the buttons to gap unflatteringly.

Weapons.  Likely firearms.

She heaves another sigh.  Not that she’s surprised, just dismayed.  With each passing second, this setup feels more and more like a trap. 

“Has Kingfisher been neutralized?” she asks as she searches the screen for signs of her agents. 

Nothing.

“Kingfisher remains in play, Commander,” sounds a voice from the back of the room. 

“How certain are we of the Code XX?”

Silence—a sound that Suì-Fēng isn’t loving at the moment—roars like static. 

“We only have Red Knot’s call as confirmation,” comes a shaky voice.

As much as Suì-Fēng doesn’t like to give her agents much credit—seeing as the current crop has a tendency to defect without warning—Red Knot isn’t terrible at her job.  Sure, she’s arrogant, headstrong, and willful.  And, yes, she associates with personalities that would ordinarily constitute a fireable offense if she weren’t a political hire.  Perhaps Red Knot’s most endearing quality is that she’s managed to stay alive for almost a decade. 

That feat isn’t an easy one.

“I’m not getting audio,” observes Kutaragi before frantically turning a few dials on the left side of the console.

Suì-Fēng stares daggers into the back of the man’s head.  His blond hair curls at the ends closest to his neck, reminding her of another former member of that squad.  This memory sends a blast of agitation as hot as Hell’s flames through her circuitry system. “What?” she snaps, possessing enough sense to know that garroting him will do this mission no good.

“The audio isn’t—” The officer pauses to stare up into the screen just as it flickers to black and then scrambles.  Silent, white and gray static rolls across the display.

Suì-Fēng sucks in an audible breath before proceeding to wail on the monitor’s shielding.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Kutaragi yelps, his right arm shooting out to stop her from damaging the unit further.  His hand grips hard against her shoulder.

A hoarse shout stops her before she can wheel around and deck him:  “Look, Commander!”

The screen blinks from the snowy fuzz of signal loss to grainy footage of the room.  At the end of the table nearest the camera sit Kingfisher and Red Knot opposite one another.

“Holy shit, isn’t that Lieutenant Kuchiki's fianc—"  Before Kutaragi can finish his question, Suì-Fēng pins him with a stare that quiets him.

“The resemblance is striking; we are aware,” she hisses through clenched teeth.

“Understood,” he says, his breath squeaking out like air leaking out of a fully inflated balloon.   

“Audio?” she asks.

“Still nothing.”

Her hands ball into fists, and she lightly pounds the edges of the console, narrowly missing a few of the switches.  “Is there any way to communicate with either of them?”

Kutaragi shakes his head.  “The wires are dead for both operatives.”

This at least makes sense.  If Kingfisher truly betrayed them, she won’t be wearing the device, and Red Knot is smart enough to forgo her wire if she suspects a double-cross. 

“Is there any other way to communicate with the agents?” asks Suì-Fēng, heart pounding hard in her chest. 

“We could try to flash the camera’s light, but that would—”

“—call attention to the surveillance?” Suì-Fēng growls.

Kutaragi palms the back of his neck and winces.  “Yeah.”

“It looks look Red Knot is trying to communicate with us,” murmurs one of the agents in the back.

Suì-Fēng’s attention narrows to Red Knot.  She is still.  Eerily still.  But, that’s her baseline.  Probably learned it from that walking time-sink of a man on whom she wastes all her energy.

Except….

Squinting at the monitor, Suì-Fēng finally catches the movement that the agent must’ve seen.  Red Knot’s fingers drum against her thigh.  The camera’s signal isn’t perfect, and it takes a few seconds for Suì-Fēng to convince herself that the pauses and taps are purposeful and not a trick of the eye or a nervous tick.

“Toshio,” Suì-Fēng barks, “translate.”

Without hesitation, Toshio springs forth.  A gust of cool air crashes over Suì-Fēng as he settles at the console. Before he has a chance to founder, Kutaragi hands him a pad and pen.  Toshio doesn’t miss a step.  His writing hand flies across the first sheet, transcribing the signals, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“What’s he doing?” whispers Kutaragi. 

“Decoding, obviously,” Ōmaeda announces in a tone that is two ticks too haughty than appropriate for his knowledge fund.  He sells his delivery with a jerk of his chin.

“Decoding what?”  Kutaragi flips a switch, which staves back some of the interference that had begun to creep into the feed. “The lady’s fidgeting? You can decode that?”

“It’s Wabun,” answers Toshio when Ōmaeda’s interest or intellect falters. 

“What’s the message?”  Impatience crackles like electricity in Suì-Fēng’s tone, turning the question into a demand.

Toshio flips the page and blinks.  His lips part and close, as if disbelief has got him seeing double.  “‘The winter lotus blooms?’” he answers, uncertainty playing the chords of his voice.

An arctic chill ices the back of Suì-Fēng’s throat, and a fierce burn stings her cheeks. 

How drunk must she have been to have divulged this confidence to Red Knot? 

Extraordinarily drunk. 

Although Red Knot is tricky like that.  Ōmaeda wasn’t wrong in his assessment of her.  She’s the type of agent who has so much dirt in her file that it’s easy to convince yourself that you always have the upper hand, making it even easier to forget how one goes about getting so much dirt in their file in the first place….

Ōmaeda chuckles.  “What nonsense is she spewing—” he begins only for Suì-Fēng to cut him off by raising her hand. 

Holding up three fingers, Suì-Fēng gestures three times to the right.  That’s it.  It’s all she needs for half the room to disperse into the darkness. 

“You’re pushing back the extraction site?”  Incredulity rings sharp in Ōmaeda’s tenor.  “Based on that?”

Suì-Fēng ignores him.  If Red Knot can remember her drunken confidence, then so should he. There is no chance in hell that he wasn’t there or around when Suì-Fēng revealed it.

“What else, Toshio?”

“The man in gray is—” Before he can finish the translation, horror thunders through the room with a “bang” so loud that Suì-Fēng can almost hear the explosion of gunpowder and the sizzle of air when it happens.

“It” happens too quickly to process at once. 

The flash from the gun's muzzle was the moment that Suì-Fēng’s brain registered Kingfisher’s actions. From reaching into her coat for the small handgun to pulling the trigger, the agent’s movements were fast, sure, and fluid. 

Tracking the bullet is a fool’s errand.  The bullet only reveals itself once it finds its target, which it did at approximately the same time the muzzle flashed bright white.  Red Knot is sent back in a heap in her chair.  The shot was clean, hitting her square in the chest.  Considering the point-blank range, the precision isn’t exactly impressive, even if it is shocking.

The man sitting beside Red Knot pulls her into his arms before reaching into his coat.  The feed jumps a little.  When it returns, the man is already brandishing his weapon.  A second later, Kingfisher’s head is thrust back as if she has been hit with great force.  Once gravity takes hold of her, she falls backward and out of frame. 

“What the fuck?” The words leave Kutaragi just as the man sitting beside Kingfisher takes out his gun and points it at his head.

The feed then turns to snowy static. 

“Are they dead?” asks Ōmaeda.

“No,” scoffs Kutaragi.  “Their gigais are fried, though.  No question about that.”

Suì-Fēng fiddles with the knobs on the monitor, but the moment her fingers graze the smooth metal, the room goes pitch black.  Someone or something cut the electricity.  Suì-Fēng has a few guesses, none of which she likes. 

Fortunately for them, the outage is short-lived.  Within seconds, the overhead lights flicker on.  The control station and monitor, however, do not as easily groan back to life. 

“Shit,” hisses Kutaragi.  “The unit can’t handle surges like that one.”

“Any idea what caused it?” asks Ōmaeda.

Suì-Fēng considers her subordinate’s question for about as long as it takes for her to find the handle to the door leading outside.  She doesn’t wait for him, wouldn’t fathom submitting to his immediate requests for further information, and couldn’t physically find it within her soul to slow her pace.  Not when she suspects both the Gate of Hell and the Western Branch to be on the ground.

A few klicks outside the SCIF, vindication warms her cold, cold heart.  A little way in the distance, the gargantuan doors to the underworld are beginning to slam shut.  Closer in proximity, liaisons from the Western Branch gather around Red Knot, who stands with her back to Suì-Fēng.

Suì-Fēng can’t see Red Knot’s face, but she knows surer than the palm of her own hand that the agent’s gaze is trained on Hell’s Gate.  She’s seen the way Red Knot tracks the Gate whenever it appears as if it was some wild creature to treat with utmost caution.  It’s uncanny. 

“Status,” calls Suì-Fēng upon reaching Red Knot.  By the time she arrives, the Western Branch has blurred out of range.  They never like to stay and talk with her, instead preferring to gather intel from her subordinates.  She doesn’t like it, but right now, it’s the least of her concerns.

“Commander.”  Red Knot greets with a smile.  It was the kind of smile that could trick you into believing tenderness and warm regard were real and true and were being bestowed upon you and only you.

“Save it for the recruiting fair, Officer.” Suì-Fēng, however, wasn’t born yesterday.

“I like the spikes,” notes Red Knot with a nod of approval.  “Very sharp.”

Suì-Fēng frowns.  “You know you’re not half as charming as you think you are.”

“Ah.”  Red Knot’s top lip curves up.  “So, you admit that I am charming?” 

Suì-Fēng lifts a brow.  “Status, Officer.”

“How come when she compliments your dress, you don’t threaten to cut out her tongue?” asks Ōmaeda between labored breaths.  His sudden arrival brings forth the aroma of turned soil and ozone, a combination that sends Suì-Fēng and Red Knot into a coughing fit.

“Status?” wheezes Suì-Fēng, inching away from her lieutenant and the plume of dust billowing around him.

“The research made its way to one of the Western locations,” Red Knot says, taking a few long strides forward.

“Where?”

“Some hinterland desert.”

“Hinterland desert?” parrots Suì-Fēng, not liking the taste of those words in her mouth. 

“Yeah.  That was the gist of the conversation before I was unceremoniously shot in the chest.”

Suì-Fēng sighs.  This information isn’t as clean as she’d like, especially not for the Shihōin’s purposes.  But what else does she have to work with?  Incomplete is as good as they’re getting for their briefing in the morning.

“Why did you send the distress signal?” she asks.

“Which one?”

Suì-Fēng blinks. 

There had been more than one?

“The Code XX or the code phrase?” provides Red Knot.

“The code phrase.”

“Kingfisher’s partner had an unhealthy obsession with the occult, and I suspected….”  Red Knot’s voice trails as if she searching for a more diplomatic way to phrase her next thought.

“You suspected what?”

“That he wasn’t entirely human.”

“He was the man who shot himself, wasn’t he?” Suì-Fēng concludes rather than asks. 

“What happened to Kingfisher?” asks Ōmaeda, changing the subject before Suì-Fēng can inquire more about the strange man.

“Neutralized,” Red Knot answers smoothly. 

Too smoothly. 

Suì-Fēng’s eyes narrow into a squint.

Red Knot is either trying to hide something from them or herself.  One look convinces Suì-Fēng that it’s the latter.  Red Knot’s self-possessed grin has faded into something a little less superficial and a little more self-loathing.  The quick twist of her hands also reveals anxiety.  Red Knot only fidgets when something is tugging at her, something emotionally upsetting.  Lies aren’t emotionally upsetting to her.  Never have been.  Suì-Fēng has long since convinced herself that this is a feature, not a bug.

The blood spatter speckling the side of the agent’s neck is also suggestive of a recent altercation.  When Suì-Fēng catches Red Knot reflexively testing the flesh of her right forearm, any concern that Red Knot is covering up what happened to Kingfisher evaporates. 

“You should get that checked,” notes Suì-Fēng matter-of-factly, her gaze pinning the injured forearm.

Red Knot tenses, but she doesn’t argue. 

It’s a fair reaction.  Suì-Fēng hasn’t much practice in being considerate.  It’s probably easier to assume the worst.

“I’ll live,” she mutters under her breath.

Before Suì-Fēng can rebuke her for not listening, a loud “boom” crescendos across the field.  Her attention swerves to the side, where a column of smoke rises above the tree line.  They must’ve detonated the SCIF. 

Way to think it through, Team.

And, with that thought, Suì-Fēng turns to Ōmaeda.  “Make sure the Twelfth’s officer has his memory wiped.” 

“Aye, Captain.”

Glancing back to address Red Knot for a final time, Suì-Fēng’s stomach drops slightly when she discovers that the agent has gone up ahead, apparently undisturbed by the loud explosions in the distance.  “Where are you going?” she demands. 

“I’m late,” Red Knot calls over the noise and increasing distance.

Suì-Fēng pauses and glowers.  “Impossible.  You haven’t been dismissed, and I outrank you.”

“You don’t outrank everyone in Soul Society, Commander,” she sings, holding a silvery note a beat too long.  “I think you’re going to love the new floors, by the way.”

“New floors?” Suì-Fēng’s brows draw together.

“Yeah. They’ll be perfect for winter,” Red Knot shouts back. 

Glimpsing Ōmaeda from the corner of her eye, realization dawns on Suì-Fēng, and her stomach plummets to her feet. 

Not the floors—not the godforsaken floors again. She’s denied the lieutenant’s request to install heated floors at least one hundred times by now. 

“What about the floors?” she growls under her breath and flashes Ōmaeda a fiery glare.

He lifts his head, and, careful to keep his gaze off Suì-Fēng, he says, “I already told you.  She bribed me.”

“Explain.”

“Well, see, the specs order wasn’t the only signature that she forged, and I co-signed….”

Notes:

I'm back for the third and final installment in the series. This project has been so slow-going, but I thought that posting the first chapter might at least force me to finish it, even if it is at a snail's pace. To anyone who makes it through, thank you x infinity. I appreciate it! ❤

Chapter 3: The Albatross

Summary:

Byakuya attends a family meeting.

---

---

Byakuya stares into the puddle of black ink now splattered across the report. 

It’s no use. 

His thoughts will not quiet no matter how many “deep cleansing breaths” he takes or the number of times he clenches the “Bounce Back to Mental Health” ball that the Fourth hands out whenever they suspect a patient could be suffering from stress-related ailments, which, unsurprisingly, is every time anyone visits that place. 

Being a member of a noble house is stress-inducing as is being a member of the Gotei.  So, what self-respecting shinigami without crumbs for brains is wandering around without a single stressful thought in their head?

“Ya doing okay, Boss?” Shirogane’s baritone proceeds him into the office.

Swallowing back a startle, Byakuya inhales a long, deep breath.  While he does not care for the casualness with which Shirogane regards him, the question presented needles him more. Because, no, he is very clearly not “doing okay,” whatever in the nine Hells that even means, Shirogane. 

However, since scions of great noble houses don’t admit defeat (no matter how obvious), Byakuya serenely lifts his head and responds with a stiff, but reassuring, “Whatever would inspire a contrary impression, Shirogane?”

Shirogane’s gaze drifts from the form crinkling in Byakuya’s hand to the ball sitting amid a clump of cottony stuffing on the desk.  “Another family get-together?” he posits, careful to keep the corners of his mouth flat.

“Indeed.” 

Although, “get-together” sounds too inviting, too cozy for a House Kuchiki gathering.  No, Byakuya’s family has “meetings,” “inquiries,” “councils,” “forums,” “assemblies,” “congresses,” and “parleys.” Shirogane likely knows this, or, if he doesn’t know, he must intuit.  His tenure at the Sixth is long enough to have borne witness to the preamble of whatever grand family torture session the family was devising at the time for Grandfather and Father.

“Will Miss Hisana be joining you then?” Shirogane persists.

Instinct pulls every fiber of Byakuya’s body into full draw at the mention of his fiancée.  Restraint, however, holds firm, reminding him that Shirogane means well.  He has never lent his voice to the choir of censorious harpies who would sooner drag Hisana’s name through the mud than provide a single ounce of value to anyone other than themselves.

“If not,” Shirogane begins again, his tenor lowering, “I can wait until after your tea klatch this evening and brief you on the situation regarding the stolen research documents from the Twelfth.” 

Byakuya rips the report from Shirogane’s grasp.  “She should be in attendance.” 

Shirogane’s brows jump up at the word “should,” an observation that irks Byakuya but for reasons beyond Shirogane’s mention. 

Mostly, it’s concern that braids his nerves.  He hasn’t seen Hisana in months.  From what he has gathered after bribing the few sources he knows in House Shihōin, her current assignment is highly confidential.  “Highly confidential,” Byakuya has come to learn, is what members of the Second more colloquially refer to as “a suicide mission.”  His sources, however, thus far have been adamant that Hisana remains alive and intact in the field.

Although….

If she were to perish, it is doubtful that her remains would be recovered.  He’s equally doubtful that even his sources would inform him directly.  They’d talk around her death like nobles talk around so many other issues.  There would be no closure, no funeral, no formalized period of mourning.  Instead of the anodyne of ritual, he would be left with the sharp shards of hope.  A hope so fine that he could cut himself on it until death claimed him, too.   

“In that case, I’ll brief you when I return from patrol in a few days,” says Shirogane with a well-timed heel turn.  “Send Miss Hisana my regards.”  He punctuates this request with an exaggerated wink.   

Byakuya suspects some meaning is hidden in that gesture.  What that meaning is? Far be it from him to discern the folksy art of facial tics.  And yet…  Here he is:  Pleasantly diverted.  The tension in his body releases, allowing him to exhale a long, deep breath.    

Peace, however, comes at a premium these days.  Hardly a second passes before a thought crashes into his mind with all the gentleness of a wrecking ball being swung into glass.  Cold realization always hits hardest during a pleasant diversion, and this one is no different.  Tonight will be an endless and unmitigated disaster, and there is little he can do to prevent it. 

Reflexively, Byakuya’s hand closes hard and fast over the Bounce Back Ball.  The last of its fluff falls limply onto his desk through the expanding tear in the seam.

---

 

Between dragging his feet with the remaining Squad Six paperwork and dressing at the most glacial pace he can manage, Byakuya imagines he has spent whatever good will Grandfather had left in the reserves.  One step into the antechamber outside the council room does nothing to disabuse Byakuya of this notion.  Unsurprisingly, Grandfather is already there, standing with perfect posture and draped in pristine silk.  Not a wrinkle to be found.  Not a strand of hair or a fiber out of place. 

Oddly, the zoo of attendants and relatives either has dispersed elsewhere or filtered inside the main council hall because the antechamber prior to a family meeting is rarely so vacant.

Byakuya pauses a few steps into his paces, as is custom, and waits to be acknowledged. 

A second passes.

Two seconds pass.

Byakuya inhales a deep breath. 

Fair enough.  He did leave the old man waiting for quite a while.  Turnabout is fair play.

On or about the sixth second, Grandfather finally tilts his head to the side.  He regards Byakuya with the lifeless gaze of a shark prowling murky waters.  “Couldn’t gin up a better offer, I see,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting. 

To further signal his displeasure, Grandfather begins adjusting the seams of his gloves as if they don’t already run perfectly straight and aren’t already evenly centered.

When Byakuya doesn’t issue a quippy retort in return, Grandfather continues with a sigh. “Well, I, for one, am glad you could pencil us in, seeing how busy your social calendar is these days.”

Byakuya lowers his head and presses his lips firmly together to keep from smirking.  There is no use in hiding.  Grandfather perceives all faults in an instant.

“Truth be told, I was expecting more alacrity in your step, all things considered,” notes Grandfather with a wry sidelong glance.

Byakuya’s attention slips from Grandfather to the line of his own collar.  The garment that Seike selected for him tonight is a steely gray, which reminds Byakuya of the sheen Senbonzakura gives when freshly unsheathed in the midday sun.  Thoughtlessly, he adjusts the collar.

Grandfather tips his head to the right.  The movement is slight, nearly imperceptible, but it is enough to nudge Byakuya’s attention to the hallway behind him.  In that instant, his heart soars.  Big galloping beats fill his chest at the chance that standing behind him might be—

Reality hits before hope can fully balloon….

Nothing but emptiness resides in that dim hallway, a realization that shrivels Byakuya’s heart. 

“She hasn’t yet arrived?” It’s more of an observation than a question. 

“No,” answers Byakuya, gravity dragging his weight back to center.

Grandfather gives a soft hum under his breath, one that Byakuya doesn’t immediately understand.  Usually, the meanings of Grandfather’s sighs are obvious, serving as shorthand for scathing commentaries on performances deemed too inept to waste his full breath on critiquing. 

But, this wasn’t that sort of sigh. 

No, this sigh was almost . . .  plaintive.

Fear enters Byakuya at the possibility that Grandfather is withholding some terrible news from him, news that would explain Hisana’s delay.  She’s never been tardy to one of his family’s inquisitions before.  Although, Byakuya wouldn’t fault her for arriving hours afterward each and every time. 

“Chin up, Byakuya,” directs Grandfather, iron sharpening his voice.  “Our family has no use for distracted fools.”

As if on cue, the heavy oak doors to the council room roar back on their hinges to reveal a long sliver of darkness.  Moments later, Seike appears at the threshold with head bowed low.  “My lords,” he greets before giving a stately bow. “The family awaits your counsel.”

 

 

The family meeting proceeds in accordance with the agenda set months ago.  There are concerns about budgets and funding for certain operational divisions.  Then, there are concerns about budgets and funding for Squad Six. 

The family remains eternally divided on whether to continue “investing” in the Gotei 13.  Half of his relatives is adamant that the family remains supportive, arguing that the Gotei 13’s institutional authority diversifies the Kuchiki’s representation among the current ruling structures in Soul Society, especially since the Central Chambers is slowly siphoning the power once held by the Great Noble Houses.  The other half of the family likes to pretend that the Kuchiki gain nothing except a sizeable bill for its efforts, submitting that there is no easy way to commodify the investment should the “Gotei 13 cease its operations.” 

Byakuya never knows how to take the latter argument.  Surely, his family is aware that pulling funding would directly endanger the lives of Kuchiki supporting the Gotei 13, Grandfather’s and his included.  However, it is likely that the dissenters come from branch families with little in the way of spiritual talents.  Diverting support would probably balance the scales more favorably in their direction. 

Or so they assume….

If the Gotei 13 ever were to “cease its operations,” his family would have larger problems than an inability to mitigate financial losses.  These problems go doubly for the members who lack education and experience with a weapon or in the spiritual arts.

In the end, the budget passes as expected.  Although, with less funding than proposed.  Also, as expected. 

Byakuya sighs and glances into his cup of water.  Reflexively, his gaze pulls to his left, to the empty space by his side, to where Hisana usually sits.  His heart burns at her absence. 

Where is she?

Heat floods his veins. 

As much as he’d like to pretend it’s anger coursing through his soul right now, that would be a lie. 

It’s not anger.  Or rage.  Or fury. 

It's fear. 

She’s always on time, always prepared to sit pretty and take his family’s lashings as if they are nothing more than a sweet summer breeze.  She’s good at performative displays and playing games of one-upmanship.  Far better than he is.

Byakuya exhales a long breath, but the weight in his chest continues to build. 

The elders will see her tardiness as an affront to them and to their authority.  They will latch onto it as evidence that she possesses some fatal flaw, one that cannot be plucked out like a sliver because, to them, the sliver is her, and she it.  There is no daylight between them.

Hisana, the thorn in the Kuchiki’s side.  Hisana, the wily seductress.  Hisana, the naïve little girl who bit off far more than she can chew.   Hisana, the albatr--

“—we received word from the Second,” Grandfather’s voice fills his ears, and Byakuya turns to catch Seike quietly stepping back into the inkiness of the chamber. 

“And what might that word have been?” asks Auntie, a rictus grin spreading across her face.  “Dilatory?”

Byakuya frowns and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth to keep from saying something she’ll regret.

Grandfather sets the square of paper that Seike must have delivered on the table and replies, “Working,” with an even breath.  On the next breath, he continues, “An idea with which many of you seem wholly unacquainted.”

Byakuya snorts and hides a smirk with a well-deployed sip of water.

The corners of Auntie’s lips twitch.  “How unkind of you to diminish the hard work we have done here today, Father.”

“To the contrary, I’ve given gratitude and money to our very hardworking accountants and advisors.  To the few of you here who have actually reviewed their work and shared your thoughts, I extend my appreciation, especially to those of you who have been delayed or had to cancel social plans due to these onerous work obligations.” 

The suggestion that any of his relatives canceled their social commitments to review financial forms inspires great amusement.  So great, indeed, that Byakuya tips his cup back again to keep from snickering. 

Auntie, however, remains undeterred.  With pursed lips and chin held high, she folds her arms against her chest and shakes her head.  “You support this mockery of our family, then?”

“Mockery?”  The word explodes like a fireball from Byakuya’s lips. 

Grandfather waves his hand, a gesture that compels Byakuya to silence. “Explain yourself, Haruko, because, to my eyes, the mockery of which you speak is merely misery dressed up in a gown.”

Auntie closes her eyes and juts out her jaw.  “The girl is late.  She has delayed our family’s proceedings tonight.  This event was scheduled a year in advance, so there can be no rational explanation for her tardiness beyond her own vanity and arrogance.”

“She’s not powdering her nose; she’s been called aw—” Byakuya begins, lightning crackling in his chest; however, his lips snap shut the instant Grandfather makes a quiet gesture for him to desist.

“For what purpose has her attendance been requested, Haruko?” asks Grandfather.

“An important purpose, Father.  We require additional information regarding her background before we can come to a conclusion as to her fitness as a potential member of this family.”

Grandfather’s gaze lists to the side.  “And what further information do you need from her that you have not already obtained during the dozens of background checks, interviews, and interrogations you’ve spearheaded thus far?”

“The position she could assume is lifelong and could have devastating consequences for our family.”

“You’ve interviewed her during each of the last three quarterly meetings.  What specifically were you planning to ask today that you haven’t already asked of the girl?”

“As discussed, we do not share our questions broadly, Father, because we do not want to encourage coaching.”  At the last word, Auntie’s gaze slides to Byakuya.

Grandfather purses his lips and tips his head back, which, in Byakuya’s experience, is the closest Grandfather ever comes to raw laughter during these sessions.  “Is there any information the girl could provide that would change your opinion of her suitability?”

Obviously not, which makes the allegation of coaching all the more obnoxious. 

Hisana could produce irrefutable evidence demonstrating her to be a member of the Royal Family, and his family would argue that the Soul King was a myth and decry her claim as a fraud punishable by death.  There is no pleasing them, a conclusion at which Byakuya arrived long before this date.   His family could teach a class on Bad Faith Efforts at the Academy, using this and nothing but this tortured proceeding as its sole case study.

His request for approval of the marriage is destined to fail.   It would take no less than a miracle to obtain a plurality in support of the measure, which is far from the unanimity usually demanded.  Once his measure fails, he has resolved publicly and on numerous occasions to step down from his role within the family. 

Given this performance, however, it’s entirely possible the family has no intention of allowing him to do such a thing.  They’re toothless.  He’s given them too much credit and far too much rope.  If they believed their efforts could succeed, they would’ve taken the vote long before now, leading him to the conclusion that this circus is a delaying tactic and little else. 

To his credit, he has played their game and waited patiently for ten years to receive a formal decision.  He won’t wait a second longer, a fact that they must sense, given tonight’s display.

Auntie’s razor-sharp jaw juts further out, and the frown lines framing her lips deepen.  “Do you honestly believe I would waste our time on this girl if I did not believe this to be critical to the process?”

“Yes,” Byakuya answers unflinchingly and without hesitation.

Grandfather stares ahead, his gaze impenetrable even to Byakuya.  “Preview your questions, Haruko, and I will be the arbiter of whether you are wasting my time.”

It would be a lie to deny the smug sense of superiority washing over Byakuya right now, but he’s smart enough not to gloat.  Grandfather’s moods have become increasingly mercurial, and Byakuya has licked the wounds of defeat more often than he would like to recount.   

Auntie’s eyes dart away, into the darkness of the chamber.  “One area of inquiry planned for tonight, Father, was the matter of her recommendations,” begins Auntie, her gaze then snapping to Byakuya.  “They’re late.”

“She’s been away on patrol,” counters Byakuya.

“Patrol?” scoffs Auntie.  She then gives him a slow, pitying shake of her head.  “Yes, do tell us how she goes about patrolling whilst also safely chained to her desk under Shihōin protection, no less.”

Byakuya opens his mouth, but before he can find the words with which to skewer her, Auntie cocks a brow and cuts him off.  “Let’s not pretend, Byakuya, that you haven’t pulled your fair share of strings here—”

A rage more potent than any whisky Captain Kyōraku possesses in his entire arsenal courses through Byakuya.  If only arms were permitted at family meetings, he would pull the hall down around them in a storm of blades.  He would—

The groan of heavy wood moving against old metal redirects the room’s attention to the large oak door.  A rectangle of buttery yellow light illuminates the back of the chamber.  And, then, she appears, like an apparition dipped in gold. 

Breath evaporates in Byakuya’s chest, and he straightens, watching her like a starving bear might track a deer.  Part of him can’t shake the sensation that he’s been tricked.  But there she is.

Hisana stands between the doors with her head held high.  An expression that is as knowing as it is impenetrable spreads across her face.  Stepping over the threshold, she flashes the leaves of a handsome black and red fan and crosses the floor like a pall of smoke, one thick enough to smother the sounds of censorious words and Auntie’s prattling drone.

One could almost miss the pallor of her cheeks, the stiffness in her gait, or the way she nurses her right arm when she makes her way to him.  Surely, most of the family does this very thing.  They wouldn’t notice the signs of injury and bloodshed.  They haven’t the depth. 

Once she’s within reach, he takes hold of her hand.  She doesn’t break.  She doesn’t fumble.  She adapts, using his strength to move effortlessly into place at his side.  The moment they touch, though, he feels it.

The pain is everywhere, and it is fresh.  It stops when her hand slips from his.  Before he can react, she’s sliding the small square of paper and pen set in front of him to her. 

Quietly, Byakuya looks on, hopeful he might discern her words by the tilt of her pen alone.  He is not so lucky.  Her strokes are too quick, too decisive.  Only when her pale fingers push the scrap of paper to him does he see what she has written.

“XX.” 

Breath enters his throat like shards of broken glass.  Without a moment’s hesitation, he slides the paper to Grandfather.

Likely finding the sudden shift of focus from herself to Hisana abhorrent, Auntie snaps out a cold, “So glad that you could join us tonight, dear child.” 

Hisana fixes Auntie with a look before setting her chin in the palm of her hand like she’s about to confess some frivolous piece of gossip to an equally frivolous friend. “Me too,” she replies with a sunny smile that does not reach her eyes.

Grandfather’s gaze flickers up from the note and his shoulders square.  “Well, Hisana is here.  Fire away, Haruko.”

“We don’t have enough time now,” grouses Auntie.  “Her tardiness has caused enough interruption, and we have far more pressing items to discuss than—"

Every molecule in Byakuya wants to explode, but the soft heat of Hisana’s hand wrapping around his pulls him back.  She considers him with a warmth that burns through all his resentments and petty designs. 

“Didn’t you have a question regarding recommendations?” observes Grandfather.

Auntie gives a low snort.  “Yes.  Because the girl has no relatives to interview to help discern fitness, we must resort to taking up a collection of recommendations.  The request was sent last month, and we have not heard a word in reply.”

“She’s been on assignment for the last nine months,” argues Byakuya before Hisana can respond. 

“Of course.” Auntie sighs and forces a diplomatic smile.  “As you say, the girl has been oh-so-very busy.”

Byakuya narrows his eyes. 

Where did the rumor that a sinecure had been procured for Hisana even originate?  Why do they believe she’s on permanent desk duty?  He was almost certain that they were the ones who arranged for Hisana to be enlisted at the Second to increase the odds of her dying before the marriage forms could be brought to the family for review and adjudication. 

Is it a guilty conscience?  Have they not been paying attention?

Or….

“It is true.  The girl has been away for months.  If you sent the request a few days ago—” begins Grandfather, only to be interrupted by Auntie.

“A month ago."

“Regardless,” Grandfather continues, his voice as stinging as a whip snapping into flesh, “she would not have had a chance to receive it until today.”  Grandfather then turns to Hisana.  “Please respond to the request for recommendations as soon as practical.”

Hisana nods her head serenely. 

“If that is all, Haruko, Hisana may be dismissed.”

Auntie’s grin shortens the moment her gaze lands on Byakuya.  “Dismiss her, then.”

Without protest, without a word, Hisana bows her head to Grandfather before taking her leave. 

The chill of her departure nearly freezes Byakuya’s heart cold.

 

 

Four tedious hours later, and Byakuya is finally free of his family obligations.  There are few meetings where the moment he walks out of the room he comes to find that he remembers little of the prior proceeding and is likely a better man for it.  This is one of those times.

Stress rises off him like a fog as he makes his way to the comfort and security of his quarters.  As soon as the outline of his bedchamber door comes into focus, a cold empty sinking sensation fills his chest.  It is as if a bag of sand wet from flood water has been dropped into the cage where his heart should be.

It’s late.  So very late.  Will she still be awake?  Should he attempt to find her at the Second?  Will she even be there? 

Reaching for the door, his brain begins tallying the hours and the minutes to determine the time.  But, before he can finish his calculation, he draws back the door and then….

Everything stops.

The next breath that comes is easy and quiet.

Hisana.

There she is, sitting at his writing desk with her legs tucked under her.  Her raven hair falls longer than before, nearly to her waist now.  The fine silks that she wore to the meeting drape loosely over her shoulders, and the hairpins that had been nestled in her hair now lay gleaming on his desk beside a lit oil lamp.  The lamp’s light hangs like a gossamer veil over her, blurring the hard edges and softening the starkness of color. 

For a moment, Byakuya hesitates.  His heart squeezes like a fist inside his chest, afraid that the slightest noise, the slightest movement, even a breath, might break the spell. 

He isn’t delusional enough to believe that he’s caught her unawares.  Not truly unaware.  She is merely indulging him, which he appreciates.

Seconds or hours pass before she turns her head to glimpse him.  The golden sheen of lamplight flashes in her eyes, but she doesn’t say a word.  Her gaze is more than enough.  There is a fire to it, a crackle.  It is the type of gaze that proves warming on cold winter nights such as this one.  It is also the type of gaze that could sear and singe.

Byakuya, however, is well-versed in playing with fire.

“You did well tonight.”

“I barely said a word, my lord.”

“I know,” he says and steps across the threshold.  “That must have been difficult for you.”  

He pauses only to close the door behind him.  No need to let in any bad air.  The walls of House Kuchiki are thin enough.

“How unkind of my lord!”  She feigns offense, but the silvery chime of laughter gives her away. 

“You’ve known my disposition long before now.”

Before he can sit beside her, Hisana gives him a disapproving shake of her head and says, “True.  Although, I think your teasing is projection.”

Indulging her is a fool’s errand, yet with a quizzical brow, Byakuya does exactly that:  “Projection?” he parrots, finding the taste of that word surprisingly foreign. 

“Yes.  Projection.” She gives a firm nod of her head and issues him a look that declares herself victorious.

“You wish to say more,” he notes, drily.

“I always want to say more.”

“Then, say more.”

Her gaze drags a long scraping line from his shoulder to his face.  “You feel restrained in those meetings.”

“I do,” he concedes, fighting back a grin.  “I believe that is their intended purpose.” 

With a chortle, she glances away.  “Well, you don’t like it, so you assume neither do I.  That’s projection.”

The obvious next question leads to places that Byakuya would rather not explore at such a late hour, so he asks instead, "Practicing your German?”

“French,” she corrects with a sly sideways glance.

Despite himself, Byakuya smirks.  To think of all the stray comments he’s made over their time together, this is the one she took to heart.

“I’m still lousy at it,” she admits.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear so that he may better look upon her face, he asks, “Is there a story behind why you’re learning French?”

The question nudges her attention back to him, and, for a moment, she softens.  “There is,” she says, contentedly.  “But, it’s very long, mostly confidential, and you already know the more interesting parts.” And, with that, her softness sharpens, turning the glow of lamplight into glinting dare in her gaze.

“What about the story here?” he asks, careful to keep his voice even and low as he tugs at the hem of her sleeve.  The silken sleeve slides as sure and as smooth as water off polished stone to the bend of her arm.  Hidden under layers of beautiful hand-painted fabric is a laceration that runs from her wrist to the inside of her elbow.  Poorly administered staples pinch the flesh together. 

“Or here?” he continues, peeling back her collar to examine the deep blues and purples of bruised flesh above her heart. 

The heat and iron that had gathered in her stare dissipate as she considers him, and she considers him for a long while.  Sound and sensation suddenly go still.  They, too, go still, becoming little more than breath.

Even their reiatsu silence. 

Hers had already been bundled so tightly, so close against her, that she had caught him off guard when he entered the room.  Only when he took a seat at her side did he feel her move against him.  Her spiritual pressure flickers, quick like the pull of silk, but is suppressed.

She’s hiding something. 

Reflexively, his hand slides to her shoulder, away from the pain, away from the injury, and she leans forward just enough to press her head to his.  Now touching, her every echo should strum through him at full volume. 

He shuts his eyes to listen, but there is nothing to hear, only cold, black emptiness.  This is not an emptiness that he ordinarily associates with her.  No, it’s the emptiness that he’s only ever encountered from the freshly dead. 

His heart clenches when he locates the source. 

“Yoshiko.”  

The name of her partner barrels through him like an epiphany.  It isn’t.  He had assumed the betrayer in question was Yoshiko from the moment he saw the “XX.”  The unspoken but very loud corollary to that assumption was that Yoshiko must now be dead.

Cold logic had solved for the who and the what.  Now, staring into Hisana’s eyes and feeling that hideous nothingness ringing inside her, the emotional toll of her being made an executioner finally crests.  And it’s everywhere, inside and out.  It’s the memory of what she must’ve felt after taking Yoshiko’s life, that deathly hollowness, that sudden claw of absence dragging through a body slowly going limp as the spark of life extinguishes.

And, now, Hisana is trying to unlatch from this feeling, but can’t.  She’s trapped in a cage of wretched memory.

Byakuya doesn’t know how to force someone away from the rawness of emotion, especially grief.  If he did, he would be a far more peaceful man.  But, he does know the importance of distraction.  A splinter can’t cure a broken leg, but it can draw the mind away from one source of irritation to another.  

Tenderly, he takes her wounded arm in his hands.  Her eyes remain fastened to him, and he holds her stare.  He does not need to see to know how to proceed.  All he needs is her pulse and his sense of touch.  Finding the former, however, requires some finesse.  That hollow nothingness blows through him like an artic wind, but he’s nothing if not persistent. 

What he must do next isn’t pleasant, not in her current state. 

Exhaling slowly through his nose, Byakuya drives himself into her.  Usually, it’s so easy to find a thread to ribbon around, especially since her reiatsu is almost as familiar to him as his own.  At times, the borders separating them feel thin and flimsy.  Sometimes, they feel nonexistent.    While he’d never admit to ascribing to this belief, the theories about souls alchemizing with one another seem almost factual when they’re closely connected. 

Not now, of course.

Right now, it feels like trying to light a match in the dark.  But, all he needs is a spark, a sign of life, anything. 

Anything at all.

Driving deeper still, he strikes a hard chord.  The resulting dissonance instantly causes him to tense, and Hisana squeezes her eyes shut.  His immediate reaction is to pull back, but, before he can withdraw, she throws her uninjured arm around his neck and buries her head into his chest.  

Taking another deep breath, Byakuya finds his center and waits.  It isn’t long before her reiatsu takes shape in the inky depths of that spiritual nothingness.  Once it does, his reiatsu rises like windswept petals to meet her, as if fully magnetized.  In stark contrast to the sharp, shearing pain that ordinarily accompanies collisions of spiritual pressure, their reunion feels more like a warm embrace. 

Sweet relief pours into him as he runs his thumb down the length of her wound.  Skin that once puckered around gruesome staples pulls together, even and flat.  The staples disperse in a metallic shimmering that dissolves mid-air.

“I didn’t even stop to ask her why,” gasps Hisana.  She then rips her injured arm from his grasp and wraps it around his neck.  “There was this look of sadness on her face when I didn’t give her a chance to speak.  She had seemed so lost.  But, I couldn’t—I couldn’t lose—” 

The ragged ends of her voice suggest there is more to be said, but perhaps not.  Perhaps hearing the phrase “I couldn’t lose” completed the thought.  It’s a hopeful ending.  Vowing not to lose means there’s something to lose; it means there’s a future envisioned, a goal that exceeds the momentary violence.

Pulling her closer, Byakuya shuts his eyes and breathes her in.  Hope bubbles up in his chest, too, and, instead of keeping it locked away, he lets it loose, lets it thread through the bond they share, unsure if she will understand his meaning.

The cold, empty nothing that had paralyzed her recedes.  Each subsequent heartbeat brings the warmth back into her, undulating like waves overtaking the shore at high tide.   Once the reiatsu he knows so well returns, Hisana lifts her head and meets his stare.

Her eyes are tired and glassy, but there are no tears.  Weariness must have stolen them.

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispers and then kisses him before he can counter her words of gratitude.    

 

 

Morning’s lavender glow seeps through the darkness, rousing Byakuya.  It has been a long while since he woke without a start, without his heart shaking him out of bed hours before the sun has even had the chance to climb the sky.  The reason for this gentle awakening is obvious:  Hisana.

Never again will he take for granted the simple pleasure of sharing his bed with her.  Although, even when she is in the city, waking with her still in his arms is rare.  Usually, he wakes to find her posted at his desk, reviewing papers she somehow smuggled into the room unbeknownst to him.

Such is not his fate this morning. 

This morning, his arms are warm and full of her heat and weight.  Her skin is softer than he remembers.  Burying his face in the thicket of her hair, he inhales a deep breath and closes his eyes.  Gone are the floral scents of plum and lavender that he has come to expect.  In their place is something smokey, something not of this world.  The smell reminds him of his missions in the World of the Living.  It’s the smell of burning, of wood and earth being devoured by flame. 

What happened?  Where has she been these long nine months?  Where does she go when the Second calls her away?

These questions hound him, but he tries to cage and kill them in places dark and dreary.  Yet, no matter his efforts, they arise like ghosts.  And like ghosts, these imprisoned worries have a tendency to slip out. 

Like now. 

Fingers, hungry for touch, trace lines down her arm.  The realization of what he’s doing comes once he feels the shift of muscle in her arm.  How starved he’s been for warmth, for connection, for her.  It’s a hunger that’s easy to deny in absence, but hard to put to rest when stoked.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she whispers, gravel heavy in her voice. 

“How long?” he asks and then kisses her shoulder as consolation for his neediness.

Hisana rolls onto her back.  Her clever eyes are on him, and she takes him with a glance.  His attention telescopes to her lips.  Kissing her is dangerous.  It’ll put an end to any hope of dialogue. 

“How long, what?” she repeats as if speaking a riddle.  A knowing glint burns white in her eye when he doesn’t respond.  “How long have I missed you?”

“How long are you staying?”

The grin slowly spreading across her face stops short as she considers him.  “A few hours—”

“A few hours—” he protests.

“—this morning, but I’ll remain in the city for some time, now,” she continues, her words tangling with his.

The tension plucking away at his nerves slowly abates.  “Desk duty?” he asks, his mind flying to Auntie’s words from the night before.

“Now, you sound like my captain.”

Byakuya’s brows knit together.  “Captain Suì-Fēng disapproves?”

Loosening a hard breath, Hisana’s gaze shifts to a spot in the room just above his shoulder.  She’s probably only now noticing the fusuma, which depicts a family of three cranes plucking fish from a river banked in snow.  When she was last in town, she had commented on how much she liked the painting while they were in the market.  The artist had not fully completed the piece at the time of their visit, so Byakuya returned weeks later and purchased it for her. 

He’s been waiting patiently ever since.

A smile thins her lips, and her gaze shifts from the fusuma to him.  “To disappoint my captain is like breathing—inevitable as long as I am to remain alive,” she says and then combs her fingers through his hair.

Byakuya snorts.  “The sting that accompanies the disappointment of one’s betters is an acquired pleasure.” 

This observation earns him a smile bright enough to light her eyes.   “My lord sounds practiced in such acquired pleasures.” 

“I have learned to take my pleasure where I can find it.” 

On that note, he kisses her soundly, pausing only to enjoy the tickle of her laughter before it turns into a sigh.

Chapter 4: The Nature of Daylight

Summary:

Hisana visits a few familiar faces to request recommendations.

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Briefly, Hisana wonders if Byakuya wants her dead, too. 

Whether he’s dragging her off a cliff’s edge into sheets that are bone white and warm or into waves sharper than any sword, a plummeting sensation finds her each time.  It’s the kind of plummeting sensation that warns of permanence, of oblivion.  What follows next is usually a quick breath that hits her throat with the force of a punch and a palpitation so hard, so jarring, that she’s certain her heart will never beat again. 

Even now, sitting at his writing desk wrapped in a heavy blanket, those sensations echo through her like a voice in a cavern. 

And yet, her body aches for more.

It’s stupid, really.  She knows better.  Of all the men who want her dead (a number that seems to increase every year), Byakuya is not among them.  Maybe he could’ve been counted among their ranks once, a very long time ago.  But not now. 

Cold realization trickles in like rainwater blown inside by a stray wind:  That prior musing is her mind’s way of turning his sanctuary against her.  She lost her right to peace the second she abandoned her sister.  Every bad deed since then has been cataloged and added to the pile of terrible deeds to remind her that her failings aren’t the result of bad luck or an unfair system.  They’re an indictment of her character, of her entirety, one that carries a sentence now deferred, but one that will be visited on her soon enough.

Exhaling, Hisana closes her eyes.  Instead of a quiet center, there is tension and anxiety.  Worse, there are questions.  So many questions, none of which have easy answers.    

Tonight, she is the millstone, wondering about the whether’s and why’s.  Does Byakuya want her dead?  (Obviously not.)  Why would she even wonder such a thing? (Her past has a way of becoming prelude.) 

This brings her to the question of the hour, one that has stumped her from the beginning:  What does Byakuya see in her?

Whatever it is, it defies comprehension.  Not just hers, either.  In an unexpected turn of events, Hisana finds herself aligning with the high nobles who decry the possibility of Byakuya taking her as his wife.  For his sake, she plays dumb to the articles, stories, and rumors.  But, as a member of the Second, there is no escaping the obvious fact that no one with any say wants this marriage consummated.

And yet….

Hisana glances over her shoulder.  The palettes of midnight and dawn collide, and, for a few glorious moments, night and day become one, and the world goes still and silent.  Then, the light shifts, its movement made more apparent by the stillness of the dark.

A thread of pale blue limns Byakuya’s slumbering form, and, despite herself, Hisana softens.  She should’ve severed her ties to him long ago, but she never could find it in herself to let go.  She’s selfish.  Too selfish.  All it takes is one glance, and her resolve burns away like the shades of night around them. 

Terrible people can have their joys, too, right?  Especially since there’s no way she can ruin him.  Forces stronger than she will prevent anything too indelible from happening. 

So, what’s the harm?

The rain will soon sweep away her respite, and whatever meaning they’ve made together will scatter like ash into the sea.  Because what is the permanence of memories to a man who will endure centuries?

She is dust, a mere mote that tricks the eye into thinking it’s something more substantial.  And, that’s fine.  Preferable, even.  Motes aren’t deleterious, which is all she needs to be satisfied that she can indulge her selfishness a while longer.

The longer Hisana lingers on her lover, the quieter the noise in her mind becomes.  The tightness in her chest relaxes, and the noise becomes quieter still.  Before this quiet can shift into comfort, her mind locates an escape route, shoving her back to the desk, back to the correspondence in her hand. 

For the third time this morning, she reviews the tidy handwriting and rich black ink. The request remains the same, no matter how many times she reads it.  She knew it was coming, and yet…. 

When she went to collect the mountain of mail waiting for her after all those months away, this letter was the first one that found her hand.  And she knew exactly what it was.  All official House Kuchiki correspondences have a certain appearance that sets them apart from any other sender’s letters, whether formal or informal.  They have a simplicity that borders on sterility.  The seal conveys most of the information on the packaging, and the envelope edges are folded so tightly they could slit one’s hand if handled carelessly. 

Also, as she’s come to expect, the message is simple and concise: “Please submit no fewer than three written recommendations, signed and authenticated, along with contact information for the recommenders.” An address follows the order.

Three recommendations.

Dread fills Hisana at the prospect of approaching three individuals to ask for their support.  No one in their right mind would agree to this.  Even if she could find someone with terrible enough judgment to perjure themselves on her behalf, it’s doubtful that this person would want to be dragged into an internal clan feud, especially when said clan is the Kuchiki. 

Ice water churns in her belly as she runs through a catalog of people who have horrible judgment and a drop of affinity for her.  There’s Byakuya, of course.  But she very much doubts the family would accept his recommendation since, technically, he’s already submitted it when he moved for this proceeding.

With a twist in her lips, Hisana reframes the ask.  Instead of finding someone in possession of a soft spot for her and a death wish, maybe she should think of this as a collection of sorts….

Who owes her? Owes her big? Like really, hugely big?

Exhaling a breath, she bows her head, brain going fuzzy. 

Only a few people might fit that description, and they’re all names that she’d already thought of when she heard this order was coming down the pike.  No one else is springing to mind, a thought that leaves her cold. 

She doesn’t like her options.  There are so few.  All it would take is for one of them to….

Pushing this thought away, she shakes her head.  There’s nothing to be gained from doubting her plan.  It’s the best one she can devise with so little… anything….

“It’s too early, Hisana.”

Byakuya’s voice comes as a shock, and her heart drops a beat.  He shouldn’t be awake, much less sitting up in the bed.  “My lord?”  

Tiredly, Byakuya rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand.  “Come back to bed.”  His voice builds into a sigh, and he reaches out for her, his hand palm-side up. 

Hisana sets the letter on the desk and goes to him.  Careful to stop short of the edge of the bed, she places her hand in his.  Just as his hand closes over hers, she realizes her mistake.

Byakuya yanks her close.

“My lord!”

“Sleep,” he answers, his voice groggy but firm.  Then, he urges her to lie beside him.

“I can’t,” she protests, refusing to be pulled down.

He stares up at her through half-lidded eyes.  “Did something happen?” 

Yes, but not in the way he means.  He means an order from her squad, not the squabbles among his family.  He won’t like the latter as justification.  What to say? 

She hesitates, her mind working a mile a minute to come up with a reply before answering, “I have an early meeting to prepare for.”

He blinks slowly, as if he’s trying to fight back exhaustion and is losing the battle.  “With who?”

“Miyako.”

“Shiba?”

Hisana nods. 

His brows pull together, and his eyes squeeze shut.  “Miyako Shiba, the Thirteenth’s Third Seat?”

“Yes.”  Hisana hesitates to say more, especially since her last answer appears to have induced a migraine.

“Does the Second often require assistance from Squad Thirteen?”

“No.”  She laughs.  “The call is unrelated to squad business.”

“Who is requesting the call?”

“Me.”

Byakuya opens his eyes a sliver and squints at her.  “You?”  He then pulls himself up on the back of his arms.  “Why?”

“The request for recommendations—”

Immediately, he sinks back down to the futon and sighs.  “Disregard the request, Hisana.  I will take care of the recommendations.”

“My lord.”  Her voice sing-songs as she wraps her arms around the tops of her bent legs and braces her chin on her knee.  “You have done so much for me.  This is the least I can do.”  She runs her fingertips across his scalp; the touch is light, but it seems to do the trick.  His eyes close, and he moves into the warmth of her palm.  Without warning, he places his hand over hers, keeping it still long enough to press his lips to the inside of her wrist.

Her heart stops for a beat.  When it restarts, it’s not the jolting thud she was expecting.  Instead, it shakes back to life with the frantic energy of a squirrel fighting against a snare. 

He must feel it, too, because he looks up at her with that soft expression of his, the one that makes her feel vulnerable, even now, after all their time together.  It’s as if he’s giving her his heart to hold and asking her to be delicate with it.

Hisana isn’t great at being delicate.  But, she tries.  For his sake.

Combing a few strands of hair from his eyes, she says, “It’s only a tea.”

“Will Kaien be there?” His voice scrapes up his throat with all the roughness and grit that she’s come to expect whenever the Lord of House Shiba is mentioned.

Hisana never knows what to make of the feud between Byakuya and Kaien.  It predates her knowing either of them.  When she was younger and far more careless, she would occasionally jab her fingers into this sore spot to test its power and extent.  But, she could never map it out entirely.  Not for either of them.  She’s long since learned to let it rest.  The hostility is senseless, and, like all senseless beasts, it can attack without warning.

“At the Thirteenth?” She keeps her tone light and playful, hoping to defuse this bomb quickly.  “He is its lieutenant.”

The light in Byakuya’s eyes goes cold.  “Will he attend the tea?”

She shakes her head.  “The call was not sent to his attention,” she says evenly. 

It’s not quite a lie, but it’s damn close.  She fully expects Lieutenant Shiba to make an appearance.  Even if Miyako hasn’t breathed a word—which Hisana has no reason to assume differently—Squad Thirteen is an open book.   There are no private meetings there, least of all private meetings with Lady Shiba.

But, Hisana is smart enough to know better than to call upon the lieutenant directly.  First, it is unseemly as a matter of rank.  Then, there’s the matter of politics.  Interlopers love to capitalize on the men’s feud almost as much as they love to speculate on her intentions with Byakuya.  No matter how benign, any touchpoint she has with Kaien seems to find its way back to her in extravagant fashion.

It's House Kuchiki’s doing.  They take advantage of any leverage point they can access.  And they, too, are well aware of the rivalry between the lords.

The bait the family tries to use on that front isn’t particularly effective, though, mostly because Byakuya’s touchiness surrounding Kaien isn’t fueled by romantic jealousy.  Rather, it’s more of a generalized antagonism, applying equally to all things.  Kaien could be quietly eating cake, but if Byakuya saw it, he would declare cake eating a sign of moral bankruptcy, chastise the manner in which Kaien consumed the cake, and then introduce legislation to forbid the sale of cake in the future. 

Kaien, however, isn’t much better.  Although, his pettiness is of a more fleeting variety and less acutely felt.  And yet . . . he never resists the temptation to taunt or tease Byakuya on the rare occasions their paths cross.

With a heavy sigh, Byakuya pinches the bridge of his nose.  “It is unlikely that Kaien will agree to provide a recommendation on your behalf.”

“Good.”

Byakuya peers up at her through a heavily lidded eye. 

“Lieutenant Shiba is not the target of my aim,” she adds with a smile.

“Nor will his wife.”

Hisana’s smile dims.  “Why do you say that?” 

“Because she is his wife.”

“Miyako is her own person.”  The words come out thinner than Hisana intends.  “She can make her own decisions.” 

“She can, but she won’t.”

Hisana glances away.  Her gaze lands on the three cranes depicted on the fusuma ahead of her.  A warm, loving bubble rises in her chest.  “She’s a friend.”  Which is about as far as Hisana is willing to argue the point because Byakuya isn’t wrong. 

It's just as she feared. 

“At the very least, she can give counsel,” says Hisana.

“What counsel does my lady require?” he asks, his voice soft and his gaze softer still.  It’s less a question than an offer. 

Resting her cheek on her knee, Hisana resists the urge to frown.  “Counsel that my lord needn’t concern himself with,” she says quietly. 

He wraps his hand around her ankle and gives it a firm squeeze.  “Lie with me.”  He sweetens the command by sliding his hand up her leg, to her calf. 

The heat of his palm quiets the anxiety braiding her nerves, and she relents, sinking down into the warmth of the bedding and his arms.

 

 

It is a small miracle that Hisana arrives at the Thirteenth on time.  But, she swings it.  The morning light is still young and pale, and the sky is still full of saffron clouds.  

Hisana avoids the hill even though it is the most direct path to the gate. Winter’s chill has turned the grass icy, and she hates the sound of her own footfalls.  She prefers to keep the dawn’s silence to herself for as long as possible, which is never as long as she likes.

That sweet silence breaks the moment she enters the genkan to the Thirteenth’s administrative office.  Her presence must’ve tripped an alarm because she’s barely a pace inside before chaos takes the form of Kiyone Kotetsu and Sentarō Kotsubaki.  The subordinates crash into each other, a ball of flailing legs and arms and curses.

Ignoring the spectacle, Hisana hangs her coat and slips off her shoes.   

“Good morning, Ms. Kotetsu and Mr. Kotsubaki,” she greets softly as she pads her way around them to the door.

Before either shinigami can respond to her through their tirading at one another, Miyako appears in the entryway wrapped in a blue shawl and wearing a warm smile.  “Hisana!”

“Miyako.”  Hisana bows politely.  “Thank you for taking my call.”

“Of course.”  Miyako tilts her head in the direction of the eastern corridor.  “Follow me.”

Miyako leads Hisana to a cozy side room that looks onto the Thirteenth’s main training yard.  The door to the yard is closed this morning due to the cold, but Hisana has been here before.  Many times before.  Old habit draws her gaze to the scroll hanging on the back wall, which reads in bold hasty strokes: “Hang in there!”

“The tea isn’t much at the moment,” Miyako says softly.  With graceful ease, she descends into seiza on her sitting mat.  “We’re between orders.”

Hisana smiles politely before following suit.

“Although, I suspect you’re not here for the tea.”  Miyako shoots Hisana an appraising look.  Her gaze stops short to examine the pattern of Hisana’s kimono. 

The design is simple: Green pine tree branches adorn the hems of ice-blue silk. Hisana bought it for herself a few years ago. It cost a small fortune, but she needed to own something nice to wear, something that wasn’t a gift, something that she purchased herself.    

“And since you’re not in your uniform, I’m guessing you heard the news last night,” Miyako continues, her voice even and soft.

Hisana blinks.  “News?” 

Miyako cocks her head to the side, and her brows pinch closer together.  “The news about—”

The rustling of the door being yanked open eclipses Miyako’s words and drags her attention away. 

Hisana, however, doesn’t bother chasing the wooden “clacking” at her back.  The presence that blankets the room can only belong to one person and one person alone. 

“Kaien,” sighs Miyako.  “Hisana, I promise that I didn’t—”

“Good morning to you, too, Hisana,” Kaien greets as he steps into her line of sight.

Hisana lifts her chin and forces a smile.  “Lieutenant,” she replies and bows her head, “it is an honor to receive you.”

“I’m not a gift,” he teases back before flopping unceremoniously to the ground.  “She already knows, I take it?”  He directs the question to Miyako, whose sober stare is nailed to the floor. 

“No,” decides Miyako.

“Knows what?” asks Hisana, her gaze bouncing between the two.

“The Tsunayashiro announced their opposition to the….”  Kaien makes a circular motion with his index finger and then sighs.  Heavily. 

“Oh.”  Hisana folds her hands in her lap and glances away. 

“You don’t seem surprised,” observes Miyako.

“I’m not.”  Others had warned her that this could happen.

“Do you want my advice—”  Before Kaien can finish, Miyako shoots him a heated look and interrupts with a sharp “no.” 

Steeling herself, Hisana lifts her head and inhales a deep breath. 

“Don’t do it, Hisana,” continues Kaien, undeterred.  “It’s a bad idea.  Plus, it’s Byakuya.  What’s the allure?”  Kaien’s voice singsongs at the end, as if his intent was to turn the last part into a joke, but his mouth refused to obey.

Miyako stares up at him, eyes wide with shock.  “Kaien!”

“There are other fish in the sea,” he adds.

“Kaien.”  Miyako’s eyes narrow, as if daring him to proceed.

Kaien raises both his hands, palm sides facing Hisana.  “Find another fish, Hisana.  That’s all I’m saying.”

“Good.  You’ve said enough,” Miyako chastises.  “Now, shoo.  You weren’t invited.”

“How bad is it?” asks Hisana.  “The formal announcement, I mean.”  She’s already well acquainted with how unsavory the Tsunayashiro are. 

Kaien shoves a hand through his hair and heaves another sigh.  “Not good.”  Dragging his gaze back to Hisana, he shakes his head.  “As in, very bad.”

“Kaien’s right,” sighs Miyako, her expression softening as she turns to Hisana.  “The Tsunayashiro are the de facto head of the Five Great Noble Families.  Their word carries enormous weight.”

Hisana lowers her head.  A bitter grin tugs at the corner of her mouth.  “I see.  Perhaps I should g—”

“If not to discuss the Tsunayashiro, then what was the reason for your call?” asks Miyako before Hisana has the chance to bid adieu.

“It’s nothi—”

“No, go on,” commands Kaien, iron in his voice.

Hisana shakes her head upon realizing just how well the Kuchiki elders have played her.  Not that she’s posed much competition.  Not that she ever could…. 

But, Miyako and Kaien are friends, and confiding this small piece probably won’t hurt.  “The Kuchiki are demanding that I obtain three authenticated letters of recommendation to proceed.”

“Ridiculous,” mutters Miyako.

Kaien rolls his eyes and snorts in agreement. 

“An insurmountable task,” notes Hisana.  And, one uniquely designed to drive home the fact that she has no power and no one to provide her aid. 

“Well,” begins Kaien, his voice hardening, “in that case, I am happy to write you a letter, Hisana.”

Hisana shakes her head.  This is exactly the outcome that she did not want.  A letter, yes?  From Kaien?  No.  She’s played through this very scenario in her head multiple times, and, every time, it blows up spectacularly.

With a pleading look, Hisana says, “Lieutenant—”

“Hisana didn’t even ask you to join us this morning,” Miyako interrupts.  “What gives you the right to steal this moment from me?”

Kaien’s head snaps to the side.  “From you?”

“Yes, me, the person who was called upon.”  Miyako then turns to Hisana.  “The matter is resolved.  I will submit the recommendation on your behalf.  Which leaves us with only one other question to consider.”

“And that is?” asks Hisana.

“Shall it be sent under my personal authority or the authority of House Shiba?”

“House Shiba,” answers Kaien with a stare that will brook no argument.   

“I don’t think that is—”  Hisana wants to say “prudent,” but Kaien raises his hand to signal that he will hear no more.

“It is decided,” he says.  Then, with a boyish smirk and gleam in his eye, he adds, “Although, I think you can catch a better fish than Byakuya Kuchiki.”

Hisana opens her mouth, prepared to let the gratitude welling in her chest out all at once, but before she can make a sound, the door draws back to reveal a sliver of Kiyone’s face.  “Lieutenant Ise and her captain are about to leave.  I believe, Lieutenant Shiba, you mentioned needing to speak with—”

“—it’s Captain Kyōraku and his lieutenant,” blurts out Sentarō, who also appears to be trying to pry the door back enough so that he may peer inside the room. “The captain should always be addressed first—” 

“—as I was saying—” grunts Kiyone, her face turning beet-red.  Hisana isn’t sure if the strain of keeping Sentarō at bay or embarrassment deepens Kiyone’s blush.

“—say it quicker, the lieutenant is about to leave—”

“—which lieutenant?”

With a fluid shove, Kaien forces the door back enough to allow him passage, an act that sends Kiyone and Sentarō toppling to the floor.  “Thank you both for remembering to let me know,” he notes fondly before stepping over them. 

“Thank you, Miyako.”  Hisana bows her head low.

Miyako smiles politely.  “Of course.”

 

 

Once Hisana and Miyako finish their tea, Miyako returns Hisana to the front of the Thirteenth’s administrative building, where they bid one another farewell.  Then, Hisana is off.

The late morning sun burns bright and warm.  It's so warm that Hisana doesn’t really need the coat.  Although she’s grateful to have it, if only to guard against the chill of the next thought that finds her:  What to do next?

She was fortunate that Miyako was willing to stick her neck out like that, but it’s unreasonable to assume anyone else would be so bold.  Especially now. 

Perhaps she should cancel her next two appointments today.  Both of them were long shots at the start, but now….

“I thought I might catch you here,” comes a voice that Hisana knows all too well.

Reluctantly, she slows her stride and tries her best not to wince.  To no avail.  The man who falls into step at her side is uncomfortably perceptive. 

“Morning, Captain,” she greets, keeping her gaze locked ahead. 

“Chilly as usual.”

It’s unclear if he is referring to her reception or the weather.   Deciding on the former, she digresses, “Returning from your visit at the Thirteenth?”

“You noticed me there?”  His voice pitches up.

“No.”  She shoots him a sidelong gaze.  “Miss Kotetsu alerted us to your departure.  Where is Lieutenant Ise, by the way?”

“She’s discussing some project or another with Kaien,” answers Kyōraku.  “I left when dear Nanao brought out the spreadsheets and started doing math.”

Hisana hums pensively to herself.  How unexpected.  Rarely does fate present her with an opportunity to simplify her to-do list. 

“I saw your name pop up on the schedule for today, and thought to myself, ‘Self, whatever would such an esteemed member of the Onmitsukidō have need to call upon me and my services?’” Kyōraku hits the last few words so hard that he's practically singing them.

As with all of his performances, Hisana ignores it.  “You mean the Second,” she corrects sharply, “and I called upon your lieutenant and her services, not you and yours.” 

A soft chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat.  “I have a few guesses as to why you wish to darken my doorway.”

“Take your best shot, Captain.”  As if she has any hope of stopping him….

“I wouldn’t suppose your call has anything to do with the announcement concerning the Tsunayashiro, would it?”

“It does not,” sighs Hisana.  “Although, the Tsunayashiro’s recent opinion certainly does complicate things.”

“Hmm.”  Kyōraku strokes his chin and glances skyward in thought.  “My next guess, then, is you’re formally submitting your request for a recommendation.”

Hisana purses her lips but resists the urge to glower at him.  “Byakuya must have already asked if you—”

“He did,” interrupts Kyōraku. 

Fire shoots through her veins at the thought.  Why hadn’t Byakuya said anything to her?  Did he truly expect her to ignore a formal Kuchiki request and leave the legwork to him?

Byakuya….

With a shake of her head, Hisana asks the obvious, “And your answer was?”

“That I’d prefer to hear the request from you.”  Kyōraku tips his head back, which sends the shadow of his hat skittering over her cheek. 

“Was this meeting with Byakuya before or after the Tsunayashiro’s announcement last night?”

“Before.”

The heat from his stare prickles her neck, but Hisana is at a loss.  She hadn’t intended on asking Kyōraku, mostly because she has tried to avoid him ever since…. 

The saner part of her knows she’s being silly.  Of all the monsters who call this city home, he’s the least troublesome one, an acknowledgment that pains her to admit.  A death by his hand, at least, would be earned and clean, which is really saying something.

“This is a bad idea,” she says softly, her heart throbbing as the words hit her. 

“Love often guises itself in fool’s clothing,” Kyōraku replies, then pauses to look her over.  “Given your visit to the Thirteenth, I take it the Shiba have thrown in, now?”

Hearing the implication ringing loud and clear, Hisana rips her gaze away from the captain to stare vacantly into the distance.  It’s not as if she meant to pour gas onto the fire by involving the Shiba.  That was not her intention even though, now, knowing what she knows, it certainly looks that way.

“I didn’t realize that the Tsunayashiro had—” She begins only for Kyōraku to cut her off.

“Did you think they wouldn’t?”

“I knew their position.”  Hisana frowns.  “But I didn’t think they’d make their position public now.”  Without a decision from the Kuchiki to object to. 

“How did you find out?”

“The Shibas told me this morning.”  Her shoulders sag.  “I wouldn’t have asked them had I—”

“Catching your opponent unaware is always the point of an ambush, isn’t it?”

Glancing askance at Kyōraku, Hisana furrows her brow.  “You think the Kuchiki and Tsunayashiro are in league with one another?”

“Certain branches of the Kuchiki, perhaps.  Not the main branch.”

'Not Lord Ginrei Kuchiki' is what he means, a fact that inspires little comfort.  Despite her best efforts, Lord Kuchiki’s mind and intentions remain as inscrutable to her now as the day they first met. 

All of this maneuvering is unsurprising, though.  She’s been waiting for this shoe to drop for a while.  It’s almost a relief that it finally has. 

Almost.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits, her voice low, desolate. 

“Sure, you do.  Or have you forgotten?”

Her brows crinkle.  “Forgotten?”

“You still haven’t asked.”

Hisana opens her mouth.  Hesitation, however, forces it shut, and she glowers at him.  “I swear it on my own soul, Captain, that if I ask, and you say ‘no,’ I’ll—”

“Ask.”

With a snort, Hisana’s gaze darts to the brush lining the walkway.  She really, really does not want to do this.  Prostrating herself today was not on the agenda.  And, yet….

Bracing, Hisana opens her mouth, and her heart stops for a few beats. “Would you serve as one of my recommenders?”

“Yes, but only under one condition.”

Hisana glares up at him.  Amusement glistens in his dark eyes, a perfect complement to the smugness of his grin.  What else was she expecting?  This is Kyōraku, after all.

“And that is?” she grouses.

“You take an assignment from a mutual friend of ours.”

What?  They have no-- 

Then, realization slaps her hard in the head, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to groan. “You can’t be serious.”

With a sly sideways glance, he considers her.  “Make sure you leave a window open.  It’s hard for her to get into places, what with her having no opposable thumbs.”

“Not the fucking cat, again.”  Anything but that fell creature.  “You know she still owes me money.” 

Among other things….

“I have no doubt,” he says.  “She owes a lot of things to a lot of people.”

Hisana really wants to slug him.  Hard.  Fist straight to the face.  “Fine,” she grits out.  It’s not as if she has any better options, and Byakuya already….

“So, you have Kaien’s recommendation—”

“Miyako’s,” Hisana corrects.

“—and my recommendation.  Who’s the third?”

Hisana grimaces. 

“No, go on.  Who is it?” he asks.

She turns her head and looks away.

Through a burst of raw laughter, he says, “She’ll never go for it.”

“I know.”  Lords, does she know.  “But it seems wrong not to ask.” 

And, who knows?  Maybe Suì-Fēng harbors some secret resentment toward the Kuchiki, and this would present her with the prime opportunity she’s been waiting for to enact her revenge.

Probably not, though.

But, hey, a girl can dream…. 

“Even if she liked you enough to perjure herself, given your poor disposition, unprofessional demeanor, and lack of commitment or moral compass—”

Hisana stares up at Kyōraku in wide-eyed, slack-jaw offense.  “What the hell—"

“—she can’t.”

“Can’t?”  Surprisingly, the word pelts Hisana in the heart.  “What do you mean?”

The playful, teasing glee on his face melts as soon as their eyes meet.  For a long moment, his expression goes blank, as if confusion has struck him dumb.  Then, that familiar glint returns to his eyes, and he cocks a brow.  “You have no idea, do you?”

Hisana crosses her arms and narrows her eyes.  “Obviously not.”

“You never wondered why you were placed in the Onmitsukidō?”

“The Second,” corrects Hisana again.  “And, no.”

“No?” Both his brows jump up. 

Of course, she has wondered.  Hisana isn’t stupid.  She’s had her suspicions since the start.  These suspicions have grown fat on a steady diet of internal rumors that she was, indeed, a “political hire.”  But, she’s never asked, never even wanted to know because, ultimately, she’s tired, and, at some point, apathy begins to feel a whole lot like an oasis.   

Kyōraku tilts his head to the side.  The late morning sun glows white in his eyes, and he grins down at her.  “I don’t believe that.”

Hisana closes her eyes and takes a deep cleansing breath. 

Can’t this man let her pretend? 

“Yes, I have wondered,” she finally admits. 

“Why do you think you were assigned to the Onmitsukidō, then?”

“The Second,” she sighs wearily.  “And, that, I don’t know.”  As soon as she feels their pace slow, she tries again, “The Kuchiki probably pulled some strings to put me there.  It’s the unit with the shortest longevity, and it’s no secret they’d prefer me dead than wedded.”

Kyōraku tips his head back and hums to himself.  “I thought that, too.”

Hisana’s gaze slides over to him.  “So, I’m right?” 

“No,” he says firmly.  “The main family would’ve needed to arrange a maneuver that bold, and Ginrei Kuchiki doesn’t appear to have the appetite in plying the Shihōin with political favors to have done it.”

Hisana swallows thickly.  “The Tsunayashiro, however, don’t need a bribe to do as they’ve done?”

“The Tsunayashiro have their own separate reasons for opposing the marriage.  That alignment between the families is organic, not the result of careful bargaining.”

Oh, how the blood pounds in Hisana’s head.  “You think the Shihōin pulled the strings, then?”

“That is the most parsimonious solution.”

“But, why?  I don’t know a single member of that family.”

Kyōraku throws her a knowing look.  “That’s not true.”

“Fine.”  Hisana’s eyelids droop at the implication.  “I don’t know an active member of that family.”

“Ah, so you assume the family would only acquire you as an asset to protect you.”  Staring into the path up ahead, he smirks.  “Tell me, Hisana, do you feel particularly protected there?”

“No,” she says reflexively, “but what other explanation could there be?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, giving a playful shrug of his shoulders.  “Claiming the betrothed of an heir to a rival family could have some useful advantages.”   

Hisana doesn’t believe that for one second, which leads her to a rather cynical conclusion:  “If you’re worried about putting your family’s name on the line in case the Shihōin join the Tsunayashiro in opposing the marriage, just say so.”

Kyōraku’s immediate response is a round of hearty laughter followed by yet more cackling.  When he finally pulls it together for half a second, he quips, “I put my family’s good name on the line for far more frivolous things daily.”

“Then, what’s the concern?”

“Have you no self-preservation?”

“They aren’t going to kill me,” scoffs Hisana.  “What use am I to them as leverage if I’m dead?”

“You started out as leverage,” he observes with a wag of his brows.  “Now, you have a rank and worth outside of being a political captive.  You don’t think they’d be keen to allow one of their spies to run off to a rival clan, do you?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Like what?”

“I know nothing of value to them.”

Kyōraku’s chin jerks up, as if he wasn’t expecting that answer.  “I doubt that’s the case.”

“It’s true.  I know nothing useful concerning them, their ambitions, their inner workings.  Nothing that could be used against them.”

“Good,” says Kyōraku before lengthening his stride to step ahead of her.  “Keep it that way.  You don’t want to get caught in the crosshairs of that family.”

Finally, a point on which they can both agree.

“Why do you care?” she calls after him.

“The peace of the realm,” he replies and then shoots her a wolfish sideways glance.

Hisana watches him for a long moment, her eyes tracing the floral pattern of the woman’s kimono he wears on his back.  Before he is too far out of range, she shouts, “So, when should I expect that letter?”

Not bothering to give her a parting glance, he merely waves his hand. 

“It’ll need to be authenticated!” she reminds him.

He gives her another wave before turning down the side path that leads to the Eighth. 

Not liking the casualness of that gesture, Hisana sucks air through her teeth and shakes her head.  She will go through all this effort only to have him “forget” to authenticate the document.  She knows it.

Setting down the path leading to Squads Four, Five, and Six, she frowns at what she has to do next.  And, she had been so hopeful that her meeting with Nanao would allow her to wiggle out of this next appointment…. 

“Bastard.”

 

 

As much as the World of the Living changes every time she is there, Soul Society remains largely untouched.  There’s a new flower shop where a men’s apparel store had been at the corner of the market that sits at the border of the civilian spaces and the Gotei-occupied ones.  But, beyond that, nothing.

The Fourth is no different.  From the sounds of socked feet drumming against slick floors and wheels banking sharp corners to the astringent smell of chemicals and cleaners, the unit is as she last remembered it.  The lights are still bright and artificial.  The rooms are still small, with glass panes lining their front walls.  The examining room tables are still as hard and cold as ever. 

“Hisana!” And Ogidō is still cheerful.

“Good morning,” she greets him and bows her head.

“I’m glad you didn’t cancel,” he says, reaching for the stethoscope around his neck.

Nervously, Hisana wrings her hands.  “I suppose I have a reputation.”

Slipping the metal chestpiece under her collar, he grins. “Not just you.  No one wants to come here.”

Hisana chuckles.  “I wonder why.”

He changes the position of the chestpiece and pauses a few beats before retorting, “Probably because nothing we do is all that pleasant.”  He then presses the metal to the inside of her wrist. 

Hisana assumes this has to do with her spiritual physiology and anatomy, but she’s never inquired.

Sometimes, knowing less is better.

“You’re doing so well.”  The words hit harder when his gaze slides warmly to meet hers. 

“Hard to fathom that.”

Ogidō straightens before flipping the stethoscope’s tubing around his neck.  “It’s been a long road,” he says gently, “but you will still need that transfusion.”

Hisana frowns but knows better than to protest.  She feels it, too.  Burnout can’t fully explain the extent and depth of her exhaustion.  “I see.”

“Good.”  Ogidō steps to the sink to wash his hands.  “It’ll take thirty minutes once the IV is placed.”

Her gaze falls to the floor, and she nods her head.  “Thank you, Ogidō.”

The sounds of the tap opening wide and water hitting a metal basin help prove soothing, filling the silence with something other than the pressure to chat.  Once the tap closes, the pressure returns, and Hisana drags her attention back to Ogidō.

He is already returning her stare, but, before either of them can say a word, his eyes dart to the door.  “Lieutenant Kuchiki,” he says, his voice tangling in his throat, “a surprise seeing you here.”

Hisana grins into her lap.  Oh, how things truly never change.  Even Byakuya’s calculated intrusion. 

As usual, Byakuya ignores Ogidō’s polite bowing and rattling, instead turning to Hisana.  “One of my men appears to have broken his ankle while performing a standard drill.”

Her grin widens at the excuse.  “How fortunate the soldier has a lieutenant kind enough to personally escort him all the way from Squad Six to the Coordinated Relief Station.” 

Privately, Hisana prays her good lord did not also personally injure his subordinate to effectuate this boondoggle.  Lifting her head, Hisana drags her gaze up to Byakuya.  There is always a moment of uncertainty when she sees him, a little quiver of dread that their eyes might meet and only a cold wind will blow her direction.

Such is not the case today.  Today, golden daylight threads through her reiatsu, and she breathes easy.  The edges of the room lose their color and shape, and she loses track of Ogidō until he is trying to compress himself through the sliver of space between Byakuya and the doorframe.  Byakuya, too, barely seems to register the man, moving not to allow him space to leave but to step inside the room.

“I will send for the nurse to place the IV,” Ogidō’s voice chimes distantly.  “I’ll tell her to be gentle.  Wouldn’t want to discomfort my favorite patient!”

At this last part, Byakuya turns his head slightly and shoos Ogidō out of the room with a glare. 

“Favorite patient?” echoes Byakuya.

Hisana chortles.  “He says that to everyone.”

“He didn’t say that to Yoshii.”

“Your second cousin?”  She doesn’t understand.  Don’t the Kuchiki have their own private physicians?

“Among other things….”

Oh, the injured subordinate.  Of course!  “Do you have many family members in Squad Six?”

“More than is strictly necessary.”

She smiles up at him, which is enough to melt the dreariness that Ogidō’s stray comment seemed to inspire. 

“How was your tea with Kaien?”  He brushes his fingertips over the green pine pattern sweeping across the hem of her sleeve.

“My tea with Miyako went well.”  She nudges the back of her hand into his palm and his hand stills. 

“So, Kaien wasn’t there?” A knowing lilt bends his voice upward.

Hisana doesn’t know how to read Byakuya’s expression.  His gray eyes darken, and the light in them flickers.  He seems transfixed by some private thought.  But what?  It doesn’t seem like it's about Kaien, and yet the urge to lie bubbles all the way up her throat. 

She swallows it down.  Sparing his feelings now will only delay the inevitable reckoning. Even if the truth tastes like bitter medicine.  “Lieutenant Shiba visited with us briefly.”

Byakuya’s hand wraps around hers, his palms sweaty and his grip loose and gentle.  “Did you get your recommendation, then?”

“I did,” she says, pausing to flash him a wide smile.  “Two, in fact.”

His brows furrow.  “Two?  Did Miyako and Kai—”

“No,” Hisana is quick to interrupt.  “Captain Kyōraku was leaving the Thirteenth just as I was.”  Allegedly, but, for Byakuya’s sake, Hisana will keep her suspicions to herself. 

Byakuya goes stiff, and the hollow between his clavicles deepens as if he’s taken a hard gulp of air that he can’t quite let go.

Her thumb rubs a circle into his knuckle.  “Why didn’t you say something?” She tries to keep her voice and face sweet and mild.  It isn’t an accusation, but….

A strip of muscle flickers in his jaw, and he glances away.  “It wasn’t a ‘no,’ and Kyōraku….”  His voice trails into the distance.  “I didn’t think you would make an appeal to him given… everything….”

Tracing the peaks and valleys of his knuckles, Hisana nods her understanding.  “I had thought to ask Lieutenant Ise instead.”  The words sound more like an admission than she intended or even realized.

“He wouldn’t have—”

“I know.” 

Somewhere deep down, she knew Kyōraku would intervene.  He always does.  And, somewhere, deep down, that’s the result she wanted even if she couldn’t force herself to make the request of him directly. 

“Who is your planned third?”

Hisana closes her eyes and shrugs.  “No one.”

He clearly isn’t buying her lie, and, after a painfully long moment, the realization that she has no choice but to come clean finally sinks in.  “My captain.” 

“Your captain?” 

She nods.  “It would be weird if I didn’t ask her, at least, and it’s not as if the Kuchiki hiring committee will know the difference.”  Many very negative but very objective things could be said about Suì-Fēng, but the captain knows how to shut her damn mouth. 

“I see.”  He squeezes her hand and regards her with a tender look.

“I’m sure there’s someone else I could ask.”  Maybe there’s some clueless stooge out there who doesn’t realize what trouble this will cause them.  Especially, now.  Who that brain-dead person might be… she hasn’t a clue. 

It's not like she had a great roster of friends to pull from before becoming a full-fledged member of the Murder Squad.

“But, I told you not to worry.”  Her voice sharpens.  “You do enough for me.”  And she means it. 

A pained expression wrinkles his forehead, but he holds his tongue.  He knows better than to argue with her stubbornness.  It never goes half as well as he seems to hope. 

“Knock, knock,” enters the chipper voice of a nurse.  Hisana’s regular nurse, Tamako, takes one look into the room, and her sunny demeanor melts.  “Oh, you’re still here.”

Hisana’s lips tighten as she tries to hold back a chuckle.  Tamako isn’t the only nurse to have verbalized their agitation with Byakuya, but she is certainly the most colorful and loudest of his detractors. 

“My subordinate—”

“—is being discharged,” interrupts Tamako.

“His ankle is broken,” retorts Byakuya.  “Don’t tell me that the quality at this facility has fallen into such disrepair that you fail to tend to broken bones now.”

“The patient’s bone was not broken.  It wasn’t even strained.  He’s fine.  Now, go do your business.”

“It’s fine, my lord,” Hisana says quietly. 

Byakuya turns to her, his mask of cool arrogance slipping, but only by a fraction.

“No, really,” she reassures him.  “It’ll only be a few minutes, and, then, I have to be off to another appointment.” 

He doesn’t believe her, but he relents with a firm squeeze of her hand.  “Tonight?”

A smile spreads across her face.  “Tonight, my lord.”  And she doesn’t let that smile slip until he is well beyond her line of sight. 

Only then—only when she can no longer sense him and the fluid from the IV bag begins to flood her system—does her heart throb in her chest, and a wave of regret crashes over her. 

 

 

The treatments at the Fourth never end well, and it takes every ounce of resolve to force herself to walk all the way from the Fourth to the Second’s showers.  The heat and steam from the shower worsen her desire to dive into her bed and sleep.  After all, it is her day off.  She could just melt into her futon.  But, she perseveres, completing her ablutions and dressing in her uniform.  (Hisana doesn’t even want to imagine how her captain would react to her ‘good luck’ kimono.)

The meeting with Captain Suì-Fēng starts off in the usual way:  She’s standing in her office with her back facing the door, arms crossed in front of her, staring out onto the execution yard. 

Hisana goes back and forth about why her captain’s greeting is always a cold shoulder.  Maybe it’s to put the subordinate on guard and establish the hierarchy.  Maybe it’s to distance the captain from the emotional plights of her peons.  Maybe it’s because Suì-Fēng has social anxiety when she’s not the one issuing the questions.  Or, maybe it’s tradition.

“Your purpose, Hisana?” 

Taking the question as an invitation to proceed, Hisana steps across the threshold, and the massive doors rumble shut behind her.  She’s never liked the offices at the Second.  From their heavy wooden paneling to their ornately gilded furniture, there is an opulence to them that stifles rather than invites.  The captain’s office is no different. 

Hisana’s first instinct is to look for something comforting—a hint of humanity or whimsy in the darkness.  She turns up wanting.  The captain is choosing to be an enigma today, which never bodes well….

“I am requesting a recommendation—”

“Finally,” the captain sighs and tips her head to the side.

Hisana’s mouth wraps around a word that never makes it out.  A fear of hoping too soon steals her voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me to give you my recommendations on an improvement plan for years,” the captain continues, turning to her desk.

Ah, there it is, the misunderstanding.  “Captain, that’s not—”

Ignoring Hisana, Suì-Fēng gestures to the chair in front of her desk.  “Go.  Sit down.  I have so many thoughts.”

Hisana gapes momentarily, her eyes wide and her breath tangling in the back of her throat.  She might be more offended if she didn’t find this exchange so amusing.  “Captain—” she tries again.

“First, your attitude could use some work.  Who am I kidding?  Your attitude needs an entire overhaul.”  Suì-Fēng runs her hand over the wooden detailing spiraling up and out of the top rail of her chair.  Then, her gray eyes hook into Hisana, and, with irritation, she commands, “I said sit down.  This is going to be a long list.”

Not knowing what else to do, Hisana crosses the floor.  Her hands lace together in a sweaty ball, but she does as bid, pausing only to bow her head politely before taking a seat.  She’s just about to open her mouth when she’s cut off by a quick gesture.

“You talk too much,” observes Suì-Fēng.  “I’m sure someone at one time or another found all that talking cute, but, rest assured, that person was an idiot.”

Okay, that was kind of funny.  Hisana awards her captain a point for making her giggle.  Privately.  Inside.  No one laughs while in the presence of Captain Suì-Fēng.

“You’re also a terrible listener.  Which, I suppose, is a side-effect of all the aforementioned talking,” Suì-Fēng continues, glancing up as if to chase a stray thought.  “There is simply too much to cover.”  She sighs.  “You really should’ve put forth an agenda a week in advance to make this meeting more productive.”

“Captain, I think you misunder—”

“—add that to the list: You’re inconsiderate.  Fix that first.”  She stops short and shakes her head.  “No, strike that.  Fix your attitude first.  You need to be more of a self-starter, really own the task at hand, dive into the work, and problem-solve independently.”

Hisana sucks in a sharp breath.  “Captain, you’re not—”

“What?” asks Suì-Fēng.  “Did you think I was going to go easy on you?”

Hisana shakes her head.  “No, that’s—”

“Because you asked for recommendations on how to improve, so listen.”

“—that’s not what I—”

“—mostly, your issue is one of commitment—”

“—Captain, I am really not—”

“—you should come off this desire of yours, Hisana, to lie low.  You should be in the field, where you’re useful.”

Hisana’s fingers curl into a tight fist, but she bites her tongue.  They have been over this at least three times already.  It’s not safe for her to return to the mission with her cover so badly blown.  But, there’s no use in relitigating the point.  Her captain is desperate with so many agents down or dead.

“I wasn’t asking for an improvement plan, Captain,” she says as soon as the air clears. 

Suì-Fēng jerks her chin up, and her jaw hardens.  “Then, what—”

“I was asking if you would write me a recommendation.”

“What?  You want me to write the list down.”  Suì-Fēng pauses to consider this, her keen eyes retreating to the desk.  “I mean, I suppose I could do that.  It would probably be useful for you to study—”

“No, you’re not hearing me.”

“Then, what is it?”

“I want you to recommend me to the Kuchiki.” Hearing the words spoken aloud, the remaining shred of Hisana’s pride shrivels up and dies on the spot.  Her worst nightmare has come to life:  She sounds like some frivolous socialite making a fuss about being snubbed at a party.

Suì-Fēng’s brows pull together, and she leans forward, her gaze sharp and wet like new steel.  “Recommend you for a position at Squad Six?  Why?  Are you looking to rank up because—”

“No, I’m not looking to ‘rank up,’” Hisana crows, “I’m looking to become Byakuya Kuchiki’s wife.” 

Knives!  It feels like hot knives stabbing into her chest to say what she wants out loud.  Everyone else at least had the good sense to talk around what she was truly asking for, minds mutually focused on the next impossible task that the family doled out without ever pausing to consider why anyone would do any of this in the first place.

It's stupid, but hearing it in her own voice using her own words makes wanting to be his wife seem… too real, almost tangible.  It is as if she’s just exposed some deep-seated secret, one that has been keeping her going for far longer than she’d like to admit and one that she refused to tell a soul, no matter how hard they pried until this very second.  And who does she, in her infinite wisdom, decide to share this vulnerability with?  The fucking captain of Murder, Inc.

Hisana would cry if she weren’t so busy feeling ashamed.

Suì-Fēng’s stares at her unblinking, her face a mask of wide-eyed incomprehension.  Then, without warning, she bursts into laughter.  Riotous, raucous, indulgent laughter, which is precisely not the reaction Hisana was hoping for.  “That’s a good one, Hisana.”

Hisana inhales a breath so deep that the muscles between her ribs start to burn.   

“That was a joke, right?”

Hisana looks away.

“You can’t be serious.”  Suì-Fēng sounds genuinely bewildered.  “You want to throw all of this away to be some nobleman’s wife?”  She says it as if “wife” is comparable to “kitten-murderer.”

“All of this?” snaps Hisana.  “What, exactly, is ‘all of this,’ anyway?  Because as far as I can tell, ‘this’ looks a whole lot like me dying unceremoniously in an abandoned warehouse.  And, for what?  The privilege of cleaning up some other squad’s mess?”

Silence blankets the room.  Cold, dark silence.  The kind that’s potent enough to strangle a throat.

Suì-Fēng pins Hisana with a look that would caution better men.  “No.”  Sinking into the back of her chair, the captain crosses her arms and stares, gaze unrelenting.  “I won’t put my good name on the line for a coward.”

Hisana blinks through the urge to flinch at the word “coward.”  It stings.  Stings worse than she thought a word ever could.  And, she knows why.  Deep down, she knows it stings this badly because… well… she agrees. 

She is a coward.

But... perhaps not in the way the captain intends.

“Well," says Hisana, clearing her throat, "it doesn't sound like you are keen on receiving an invitation to the wedding." 

Suì-Fēng's eyes narrow.  "For a girl too scared to fulfill her duty to her squad, you certainly are eager to jump into the political fray involving families who would sooner rip you apart than bring you into their fold."   

Seeing nowhere else to go but through the door, Hisana nods her understanding.  "Thank you for your time, Captain,” she says, then rises to her feet. 

When she turns to bow her goodbye, it feels like a gesture made into the coldest of darks.

 

 

“Miss Hisana!” chirps one of the new recruits, flapping a large manilla envelope in front of her.  The recruit is young with a round face and bright, shiny eyes. 

Briefly, Hisana wonders if she was ever this excited to hand someone a file. 

Never, she decides, taking the envelope from the girl.  Never ever.

“I thought today was your day off,” the girl begins, her words so quick that they run together into a single, high-pitched squeaking noise.  “You’ve been in the field for some time now, and I’m so excited that you’re back.  Maybe you could teach me--” 

“Today is my day off,” Hisana interrupts, half-afraid of where this thread might end if she doesn’t snip it right away.  “But thank you for your enthusiasm and hard work.”  The urge to tack on the girl’s name is there, but Hisana’s got nothing.  She no longer bothers learning the new recruits’ names.  She’s been burned too many times.  Very few of them stick around beyond a year or two.  Most of them are lost to death or catastrophic injury.  The few who make it are fast-tracked up the ladder to fill all the officer vacancies….

“Of course!” the girl bows deep and low.  “I think you’ll like what I found.  It was buried deep in the archive.”

Hisana nods approvingly and turns on her heels before realizing that she doesn’t remember what she even asked the girl to do in the first place.  Glancing over her shoulder, she asks, “And this information pertains to what, exactly?” 

“Oh, yes, you inquired as to whether there was any archived mention of the Twelfth’s research that went missing.”

“Was there?”

The girl straightens from the bow that she’s been holding for no fewer than ten straight seconds and nods her head.  “It looks like someone from Squad Five may have referred to information related to aspects of the research before it went missing.”

“Squad Five?”  That sounds messy. 

“Umm hmm,” hums the girl. 

Hisana forces a smile and waves the file in front of her face.  “Thank you!” 

 

 

So, apparently, it was a member of Squad Five who alerted the Central Chambers to the fact the research went missing.  This comes as news to Hisana.  The meeting minutes before the Chambers appear to have been inappropriately filed for public access, and whoever was in charge of the redactions was definitely not on their A-game.     

Scanning through the documents one more time, Hisana reaches for the door to her room.  She can’t shake the feeling that this is some sort of trap.  Flipping over the file to check the seals and document numbers, she frowns.  Everything looks legitimate.  She’d need a specialist to confirm, though.

Carelessly, she flings open the door and steps into her room, only to be met with an electric jolt.  Her body reacts before her mind can process the threat, and when it does, she’s left with a cold sinking feeling in the pit of her gut as her attention latches onto the rumpled sheets of her bed.

While Hisana isn’t a neat freak per se, she’s usually pretty good about making her bed, especially when she’s about to be abroad for an extended period of time.  There’s nothing worse than coming back home, beaten and exhausted, only to clean your prior self’s mess.

Running through the reasons why someone might have rumpled her sheets, the two likeliest theories leave a lot to be desired.  Either someone mistook her room as their own (probably while intoxicated) and slept in her bed, or there’s something dangerous hidden in the sheets.  Most concerned about the latter, Hisana gingerly rips back the comforter and gasps.

Fear, raw and wild, claws into her chest and shoves her back a few steps.  Once she realizes the extent of the danger, she giggles.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” she says quietly, then reaches down to let the very large, very black snake coil around her arm.   As soon as she straightens to fully examine the snake, a little tag flutters onto the bed.

With two fingers, she plucks the thin strip of paper and grins.  The tag reads “500,000 kan,” but that’s not all.  One glancing touch reveals that the paper is spellbound.  The spell is light and easy to miss if you’re not used to the craft of spiritually weak spellcasters.  A warm breath and a flick of the wrist is all it takes to transform the tag into a proper note that reads:

HI THERE!!!

I hope you are alive and well, all things considered…. 

If you’re reading this note, you’ve probably noticed that someone wishes you ill or dead.  (Probably dead!)  That someone dropped by my herpetarium to purchase a Riverbed Taipan (very venomous!) as a “gift.”  After cross-referencing the addresses of our Silver Tier Hippity Hoppity Frog Friends Members, we saw there was a match!  That match (unfortunately) was you. 

But, never fear!  At Masamitsu’s Exotic Forever Friends, we value our Silver Tier Members!  As part of your membership, Exotic Forever Friends will always cross-reference purchase orders to ensure the lives (and limbs!) of our cherished Forever Homes remain intact!  And, so, we sent you this adorable Riverbed Python instead! 

We call him “Bill Slithers.”  Bill is very friendly and is fantastic at sniffing out and hunting rats.  Please ensure there is fresh clean water available to him at all times.

We hope Bill brings you as much joy as he has brought our family. 

Very Truly yours,

Masamitsu

P.S.

Kiko and I are finally tying the knot during the second week of spring.  If you cannot attend, we’d appreciate donations, which you can send to the enclosed address….

Hisana snorts before destroying the note in a puff of smoke.  She never signed up for Silver Tier membership, although Masamitsu is a sly one.  She should probably check her accounts for any reoccurring charges…. 

“Well, Bill,” she sighs, then gives the snake a long once-over, “welcome to the Seireitei.  Let’s find you a nice water source.”

Pausing, she imagines Byakuya’s reaction to her strutting toward him on the bridge with a snake wrapped around her neck.  He’d definitely protest her boldness, but secretly, he’d find it amusing.  This last thought warms her deeply. 

Amusing Byakuya Kuchiki is always the best part of her day. 

And, so, she sets out for the bridge….

Chapter 5: Pretty Little Devils

Summary:

Ginrei tries to come to an understanding with Byakuya.

---

---

 

“She found a snake in her bed.”

Ginrei Kuchiki studies the shogi board in an attempt not to sigh.  He isn’t quite sure where this story is going, but he is certain he will not enjoy its finale, as is often the case when his grandson narrates.  “I hope that phrase isn’t some crudely constructed euphemism, Byakuya.”

Byakuya blinks.  “Euphemism?” he repeats, his hand hovering over a pawn and looking as if the word scalded him.

“Yes.  Euphemism: An indirect expression used to veil a meaning that would ordinarily be considered too profane if—”

“I know what a euphemism is,” interrupts Byakuya.  The boy then picks up the tile and sets it down on 7j. 

Ginrei pauses to consider the boy’s position before advancing his own pawn.  “You know how I appreciate conciseness and clarity in all forms of exchange.” 

“She found a snake in her bed, Grandfather.  It doesn’t get much clearer or more concise than that.” 

Ginrei resists the urge to grin at the boy’s fluster.  “I take it that she wasn’t bitten.”

“Obviously not.  The snake wasn’t venomous.”  Byakuya’s lips twist to the side as he considers his next move.  “Hisana apparently holds some membership where the shop swaps out deadly snakes for . . . less deadly snakes.”

“Oh, an extortion scheme that pays to be a part of.  How novel.  Perhaps we should consider subscribing.” Ginrei moves one of his dragon kings and pretends to ignore Byakuya’s irritation.  “Tell me, now, how did Hisana come to know a purveyor of venomous creatures, again?”

“An old friend,” answers Byakuya drily. 

“How lively her history seems.  Did she meet this old friend while charming cobras?”  Ginrei cannot resist.  Mentions of Hisana’s past always seem to goad the boy into speaking his piece and moving along.  Although, perhaps it is only natural.  The whole family appears to suffer from what can only be described as a “collective amnesia” regarding how their family amassed wealth and power.

“Of course not,” answers Byakuya, stiffly.

“That was a euphemism.”

“I am aware.”  Byakuya moves another pawn forward. 

“Well, what became of the snake?”

“Hisana deposited it near the river.”

“On our side or the market’s side?”

“Ours.”

Ginrei frowns, but before he can ask another question, Byakuya stops him with a pointed, “The snake is of a type known to prey on rats.”

“Oh.”  Ginrei’s brows rise as he moves his other dragon king.  “I was unaware that we have a rat infestation.”

“I as well.”

Byakuya must think the death threat emanates from within their family, which fair enough.  The Kuchiki have been known to roll up their sleeves and enact great violence on those who dare to oppose them.  In this instance, the boy’s fears are woefully misplaced.  Any hostility felt toward Hisana is more fleeting, less acute.  She is a passing annoyance for some of the more petulant members of the family, the ones who require a diversion from the endless boredom that characterizes their long and unremarkable lives. 

Surely, Byakuya must know that much. 

One glance at the boy, however, convinces Ginrei otherwise. “To the extent that there is a rat infestation in Seireitei, it does not fester on Kuchiki soil.”

“Whose soil, then, Grandfather?”

“Hisana is a member of the Onmitsukidō.”  There’s no telling who might wish her dead, an implication that Byakuya appears to understand, judging by how his back stiffens and his shoulders level. 

“You’re telling me that no one in this family prays for her untimely demise?” argues Byakuya.

“Members of this family pray for all manner of silly things. What I’m telling is you is there are no plots to bring those prayers to fruition.”

The muscles in Byakuya’s jaw shift into tension, but his gaze does not stray from the board.  “What about the Tsunayashiro?”

“What about that family?”  Ah, finally, the boy poses a question befitting his role as heir to the House. 

“They made a public announcement a few days ago.”

“That they did.”

“Is it not worrying?”

“No more worrying than you introducing a proposal that, on its face, breaks the law.”

“A mere administrative rule, not a law,” squawks Byakuya, “and, the proposal was brought internally.  It would seem, then, that the Tsunayashiro wish to preempt our internal processes with their opposition.”  Byakuya’s steely gray eyes rise to meet Ginrei before moving his horse to capture one of Ginrei’s pawns.  “Is that not a concerning infringement upon our own House’s autonomy?”

“Concerning infringement” could sum up the Tsunayashiro’s entire strategy for how they choose to engage with the other Great Noble Families.  For as much as that family waxes poetic about being the oldest, most esteemed House in Soul Society, their preening garners little support among the respective Heads of the other Families.  While the papers are always eager to report on perceived friction between the clans, that friction means little without the force of law or threat of violence.  The Tsunayashiro gestures frequently to these tools, but they are careful to avoid being perceived as the initial aggressors. 

Disrupting the peace is considered a transgression among the nobility in Seireitei, one that would not be easily forgiven, and the Tsunayashiro are swift enough to know that public support presents its own leverage.  Without it, they would likely fail to curry support among their lower houses to take the required measures on their behalf.  Their power would then be exposed for what it truly is:  Aggressive PR and little else.

It is a tedious game, though.  Allowing that family to shout and boast without forcing their feet to the fire is deeply unsatisfying work.  Byakuya, hopefully, can demonstrate the wisdom of restraint and ignore their ploys; although, judging by this particular encroachment, it would seem Byakuya is the intended target.  Unsurprising.  His hot-headed temperament is well-known among those who reside in the city, and, given the Tsunayashiro’s chosen framework, it appears they have specifically devised a plot to capitalize on the boy’s worst inclinations.

“The Tsunayashiro are provocateurs, Byakuya.  Nothing more, nothing less.  You would do well to ignore their attempts to agitate your peace.”  Ginrei inhales a deep breath and scans the board for weaknesses.   

“Why are the Tsunayashiro involved, Grandfather?”

“Involved?”  Ginrei asks, moving his flying dragon out of harm’s way.

“Yes, involved.  Someone in our house surely involved them in this matter.”  Byakuya promotes his dragon horse, and Ginrei frowns.

The boy’s intuition is sound.  Theoretically, no other family should be aware of their internal proceedings or the nature of the measure being considered.  The only non-family member involved in this discussion thus far is Hisana, who is an unlikely ally of the Tsunayashiro.  There is no reason to doubt that the leak springs forth from the top, as is most often the case.  Haruko is an obvious candidate, but her own separate distrust of the Tsunayashiro likely prevents her from enlisting their aid. 

Although….

Perhaps his affection for Haruko has clouded his judgment.  Haruko managed to navigate around the financial devastations predicted to arise due to her daughter’s divorce from a member of the Matsunaga clan.  Most of the analysts who were consulted opined that the Matsunaga would revert several of their most profitable supply lines to the Tsunayashiro for protection in retaliation.  This outcome and its consequence cascade, however, went wholly unrealized for reasons that no one at the time sought to understand completely.

Looking back, maybe it was an error not to investigate further. 

“That is likely the case, Byakuya.”  Ginrei resists the sigh building in his chest as he puts forth his rook to defend the dragon king that he had advanced a few moves prior.

“You said no rats were denning in our soil, Grandfather.”

“You’re torturing a metaphor, now.” Ginrei’s voice cuts a harsher tone than intended, but he proceeds as if it was his design all along, casually advancing his pawn. “I said the members of this House did not conspire to threaten Hisana’s life.  I did not deny the fact that this House is full of half-wits who would invite poorly intentioned interlopers into our proceedings so that they may escape the inconvenience of taking accountability for their own actions.”

“Is that the plan, then?  Claim the clan’s hands are bound by the Tsunayashiro’s opinion?”

“That does seem to be a plan, at least among the more craven members of our family.  The more sensible ones only need to point to the law they’d be complicit in breaking by granting you this permission to come to a similar resolution.”

“Then, perhaps it is time to call a vote.”  Byakuya brings forward his flying dragon on the right side. 

“Byakuya,” Ginrei warns.

“I have waited almost ten years for this family to make its decision, and I will wait no—”

“Ten years is a blink of an eye to this family,” snaps Ginrei.  “It is hardly a feat deserving of note, let alone praise.”

“It isn’t a blink of an eye to….”  Byakuya’s voice wavers.  Only then does Ginrei glance up from the board, where he finds his grandson regarding him with an expression of raw turmoil. 

Pity.  Ginrei hates taking pity on the boy, but it’s the singular emotion that finds him.  “Has Hisana’s condition—”

“No,” Byakuya answers reflexively.  “It isn’t her condition.  It’s her….”

“Her station.” Dismaying as it is, Ginrei is defenseless against the fact that members of Squad Two tend to have very short tenures.  It’s remarkable that Hisana has been able to survive this long.   

“I won’t let them delay with that goal in mind.  I did as I promised.  Not a moment more,” retorts Byakuya.

Folding his arms across his chest, Ginrei frowns at his dragon king begging to be brought over from the center.  “What is your plan when the family formally issues their opposition to the marriage?”

“I will defect,” answers Byakuya, resolute in both tone and demeanor.

And, there is no reason to doubt the boy’s sincerity, making this entire farce all the more ridiculous.  Even worse, he isn’t entirely sure who is more absurd:  The family members who are willing to lose one of their most talented scions to pedantry and peer pressure or the boy who is willing to turn his back on this Great Noble Family for the love of some peasant girl.   

Closing his eyes, Ginrei loosens a hard breath and shakes his head.  If only a time machine that actually worked as intended were available, he would stuff himself inside it and stop Byakuya from ever meeting Hisana.  But, alas!  Here he is, confronted by the earnest stupidity of a youth who considers himself in love.

“You don’t mean that, Byakuya,” he mutters. 

“I do.”

“What if—”

“No,” the boy says flatly. 

“You haven’t considered—”

“If it is an offer less than marriage, the answer is ‘no.’”

Ginrei shoots Byakuya a withering stare.  To no avail.  No amount of withering stares ever seems to work on youths who are as dug into their bad idea as Byakuya seems to be.   “Why, then?”

“Legitimacy.  Protection.  Proximity.”

“No one questions the legitimacy of your bond as it now stands, and your offer of protection is limited once you exit the family.  Society will consider you but a lowly lieutenant, and Hisana will remain trapped at the Second.  As for proximity, tell me, is anyone standing in your way currently?”

Byakuya looks away to hide his fury, but it is no use.  From the tension in his jaw and neck to the rigidity in his fingers as he grips the arms of his chair, fury marks him.  “You don’t understand the half of it.”

Ginrei severely doubts that.  “Then, elucidate.”

“As to legitimacy and protection, I mean legal legitimacy.  Legal protections.  I mean the inability of anyone to tear us apart through their ceaseless meddling and administrative maneuvers.  As for proximity, I want her by my side, no matter the occasion.  Official functions.   Official recordkeeping.” 

Ginrei bites his cheek, allowing the urge to scold the boy to wash over him.  “Well, then,” he says, stretching forward to move his dragon king, “it is true there is no counteroffer that can fully satisfy either your definition of legal legitimacy or proximity, but there are administrative maneuvers available that would ensure Hisana is taken care of in the event of your untimely death, and the family is willing to make certain assurances.”

With a stare as hard as granite, Byakuya advances his iron general on the left.  “It would be a fool’s errand to place trust in the assurances of this family or the administrative procedures of the Noble Assembly.  Informal promises are forgotten as easily as the winds shift.  And, administrative maneuvers mean nothing if the tools to effectuate those maneuvers go missing or become inaccessible or void due to a well-timed error or sudden rule change.”   

“What if I provided the requisite assurances?”

“And after you die?”  Byakuya stares into Ginrei’s eyes.  “Or have you simply resolved to live forever?” 

Ginrei purses his lips in amusement. 

At least the boy has thought far enough ahead to realize that his death would present more complexity than solution to the situation at hand.  Because, yes, while Byakuya is set to take the reins after Ginrei’s demise, the family will no doubt see that transition period as a leverage point to renegotiate any bargains made during Ginrei’s tenure.  While Byakuya does not covet the position of clan leader, others in the family do.  Ginrei has confidence that Byakuya would do his duty if it meant avoiding a violent fracture within the House.  This, however, would result in Byakuya losing his leverage of abdication and being forced to accept worse terms in the aftermath. 

Well, damn.

No wonder Byakuya is so hellbent on making a disruption to the line of succession Ginrei’s problem, now.

Ginrei shoves down his frustration before it can leak out as a groan.   “You could take Hisana as a concub—”

“No.  Never.  I would never put her through that.”  Byakuya’s voice hits a somber chord, and his gaze drops to the board.

“Perhaps, then, Hisana’s recommendations will mediate the effect of the Tsunayashiro’s announcement,” sighs Ginrei before moving a flying dragon behind his dragon king.  The chances of that happening are remote but possible.

“I don’t know about that,” says Byakuya. 

“Go on.”

With a grim look, Byakuya advances his lion.  “She still requires a third—”

“A third?” echoes Ginrei.

“A third recommend—”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Byakuya’s attention snaps up, but the keenness of his gaze is severely undercut by the knot in his brow.  And, so, Ginrei proceeds without waiting for his grandson’s response, “My office has received more than three recommendations as it presently stands.”

“What?”  Byakuya blinks.  “How?”

“I requested recommendations per the usual protocol since Haruko is bent on turning our family discussions into a hiring committee,” Ginrei replies, careful to keep his tone firm and words crisp to avoid revealing the unspeakable truth of the matter. 

That unspeakable truth?  Well, it was difficult to ignore the pang of sympathy that struck his heart the night of the quarterly meeting when Hisana arrived so badly battered and beaten and yet so determined to rally for one last battle.  To allow Haruko success on this front would’ve been as tone deaf as it was ridiculous.

So rarely is Ginrei moved to charity these days.  Even rarer is when he acts on such stirrings.  But, in this instance, to do nothing would have reflected poorly on him and his leadership.

Byakuya’s eyes widen.  “What do you mean by ‘requested recommendations’ and ‘usual protocol’?”

“As you know, it is standard procedure to address inquiries to a potential employee’s former superiors.”  Ginrei brings up his violent ox on the left to defend his rook. 

“Who have you received recommendations from?”

“The usual sources.  The president of the Academy.”  Ginrei pauses briefly to cut Byakuya a knowing look and also to watch as the boy pales in response.  “Captain Unohana, to whom she volunteered considerable time while at the Academy.  That old, irascible antiquarian bookstore proprietor, who I did not expect a response from, but who nonetheless replied.  I also received a formal confidential letter from House Shihōin, but I assumed that was Hisana’s doing since it is poor form for a prospective employer to request a recommendation from a current employer when the terms of the position remain so tentative.

“Also, likely Hisana’s doing is the letter of support from House Shiba that we received this morning.”

Byakuya stares at him like a beached fish, eyes wide and unblinking and lips parted.  Very unseemly for an heir, but not so unexpected given the circumstances.

“You appear surprised,” Ginrei can’t help but chide. 

Byakuya instantly transforms from a floppy fish to a sulky adolescent.  “None of it matters, Grandfather.  Even with the approval of two other Great Houses—”

“One other House,” Ginrei snaps.  “The Shihōin’s letter was sent under strict confidentiality.”

Byakuya frowns.  “One other, then.  The point still stands.  The family made these requests with one goal in mind:  To waste our time.”

“Oh, I can think of at least two other goals these requests achieve.”  Those other goals being: to dishearten Hisana and drive her away.

“I wish to call for a vote, then.  They have all the information they require, and, if this keeps on, it only allows the more malignant members a chance to take a swipe at Hisana, and she….”  Byakuya stops himself before his voice breaks.

“And she . . . what?” 

“She doesn’t deserve it.”

There is a genuine sadness pooling in the boy’s eyes, one that plucks at Ginrei’s singular heartstring despite his best efforts not to be taken in by sentimentality.  But, before Ginrei can ask a question with the hopes of killing this niggling feeling dead, Byakuya prevents him.

“She only submits to their hazing because of me.  Because she feels she owes me the price of her peace.  But, I can’t keep asking her, especially since it has become abundantly clear that there is nothing either of us can do to convince the family to approve.”

“How interesting now that you mention it.”

“Mention what?”

“We have discussed what you want at length for nearly ten years.  And, yet, until this moment, I haven’t heard you voice any consideration as to Hisana.” To shove the knife in deeper, Ginrei adds, “What does she want from all this? Beyond paying you back for the perceived privilege of your company.” 

With a heavy brow, the boy traces the etching in the horned falcon tile for a long, sorrowful moment.  “She’s practical,” he says finally.

“Practical,” muses Ginrei, uncertain whether he wants to file down the ambiguity on that word.

At least one of you is.  Ginrei stops short of saying it aloud because that’s not how he actually feels.  Byakuya’s stubbornness is frustrating, but the boy isn’t delusional, and his interest in Hisana appears to have gone beyond mere cathexis and into… genuine affection. 

And so….

There is no use in avoiding a reality so readily apparent.  The family is content to drag out this proceeding until forced to do otherwise.  As it stands, the proposal won’t survive a vote.  There isn’t enough support to satisfy the already reduced threshold of a supermajority.

“Do you truly plan to abdicate your position within this family if your request fails?” asks Ginrei.

Byakuya looks him in the eye and nods.  “I do.”

Ginrei sighs.  “Then, submit your plan of abdication for my review, and I will force a vote.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”  Byakuya bows his head politely before scooting his chair back to give him the space to rise.

“This is a mistake,” warns Ginrei before the boy can slip through the door leading to the engawa. 

Byakuya pauses for a few moments.  A few terrible, hopeful moments, as if he might come to his senses and reconsider.  But, as soon as Byakuya glances over his shoulder, Ginrei knows love has prevailed over reason and duty. 

“I respectfully disagree,” Byakuya answers with the easiness of a man who has shed a thousand pounds of burden.  “Thank you for your time this morning, Grandfather.”

Then, the boy is gone.

* * * *

 

The solution to this mess is an obvious one, but pride steals its desirability.  

What, then, is Ginrei to do but attempt another route? 

This realization leads him to ponder:  What other routes could there be?  Perhaps he could advise Byakuya to behave more charitably toward his relatives to curry their favor.  Memories of the countless teas that have ended in unanticipated disaster over the course of the last ten years, however, advise Ginrei to consider alternative strategies.

Bribery tends to work except…. 

Except it doesn’t.  Not really.  At least, not within the entire family.  Offering bribes to key branch houses would create an environment of perverse incentives that would encourage hold-outs, further recalcitrance, games of one-upmanship, and internal back-biting.  The Kuchiki are dysfunctional as is.  No need to socially engineer more of the same.

Haruko has already tried her hand at bribing Hisana, a scheme that also did not work.  To Hisana’s credit, it does not appear that she revealed this ploy to Byakuya because if she had….  It would take an imagination far more colorful and dramatic than Ginrei’s to envision how much worse the relationship between aunt and nephew could be.

Despite Haruko’s failure, the thought has crossed his mind a few times.  A bribe issued from the Head of the House might come across as more threatening, more severe.  The result, however, would likely be more of the same.  Although, given his role in the family, it is doubtful that Hisana would extend him the same courtesy that she had shown Haruko.  And, if Byakuya learned of such a scheme, his relationship with his grandson and lieutenant would be irreparably damaged.  

So, bribes are out. 

Wining and dining the family is also out.

What else is there? 

Ginrei could refuse to accept Byakuya’s separation.  But, that, too, is fraught with peril.  Byakuya would likely respond by leaving the house and marrying Hisana in some barbaric swamp village, where they would no doubt decide to live in a flea-infested hut and have a million soot-faced children.  Accordingly, Byakuya would likely refuse to partake in any of the required family ordeals, and, after years of dereliction of duty, the family would be forced to choose a new successor, rendering him a member of House Kuchiki in name only and a member of House Shiba in spirit.

Damn, why must it be this hard?  To think he was finished with raising children.  What a lark.  Why isn’t Sōjun here?   

At this last thought, Ginrei pauses. 

Wistful regret, the worst emotion of them all, crashes through him. 

Sōjun was a better man than all of the Kuchiki combined, yet he isn’t here.  Not here to talk sense into nonsense.  Not here to locate the signal through the noise.  Not here to take the reins and show his son how to lead with grace.

No, he, too, severed himself from this family.  Not by choice.  Fate found him first.  If not fate, Haruko probably would’ve gotten to him next, a thought that drags a dark chuckle from Ginrei.

Perhaps Sōjun living would’ve smoothed over the rough edges.  Given them the illusion of time.  Perhaps the family would’ve eventually warmed to having a peasant Lady Kuchiki.   

Sōjun’s death, however, has quite the opposite effect, making inescapable the hard truth that the family will take, and take, and take until there is nothing else left to give.  Fortunately for Sōjun, he had a son to tide him over.  Byakuya, however, has….

Before Ginrei can strangle the next thought, his gaze so happens to land on two large weeping cherry trees about a stone’s throw from the footpath leading to the First.  The last time he noticed these centuries old trees was last spring, as he was returning from a viewing party.  It was right around here where he caught his errant grandson canoodling with the peasant girl.

Perhaps canoodling is too uncharitable a word.  They weren’t doing anything terribly inappropriate beyond sharing a blanket and gazing into the trees.  Byakuya had been regaling the poor girl with stories about their history.  His face had been so animated and his tone so lively.  If not for this wholesome display of sincerity, Ginrei would’ve smacked him in the head before ordering him to cease boring the girl with stories about trees.  No girl is that interested in trees. 

Hell, he isn’t that interested in the trees, and he’s the one who planted them!

Except….   

Well…. 

Except Hisana had all the appearance of genuine interest.  Perhaps her interest did not extend to the trees' history, but she appeared very taken by Byakuya’s interest in telling her the story.  Her eyes were bright and keen, and her attention was locked on the boy as if he was the only subject her mind was capable of comprehending.  If there had been any artifice in her regard for Byakuya, Ginrei did not perceive it. 

Nor did either of them seem to perceive him, standing there, a stone’s throw away, and not at all concerned about keeping his presence hidden.  Such is the way of lovers.  They easily become blind to everything around them. 

Ginrei had left them without saying a word.  Teasing Byakuya would’ve broken the spell, and, well…. No one wishes for a disruption when so ardently engaged.  This goes doubly for disruptions involving him.

Perhaps he should speak with Hisana, if not with the goal of running her off, then at least with the goal of determining her intentions.  He sees her often enough.  Glimpses of her, at least, through the remnants of her time spent with Byakuya at the estate.  On the occasions when they have spoken less formally, she has greeted him appropriately, politely, warmly.

He still can’t get a read on her.

Byakuya’s opinion of Hisana is evident, given what he intends to sacrifice to keep her company.  And, yet, Haruko’s opinion of the girl cuts the opposite direction, as she’s convinced Hisana is a demoness sent straight from Hell itself to enact revenge upon their family.  As fantastical as that sentiment may seem, it isn’t wholly without merit.  If emissaries from Hell ever were sent to enact great revenge, the Great Noble Families would be at the top of the list.      

As for others’ opinions on the girl….

Well, the letters they’ve received thus far are all positive indicators, but letters can conceal more than reveal.  The written word is too prone to overthinking and etiquette, which, of course, is preferable to enduring unpolished thoughts that wander into tangles and bramble, but it often forsakes honesty at the altars of precision, ego, and internal consistency. 

What to do? 

He could invite her to tea.  This thought, however, immediately elicits a frown. 

A formal invitation would put her on guard, and this assumes that Byakuya would not intercept the invitation and intervene.  Neither of those options sounds particularly enticing.  Ginrei has had about his fill of both formality and Byakuya on this subject.

Still, there must be some way for him to assess her and her intentions beyond the occasional stray glance or secondhand report.

“This is all your fault, Sōjun,” he mutters. 

If only Sōjun were still here. He was so adept at handling the boy and sparing Ginrei the aggravation of schooling a soul that too closely reflects his own…. 

 

* * * *

 

Very few actionable items are ever generated from a Captain’s Meeting.  This truism holds even when times are uncertain.  The meetings serve mostly to provide various status updates, which, in turn, are meant to promote “transparency” among the squads.  But these, too, take on such familiar forms over time as to become meaningless chatter. 

Case in point: Today's meeting begins with the Second and Twelfth bickering over lost documents that may (or may not) have made their way to the World of the Living.  How many misplaced items or pieces of sacred knowledge have made their way to places they ought not to be?  Too many, quite frankly. And yet, the realms persist.  

Similarly, the annual financial and productivity requests remain due from the usual suspects (which are always, without fail, squads Eight, Ten, Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen).  The Fourth is experiencing an uptick in patient traffic due to the intensification of the war in the World of the Living.  Everyone is hopeful that the humans will come to their senses soon, which is such a perennial hope that it’s almost not worth mentioning.

Unsurprisingly, the items of intrigue tend to be less predictable and come from a more personal well, which is why Ginrei preferred to take his walks to the Captain’s Meetings with the former captain of the Second, a woman who never failed to deliver amusing anecdotes regarding the murkier undercurrents of intersquad relationships, and his return walks to the Sixth with Sōjun, who would provide valuable commentary on how the lieutenants were coping with whatever new initiative was being promoted to improve the lives of souls across the spectrum.  Unfortunately, the new captain of Squad Two is less open and vibrant, rendering her an unsuitable walking companion, and Byakuya is reluctant to share any insights gleaned from the lieutenant set, which likely has more to do with him being young and green than there being nothing of note to report. 

Today, however, an unexpected diversion draws Ginrei’s eye as he heads toward the room where the lieutenants wait for their respective captains to collect them. 

A few of the more senior lieutenants have cornered Byakuya.  Byakuya watches them intently, but not in the way one looks on when engaged and enjoying themselves in conversation.  No, Byakuya watches them as if trying desperately to escape whatever plot has been thrust upon him.  For what it's worth, no one notices the boy’s clear distress. 

This, however, likely explains why Byakuya never has anything of substance to discuss on their return walks to the Sixth. 

“Don’t you hate it when they conspire like that?” teases Shunsui from behind.

Ginrei peers over his shoulder, only to be amused when the captain doesn’t immediately shrink under his gaze.  Perhaps having a young, ridiculous grandson has softened his reputation.  Not that he particularly cares either way….

“Indeed.”  Casually, Ginrei adjusts his gloves, his gaze drifting to find Lieutenant Ise among the group of officers currently cornering Byakuya.

“Little Nanao was disheartened to learn that the shogi tournament was canceled tonight,” Shunsui continues.

“Yes, the Sixth’s officer lounge is under renovation after a mishap involving an unranked officer and a poorly controlled shakkahō spell.”

“That’ll happen,” says Shunsui, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Ginrei’s eyes narrow, but before he can make his suspicions plain, Shunsui interrupts, “You know, we have some leftover provisions from a recent recruitment dinner.  The Eighth would happily host the shogi club in the interim.”

“I wasn’t aware that Lieutenant Ise was such an avid—”

“It’s official,” concludes Shunsui, as if Ginrei had signaled his approval. “Also, this simplifies a few things, now, that I think about it.”

“So that you don’t have to pay the waste disposal fees for all the provisions your squad did not put to good use?” Ginrei retorts.

“No.”  Shunsui pauses as if to think better of his answer.  “Maybe a little bit that, too.  But I have something to deliver to you, and it won’t be ready until then.  So, less me….”  He stops to gesture vaguely at the room.

“Less you doing what?  Work?”

“I’m glad you agree,” Shunsui says with a wink before waving his lieutenant on.  “And glad to be of service, Captain Kuchiki!” 

Before Ginrei can disabuse him of that notion, the captain is gone in a blur, a sight that never fails to be anything less than disquieting, especially from a man of his size and build. 

Stifling the urge to snort, Ginrei returns his attention to Byakuya, who is no longer cornered and is politely saying farewell to Sasakibe. 

“Captain,” greets Byakuya. “How was the meeting?”

“Nothing of concern to note.”

“That is good.”

Patiently, Ginrei waits for Byakuya to say something, anything, to explain what he has been doing for the past five minutes.  When the boy chooses silence instead, Ginrei has no choice but to inquire: “Is all right and well among the lieutenants?”     

“Yes,” comes Byakuya’s laconic reply.

Where was all this reticence a few hours ago? 

Undeterred, Ginrei probes further, “It appeared that your contemporaries had engaged you in some conversation when I arrived.  Hopefully, it was nothing too scandalous.”

Byakuya’s gaze scatters to the hoarfrost clinging the grass that grows along the footpath leading to the Sixth.  “Nothing scandalous, Captain.”

“You know,” Ginrei tries again, “your father was far more forthcoming after taking counsel with his fellow lieutenants.”

“Knowing how you appreciate conciseness and clarity in all forms of exchange, Captain,” Byakuya pauses to meet Ginrei’s gaze, “I can confirm nothing of consequence was conveyed this morning.”

Oh, so the boy is being petulant, now?  A terrible development that surely is.  However, it would be a lie to say this turn is unsurprising because… well… it is surprising.  Byakuya, being a young man, is full of petulance, but it is rare for his petulance to get the better of him. 

“Well, then, Byakuya, what topic was so diverting as to demand your attention upon my arrival?”

“It wasn’t the topic. It was the positioning.”

“Ah, yes, how did you become cornered?”  Usually, Byakuya is very mindful of his surroundings.

“I don’t know.” 

Why must the boy be so difficult?  Fine.  If it is to be this way….  Ginrei tries another approach, one that might shake Byakuya from this mood.  “I am considering inviting Hisana to tea.”

The boy instantly transforms.  His posture straightens.  His eyes widen and then narrow.  “Why?”  Even his voice loses its prior listless affectation.

“To understand her intentions better,” replies Ginrei.  “You provide little in the way of—”

“No,” Byakuya interrupts flatly.

The answer strikes a discordant note in Ginrei’s heart, and he immediately repeats it to test its strength.  “No?” he says, only to discover he likes the word’s taste less than its sound. 

“No.”

Ginrei glances sideways at the boy.  In all his years… what in the tarnation is this?  Byakuya doesn’t even have the self-preservation to feign being chastened.  Instead, he returns Ginrei’s stare, unblinking and seemingly undeterred.

“Leave her be,” says Byakuya quietly.

Well, Ginrei is not having any of that.  Being commanded by a child.  Has his grandson forgotten himself?  Has Byakuya forgotten who he is even addressing?  The audacity of one so young and callow!

He would’ve nev—

Just as Ginrei is about to take another swig of righteous indignation, a memory transports him far back enough into time to rethink the veracity of his prior thought. 

He most certainly did test the waters with his elders when he was young, and likely to a similar effect.  His elders, though, had been more indulgent and more amused by his antics over-- 

What was it again?

Oh, yes, a hollow hunting party. 

How could he have forgotten? 

Ginrei had wanted to test his mettle as a warrior by joining a party trekking into some far-flung forest of the Northern Wilds.  He ended up “winning” the battle of wills by dressing in rags, pretending to be a commoner from the First District, and then infiltrating the hunting party under the alias “Jou,” all of which were certainly choices he made.  Ultimately, his elders won the war when he returned home on a makeshift stretcher and was rendered broken and bedridden for nearly a year.  Perhaps that generation of Kuchiki elders had suffered enough foolish boys by the time they got to him because the ordeal was quickly forgotten. 

Until now.

Ginrei would like to think the elders’ unspoken forgiveness was because he improved with experience, but that’s likely only wishful thinking on his part.  He improved when it came to fighting, for sure, and also judging the wisdom of hunting excursions planned exclusively by members of the Eleventh.  But, he was plenty rash and stubborn in other ways.  Most other ways. 

Bad habits died hard where he was concerned as a boy. 

And… perhaps… he is giving into bad habits once again. 

Byakuya’s willingness to spare Hisana from interrogation is certainly more noble a cause to champion than Ginrei’s desire to join a poorly planned and resourced hunting party.  Perhaps the elders of Ginrei’s time would’ve thought nothing of Byakuya’s proposal.  There was no prohibition on nobles marrying commoners then, and the elders likely would’ve been satisfied that Hisana had spiritual power, a functioning zanpakutō, and a good record of surviving where lesser men failed. 

Times were easier then.

Except… well… they actually weren’t any easier.  Violence, however, has a way of simplifying systems.  Usually, it’s not for the better, but it’s hard to become too wrapped up in genealogies and matchmaking with the threat of war or worse breathing down your neck at all times.    

Ginrei glimpses Byakuya from the corner of his eye.  A look of raw determination sets his features.  His gaze is steely and cold, his jaw is clenched, and his shoulders are even.  He even holds his silence as they pass through the gates of the Sixth. 

“I have no desire to attend Auntie’s soiree in the South Wing tonight,” Byakuya announces.

“Nor do I,” replies Ginrei.  “The shogi club is meeting at the Eighth.”

Byakuya’s stare snaps to Ginrei, but he doesn’t level a word in response.  His thoughts are likely too uncharitable to share. 

“I know,” sighs Ginrei.  “You may join me if you’d like.”

“The game this morning was sufficient.”

A bark of laughter escapes Ginrei as they enter the administrative offices.  “You didn’t even finish it.”

“I had the disadvantaged position.”

Ginrei isn’t too sure about that assessment.  His skill at shogi is middling at best, and yet people hand their wins to him without fail.  He’s never understood why.  Is it intimidation?  Flattery? A way to keep in the good graces of those higher up in the pecking order?  All of the above?

Who can say?

Byakuya, however, rarely humors him in this way. 

“If you have plans with Hisana, just admit it.  No need to placate me with pretty lies, boy,” grumbles Ginrei under his breath.

Byakuya bows politely and retorts, “I wouldn’t dream of it,” before turning down the corridor leading to the lieutenant’s office.

Ginrei pauses to watch Byakuya’s retreating back, wondering whether Byakuya wouldn’t dream of telling him about a date or wouldn’t dream of flattering him.    

And so, for the second time that day, Ginrei curses Sōjun under his breath.

 

* * * *

 

When Ginrei finishes his final task at the Sixth and departs the division, a pit forms in his belly.  This pit never truly goes away, but its presence becomes more noticeable when uncertainty strikes.  At this moment, the uncertainty doesn’t lie in whether a trap has been set, but the how and the why.

The bait is very poor, and the timing is impromptu.  Ginrei should be able to unravel this scheme in an instant, and, yet….  As rare as it may be, some plots are so haphazardly thrown together that no rational mind could understand them, let alone anticipate their particulars. 

If anyone could construct a trap that would confound and annoy even the most practiced tacticians, it would be Shunsui.  The man deals almost exclusively in spur-of-the-moment whimsy. 

A tragedy, that.   

And so, despite his better judgment, Ginrei submits to the spirit of curiosity, half-expecting the Eighth to be woefully underprepared to host the shogi club’s tourney. 

Upon arrival, though, Ginrei’s expectations prove to be unfounded.  The front of the Eighth’s offices has been cleared out and outfitted with tables equipped with boards, provisions, and beverages. So many beverages.  More beverages than sustenance, which Ginrei struggles to locate among the bottles of liquor.

“Captain Kuchiki!” chirps a young officer with a round, bright face and brown hair.  “It is a pleasure to receive you!  I will go alert Captain Kyōraku!”  The officer bows low and for a beat longer than necessary before scurrying to the right, where she disappears behind a door.

Ginrei pans the space, and that pit in the center of his gut now fills with ice water.  Closely, he inspects the officers lingering near the drinks, chatting quietly.  Most of them are regular club members.  He’s faced a fair number of them himself. 

If this is a trap, its trips and coils are neatly hidden. 

“Captain,” greets Lieutenant Ise with quick bow, “it is a pleasure to host the club.”

“I was not aware that you were a member, Lieutenant,” he says, carefully.

“Oh.”  Her half-sleeved hand shoots up to her mouth, and she lowers her head.  “That’s because I’ve been practicing alone.”

Ginrei stares at her, perplexed.  “Practicing? Alone?”

“Yes.  I’ve been learning.”

“How?”

“By reading books. Many, many books. I didn’t want to come unprepared.”

Ginrei frowns.  “We have a beginner’s league.”

“Oh?”  The lieutenant’s eyes widen.  “A beginner’s league?”

“Yes.  Likely a better place to start than by—”

“Well, look at that!” booms a voice that eclipses all other sounds, even the internal ones.

Shunsui….

Ginrei peers over his shoulder to confirm his suspicion, only to do that and more.

“Captain Kuchiki delights us with his presence.”  Shunsui steps across the threshold to his office, sweeping along not only his garish woman’s kimono but also a very familiar face.

“Your offer to host was very—” Ginrei pauses to find a word kinder than ‘convenient,’ before deciding on, “—charitable.”  His gaze then drops from the captain to the woman standing at the captain’s side, Hisana.

“Your timing, as always, is impeccable,” gushes Shunsui, his voice lowering in volume.  “Hisana, here, was just telling me how much she’d like to join a club but hasn’t had the chance yet.”

“I never said that,” protests Hisana.

“She’s very skillful at playing games,” Shunsui continues, oblivious to Hisana’s cross look.  “Especially shogi.”

“I’ve never played shogi a day of my life.”  

“Don’t let her hustle the other players.”  Shunsui gives a hard wink before shoving her toward Ginrei, like some sort of sacrifice.

“I really have no idea—” starts Hisana, but Ginrei isn’t a fool to waste such a prime opportunity.

And so, he cuts her off with a decisive, “I will be the judge of your level, Miss Hisana.”  He then gestures to one of the tables.  “Let us begin.”

Ginrei takes a seat without missing a beat. 

“Don’t let her hustle you, either,” teases Shunsui, much to Hisana’s apparent chagrin and Ginrei’s sincere amusement. 

“Oh, Shunsui,” Ginrei calls before the man can disappear in a blur again.

“Yes, Captain?”  Shunsui forces a wide, overly sunny grin.

“You had mentioned a delivery the last we spoke.”

“I did?”  Shunsui tips his head back, his grin quickly slipping off his face.  “Oh, yes.  Yes, I did.”  Performatively, he pats his chest and hips. 

Ginrei is content to watch this routine all day, and perhaps he would’ve had Hisana not intervened.  “I think he may have been referring to this,” she says, her voice low and drier than the sands of Hueco Mundo, before producing an envelope from her sleeve pocket. 

“Ah,” hums Ginrei as he inspects the letter.  “Very good.”  Another recommendation, no doubt.

“Well, then,” Shunsui starts, bowing his head, “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Ginrei’s gaze drifts back to Hisana. 

“Let’s do this,” she says politely and bows her head, as is customary.

“Indeed, let the games begin.”

 

 

Looking back, perhaps it was a mistake to offer the first move to Hisana.  He had been warned, after all.  Generosity, however, had gotten the better of him.

Not paying better mind to the seemingly bottomless sake bottle on his side of the table, however, was the larger oversight.  At this musing, Ginrei’s gaze darts over to Hisana.  She appears perfectly intact, as if she hasn’t been matching him sip for sip this entire game.

His eyes narrow at the earthenware cup and bottle set in front of her.  Her bottle is a lighter gray than his, a revelation that he feels in the pit of his stomach.  “What are you drinking?”   

Keeping her attention on the board, Hisana advances her king before answering, “Whisky.” 

“Whisky?”  He nearly chokes on his own spit.

She grins up at him.  “I’m not fond of the taste of sake.”

“Umm,” he hums lightly under his breath and advances his king.  “I take it this whisky isn’t very potent.”

“Oh, it’s very strong,” she replies, scanning the board.  “From the captain’s personal reserve.”

Hisana moves her pawn up to the front of her line, and Ginrei responds to the threat by sliding his king over.  “Do you often play with Byakuya?” he asks.

“No,” she says.  “First time.”

The light burning in her eyes convinces him otherwise, and he chuckles.   “Beginner’s luck, I see.”

A small smile begins to thin her lips, but she stifles its progression with a question, “Does Lieutenant Kuchiki participate in the club?”

“No.”  Although it had been Ginrei’s hope Byakuya would take the reins of the project that Sōjun began.  “He prefers the larger board variant of the game that no one else seems to care for these days.” 

Hisana advances her knight.  “Perhaps I should ask the lieutenant to show me.”

Ignoring her comment, Ginrei moves up his silver general in response to her last move.  “What if we played for stakes, Miss Hisana?”

“Stakes?”  Hisana looks up at him as if she doesn’t know the meaning of the word, her eyes wide and full of innocence as she moves up her silver general.

So, Hisana is a woman who enjoys her feigns. 

Duly noted. 

“Yes,” he proceeds, “if you win, you may ask of me anything you wish.”

“Oh?”  Her brows rise, and her lips press into a taut, compact line.  “My Lord Captain must be feeling very confident in his strategy.”

Not in the slightest, but he hopes a lure will prevent her from throwing the game too quickly. 

“Confident enough,” he replies.  “Although,” he pauses to move a pawn to his front line, “I cannot guarantee a favorable response.”

With her eyes locked on the board, she nods her understanding.  “And if the good captain succeeds?”  She moves her other silver general up.

“The same terms apply.” 

Her expression suddenly loses its playfulness, and her jaw tenses.  For a few moments, she considers his offer before replying, “I, too, cannot guarantee a favorable response.”

“Naturally.”  He moves another pawn to the front of the line.   

Quietly, they play, and he observes.  Her moves are decisive, gold general up to 4h, pawn to 2e, rook back to 2i.  Moves and countermoves.  When Hisana drops a bishop on 4d, Ginrei realizes he might just be had.  He moves his gold general back, and she responds by promoting another bishop and setting it beside the one she just dropped.

Ginrei pauses to consider the board.  No amount of head tilting or creative angling, however, can change the positioning of the tiles into one more favorable to him.  Tipping back his cup, he takes another sip of sake to hide his smirk.  She catches him, though, wearing the exact same look that Byakuya brandishes whenever he’s about to drive home a resignation. 

Briefly, Ginrei wonders which of them was the true target of Shunsui’s trap.  He had come into Squad Eight convinced that he was the prey, and, then, he saw how uncomfortable Hisana was upon exiting the captain’s office.  Her reason for being there was also plausible, the sort of effort that Shunsui rarely considers when devising a ruse.  This had led Ginrei to believe Shunsui had done him a favor, making Hisana the unwitting target, teasing her out of Byakuya’s orbit long enough so that Ginrei might impose.

But, now….

Now, he’s not so sure. 

Knowing Shunsui, it is just as likely they were both unwitting targets.  To what end?  Only time will tell. 

Oh, well. 

Best not to dwell on it, a thought that goes down about as well as curdled milk.   The next move he makes, pettily capturing her gold general with his own, draws out a sigh.

Hisana takes a sip from her cup and stares at the board for a long moment.

“Go ahead,” he says and places his cup down.  “Take it.”

She smiles sweetly and does just that:  She takes his silver general on 2d with her promoted pawn.

He moves his king back and lets the next sigh that bubbles up from his chest sink back down.  It’s undignified to sigh twice during a game.

Hisana slides her gold general over, and he takes her pawn on 6f with one of his own.  She pays him back, though, capturing the pawn with a bishop.  He then promotes his rook on 2g, and she takes his gold general with her bishop on 8h.  Not knowing what more he can do, he moves another gold general forward and braces.

When she drops a silver general on 6d, he glances across the board at her and smirks.  She’s won, and no one would know it.  Her eyes are rooted to the game, and her face is appropriately serious, but unreadable. 

Byakuya would be all knowing glances, and lips straining against the urge to grin.  The boy’s glee would be intolerable.  But….  Ginrei would rather endure prideful boasting to… contemplative silence.

He checks the pieces one last time to see if there is some way to salvage this game, but there isn’t.  He has no effective defense against a mate, while her king stands impenetrable.

“Well, Miss Hisana,” he says and reaches over to pour himself another cup to help wash down the sting of defeat, “your request?”

Folding her hands in her lap, she straightens her back and lifts her head, but her attention lingers slightly above his right shoulder.  “I have no request, Captain.  You and your family have been more than accommodating toward me.”  If possible, her voice is more lifeless than her gaze.

Ginrei reaches over and fills her cup with sake.  “And here I thought, finally, someone with sense enough not to throw away their win.”  With a pointed stare, he gestures for her to drink, a silent command that she obeys.  “The sake here is only marginally better than the water, I assume,” he adds, jerking his chin in the direction of her bottle.

She grins into her cup but doesn’t protest his conclusion.  Either of his conclusions.

“What do you want, Hisana?”

“I have everything I require, Captain,” she says this line as if having rehearsed it a thousand times.

She’s talking around the question, and, for a moment, he considers why.  “I’m not intending to bribe you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Instantly, her eyes meet his.  They are wide and probing, but, also, there is relief.

At least she has the good sense to tread carefully where proposed benefits are concerned.  There are a few members in his family who would certainly love to trap her in such a snare.  Briefly, he wonders who else must’ve tried to snare her in such a way.  These are the sorts of lessons learned only after experiencing devastating failure. 

Lowering her head, Hisana begins again, “I did not mean to imply—”

Ginrei stops her with a wave of his hand.  “Nor did I think you were.”  He takes another sip to discover he is pleasantly numb to the strange chemical aftertaste of this poor-grade sake. 

“Why did you ask me to play?” she says.

“To observe your nature.”

“And your observations?”

He pours another cup for the both of them.  “You’re guarded.”

She pauses to consider his assessment and then asks, “What would you have requested of me if you had won?”

He grins behind the safety of his cup.  “I probably would’ve asked you for something you wouldn’t have given me.”

Her brows knit together, and a look of terrible sorrow darkens her eyes.  But, before she can do something that will irritate him to no end, he intervenes, “It would’ve been something you couldn’t have given me, rather.”

“And that would’ve been?”

“To return my grandson’s heart.”

Her attention dives into her cup, and she doesn’t say a word. 

“But,” he says, dreading the sound of sadness even more than the sight of it, “such sorcery is beyond all our talents.  I suppose there is strength in that.”

Hisana blinks.  “In what?”

“In a heart as stalwart as Byakuya’s.  Inconvenient as it is for the rest of us.”  He shoots her a knowing look, suspecting that, deep down, Hisana, too, wants the best for Byakuya. 

“There is something that I would like to ask for,” she says the words so precisely that it’s as if she’s reading them from a book. 

“And that is?”

“Please don’t let him forsake his family.”  Her gaze rises to find his, and in it is fear.  Pure fear.  A fear that must be experienced to be known, as if she has suffered the horrors of a broken bond and knows its damage. 

“That, I can do.”  Even if the solution is the one he has been avoiding for over ten years. 

For a brief moment, her expression brightens before….well….he tries to stand up and finds that gravity and physics are not as compliant as he once remembered.  

“Perhaps with better success than standing,” he chides himself to her apparent amusement.

“If I may offer my assistance, Captain?”  Without a word of encouragement, Hisana is on her feet and at his aid.

Ginrei tries not to think too hard about the optics of them strolling back to Squad Six with her puppeteering him.  Because, make no mistake, he is not in control.  He is along for the ride. 

Oh, when Byakuya finds out about this….

Ginrei just knows he will never hear the end of it, along with all the iterations of smug superiority.  Oh, the iterations burn him worse than the indignity itself.  And, it is here, just before he must be witnessed on the street in this condition, that he vows both to keep his promise to Hisana and to make the boy pay for every word that he dares to utter about this event.

Notes:

I’m gonna be real vulnerable here and say in no uncertain terms that I know nothing about shogi. I have played *chess* maybe… (if we are being very generous…) like 5 times in my whole life; so, I’m definitely not an expert in that either and that’s about as close as I can get (an entirely different game with different rules).

*However* I did some *very light* googling to make this chapter come together. I now know approximately five more things about shogi than I did when I started drafting this chapter two months ago. The move sets described herein are based on the below two resources. The first link outlines a game played by two pro players, which I used to describe the Ginrei-Hisana match. The second one is a fun little sample game description to explain the larger board variant of shogi that Ginrei and Byakuya played at the start.

As always, thanks a million to anyone who reads this story. I appreciate it so very, very much. <3333

The resources mentioned above: https://www.shogi.be/game.php?idJeu=5&idPartie=561; https://drericsilverman.com/2020/09/13/dai-shogi-part-ii-a-sample-game/

Chapter 6: Code Yellow

Summary:

Isane has a whole day.

 

Isane is good at surgery.  Really good at surgery, at least according to Captain Unohana.  And she should be, given all the long days of reading, observing, practicing, being critiqued, and practicing some more.  Take this morning, for example:  Before Isane got into the unit, she woke up at 3 a.m., poured herself a cup of tea, grabbed a pig’s heart from the icebox, and began practicing her incisions and stitches. 

That’s what she’s supposed to do. 

Or so she read in a magazine someone left for her at the Fourth. 

It was one of those journals they print in the World of the Living, the kind with studies for medical scientists and professionals.  This particular article described how “warming up” on animal hearts or pork cutlets (any piece of meat, really) improves surgical performance, especially at the beginning of the day.

And, well, don’t her patients deserve that much?  A “warmed up” healer?  It’s not as if anyone wants to be admitted to a surgical suite at the Fourth.  No one really wants to visit the Fourth ever, actually.

Except… maybe… whoever brings her those journals. 

Isane tries not to think too hard about that. 

Random acts of kindness have a way of choking her up.  And, well, she can’t have that.  Not right now.  Not on a surgery day.  Her nerves don’t need the added stress.

Because being very good at something doesn’t guarantee liking to do that something.

Which she doesn’t. 

Despite all her training and skills, she cannot save everyone. 

She knows this. 

Worse yet, even if the procedure is routine or ordinary, there is always a chance something could go awry.  Terribly awry.  Do it long enough, and it will happen to you. 

She knows this, too.

And yet, with dread as cold as ice water churning in her belly, she steps into the Fourth.  Her mouth is cottony, the cottony that is too stubborn to be washed away.  The tea she had this morning was herbal.  Can’t risk having her hands shake.  She also drank it many hours before her shift and has had not a drop of liquid since.  Don’t want to be forced to stop in the middle of a long procedure to rush to the bathroom.

Isane makes her way to the washroom, where she begins counting down the seconds from 300 in her head.  Next, she nudges her knee into the button that turns on the water.  Warm water pricks the cold in her fingers, and she opens the sterile packet to pull out a scrub brush.  The brush is covered in soap that smells like chemicals. 

Everything in the Fourth smells vaguely like chemicals. 

With the bristle side of the brush, she scrubs the back of her hands and the sides of each finger.  Back to front.  Side to side. Twenty times each. 

The chemicals have turned her hands brown.

She flips the brush over to the sponge side and scrubs her palms, fingertips, and all the way to her elbows.  Twenty times each.  Then, she rinses. 

Her internal countdown clock hits zero, and she is done. 

Now, it’s time to gown up and enter the suite.  Ren, her trainee, is already there setting up and chatting with Shuto, the healer who will ease the patient’s mind and manage his pain while Isane works.

Isane signals to be gloved up, Ayame Han, the tech, is at the ready with the gown.  Her movements are quick and tidy.  Once the belt at the back of the gown is fastened, Ayame moves to fit Isane with gloves.  Last, Ayame secures the face shield.

“Boop,” says Ayame with a grin, letting Isane know it’s all done.  “Let’s get the benches!” she teases over her shoulder.

Oh, yes.  The benches.  A reminder that even here, Isane towers over the rest of the crew.  And, well, since this is her surgery, they have to respect her comfort.

Between the scuttling and scurrying to prepare for the surgery and the whirring of the table being set to a height suitable for Isane, Isane takes a moment to examine the patient.

Yuma Sone. Age: 115. Tenth Seat of Squad Five. Presented to the Fourth after a routine hollow hunt in the World of the Living.  Complaints of pain near the sternum, coughing, fatigue, and generalized malaise after a small altercation with a hollow.  Scans indicated a partial seal of the patient’s Hakusui.  Referred for surgery.

That’s what the patient’s chart had said.  Isane can almost see the words in her mind’s eye as she looks down at Yuma, who is already unconscious.  The yellow stain of iodine catches her attention, drawing her gaze to his chest.  He’s young, lean, and otherwise healthy.  All good signs.

The procedure on the other hand? 

Not wonderful odds. 

He’ll likely live, but whether he will remain a Shinigami after they are done is… well… uncertain. 

The moment Isane senses that Ayame has wound her way to the surgical table, reflex forces the next question into her mouth, “Name and roles?”

“Ayame Han, technician.”

“Ren Ito, trainee.”

“Shuto Tanaka, nurse mesmerist.” 

“Emi Saito, mesmerist,” comes a deep voice from the corner of the room.  Despite the curtain veiling Emi from view, Isane can almost see the magic square puzzle being balanced on her lap.

“Isane Kotetsu, Lieutenant of the Fourth.  The patient is Yuma Stone.  Age:  115 years.  We are performing a hakusuiplasty.  This should be a straight-forward procedure.”  Emphasis on the should.   

“Estimated time to completion: Sixty minutes.”  If everything goes to plan.  “As a reminder,” continues Isane, her voice quiet and gentle, “if you see something say something.  Before we begin, does anyone have any concerns?”

A resounding silence forces everyone to their respective places.  (Emi excluded, of course, since she was already at hers….)  Then, they begin.

Quiet.  The room is quiet and focused as they open the patient.  Only when they sink further into the procedure does the chatter begin. 

This is a good sign, Isane reminds herself.  She’s long learned to find sanctuary in the hum of the daily concerns of her colleagues.     

 

 

“Can you believe it?” Ren says between giggles.  “I really thought it was going to be bigger.”

“Same,” answers Shuto, hands hovering over the patient’s head. 

“What are you even talking about?” Ayame chimes in.

“Oh, yeah,” hums Ren. “On the walk over, we were talking about the new attraction near Junrinan.”

“Oh?”  Isane tries to sound interested, but her attention is locked on the vessels responsible for ensuring the functional flow of reiatsu. 

“Well, the attraction was meant to be an aquarium.  They had a huge poster of this really big… what was it, again?” asks Ren.

“A whale,” says Shuto.

“Oh, yes!  A whale!  It was so big, and blue, and it had these weird teeth.  Or, at least, I think they were teeth.  It was so cool!  And, then… well… I got there, and it was… it was…”

“A barrel with some fish in it.”

“Eyes.”  Isane’s command is half-uttered, but Ayame is quick with the loupes.  “That sounds disappointing,” she adds, hoping not to have quashed the conversation. 

“It was!” groans Ren.  “Cost me 600 kan!”

Is 600 kan a lot? Sounds like it.  Although, what would Isane know?  Ever since becoming Lieutenant, she lives, breathes, and sleeps the Fourth. 

“Isn’t Junrinan forested?” Isane asks instead.

“Yeah,” Ren responds as if it’s obvious.

Ayame snickers in reply.

“What was that for?”

“Well, what did you expect?” teases Ayame.  “How would they be able to transport a whale to the middle of a forest?”

Ren growls, “Kidou, I suspect.”

“Lots of kidou masters running roadside attractions in the middle of nowhere?”

It’s here, when the familiar rises and falls of bickering begins that Isane loses her sense of space outside the surgical field.  Surgery is funny like that.  It ebbs and flows like a tide. 

Time, too, behaves strangely.  Hours pass like seconds.  Any internal monitor has been reappropriated, dialed into the steel, the stitch, the meat, the sinew, the bone.  They all move in synchrony. 

And then….

Well…

…and then, it’s done….

The surgical field is flawless.  The Hakusui is repaired.  Only after this observation does place and sound and time come rushing back into the room, into Isane.  It’s like waking from a dream. 

Her lungs can finally relax, and she takes a deep, satisfied breath.   

“Good work, Lieutenant.  As usual,” says Shuta.

Isane hesitates, gaze indirectly focusing on the patient.  Acknowledging success feels a whole lot like opening the door to failure. 

So….

She never accepts it. 

Instead, she offers a polite smile, bows, disposes of her gown and gloves, and leaves.

Emerging from the cocoon of the surgery suite always feels abrupt.  The lighting that once was shining only to meet her very specific needs is now… not. 

Instead, it’s harsh. 

And bright. 

And everywhere all at once. 

Not too dissimilar from the light is the noise.  Ideally, there is no hustle and bustle in the surgery room.  It’s a place of one team’s intention.  Outside that room, however?  Not so much.

Isane, however, is used to this.  The bright, irritating lights.  The din of voices, machines, and kinetic movement. 

What she’s not expecting, however, is entering the corridor to find all eyes on her.  Worse, yet, is these eyes are full of concern and expectation.

She blinks.

“Lieutenant—” everyone seems to say at once.

The voices, however, aren’t truly in unison.  Not at all.  But, the sensation of being swallowed whole by needs and fear is overtaking, overwhelming, over-much.

She blinks.  Her breath stills in her chest, and she stares back.  Uncertain. 

“We need—” begins one nurse, which sets off a volley of needs and wants and hopes.

It’s too much.

“Where is the Captain?” asks Isane, her pulse quickening in her throat.

“Captain—”  A cacophony of responses, none of which register until they suddenly hit Isane at precisely the same time.

Captain Unohana is missing.

We can’t find her.

No one knows where she is.

She received a call and never returned.

Isane blinks again.  Once. Twice. Three times.  Panic rises like a tide swelling in the sea, and she gasps a little.

“You’re the attending right now, and there’s been a mass casualty situation involving the Seventh,” a disembodied voice enters Isane’s head.

She can’t quite place it, the voice.  It sounds vaguely familiar but unreal.  Very much like the situation at hand.

“What happened with the Sev—”

“The Captain—” a voice roars behind her.

Immediately, Isane turns to the large white doors as they swing open.  Crashing into the room is a stretcher. 

Her heart clenches tight and fast in her chest like a hand rolling into a fist.  Dread slows her down, but not for long.  With eyes set and a heart full of hope, Isane sees the body lying supine on the bone-white sheets before her.

Captain Komamura.

Notes:

I live! These last few months have felt like a damn decade so... yes... to the ones of you who have been following along, I am very slowly, very slowly, slowly, slowly trying to the update this piece. Life is just... *sigh* full steam ahead whether I like it or not.

As always, thanks to anyone who keeps up with this piece. It truly makes my day when anyone takes time out of theirs to follow along.

Best wishes always,

AFP

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Ruin & Rise