On Our Own

Byakuya hurried through the darkness towards the Twelfth Division barracks.
Twelfth Division was responsible for research and development and, as such, their buildings were full of the latest technology; nearly every room appeared, to Kuchiki Byakuya, as a homage to those decadent systems: low lights, glowing screens, meaningless sequences of numbers. Not only were the people subservient to their machines here, but, as Byakuya stepped inside he recalled that the sharp contrasts of light and shade in these halls were disorientating. No other division’s barracks were designed with so little respect for the men housed within.
Deep inside the bowels of the building, the main observation room processed all images and communications Soul Society received from the human world, monitored ceaselessly by souls who, so far as Byakuya could determine, barely ever had cause to see the sunlight.
“- And that’s when it was lost,” Ukitake was saying as the Sixth Division captain entered. Ukitake Juushiro and Kurotsuchi Mayuri were standing side by side. The Tweflth Division captain seemed as menacingly cheerful and unphased as ever. He barely glanced up as the younger man stepped inside. The door slid shut behind Byakuya:
“What is lost?”
“Communications with the world of the living,” said Mayuri, rubbing his hands. “Our last message from them was that between eight and ten gillian and adjuchas and one vasto lorde had entered the human world.”
“I see. Are we sure?”
“It’s been corroborated independently by Abarai Renji and Ikkaku Madarame,” said Mayuri, and Ukitake picked up the explanation:
“Rukia was the last to make contact. She confirmed that they were targeting anybody with higher than usual levels of spiritual pressure, by which we can assume she means the humans too.”
“Kuosaki Ichigo.”
“I fear so.” Ukitale tapped a series of keys and suddenly Rukia’s voice was speaking urgently, reeling off a list of coordinates. She finished by saying she had secured the area and would be providing back-up for Kurosaki: “I was wrong in sending her, I think.”
“She is capable.”
Ukitake glanced at Byakuya, opened his mouth then seemed to think better of it. No amount of back-tracking or regret was going to change things now.
“We need to make a decision,” said Mayuri: “With regard to the gentei reiin.I called on – ah yes, here we are.” As he spoke, the doors to the observation room opened and a vast shadow stepped into the room. If Byakuya felt out of place in Twelfth Division, then Zaraki Kenpachi was a brutal summary of all that was anachronistic. He towered over the monitors, more beast than man, looking as if any attempt, on his part, to use the keypads would result in the accidental crushing of delicate components. “Since Zaraki-taichou’s men are also involved, it seemed appropriate that you all be here. We’ve run a series of simulations and have assessed that, without gentei kaijo, a captain-class shinigami confronting more than one adjuchas class arrancar would have only a fifty percent chance of survival. Thirty percent at the level of a vice-captain. Our last communication from Third Seat Yumichika was a request for a military funeral to be arranged for Madarame Ikkaku.”
Zaraki Kenpachi snorted as if his fellow captain had made a joke. When three sets of eyes fell on him, he sighed:
“They’re getting all the fun, it seems.”
“The gentei reiin limiters are placed on captain and vice-captain class shinigami because their reiatsu are at a level where close proximity with humans could result in injury or death,” said Ukitake. Kenpachi made a tutting sound in his throat and Byakuya frowned:
“Do we have any information on numbers of humans in the vicinity?”
“Unfortunately, no,” said Mayuri: “And that is the difficulty.”
“Fifty percent sounds reasonable to me,” said Kenpachi.
“The endangering of human lives is strictly forbidden,” murmured Byakuya, though it was more to himself than anyone else. His eyes drifted up and down the banks of monitors: “The question now concerns the nature of the advance guard. Originally, they were sent out to ascertain the part that the substitute shinigami might play in the upcoming war and to establish whether Aizen would move the battlefield to the human world.”
“I have information in that regard,” said Ukitake: “Kyoraku-taichou and I were researching the possible uses of the hogyoku and we came up with some interesting information. Alongside the hogyoku, it would appear that Aizen was studying an artefact called the ouken or King’s Key.”
Byakuya blinked:
“That’s” –
“- The key to the realm of the Spirit King.”
“Then his target is not us but the king.”
“He intends to overthrow Soul Society. Since we exist to protect the king, then there can be little doubt that, if the king falls, we fall.”
“We have not been called upon to fulfil that duty for nearly ten thousand years.”
“Indeed. Yet that changes nothing. Who, in that time, has ever been powerful enough to challenge the king?” He glanced at the three assembled men: “The most powerful amongst us have always been the captains of the Gotei Thirteen. Gentlemen, we must accept that we are facing an unparalleled threat. How we proceed will determine the fate of both worlds.”
“What is their purpose in sending a vasto lorde to the world of the living at this time?” asked Byakuya.
“I believe they are testing the waters. To create the ouken, Aizen needs an area rich in reishi and he has chosen Karakura Town. The creation of the key will result in the loss of every soul within.”
At length, Byakuya said:
“He can use this as an opportunity to test our strength.” Ukitake nodded:
“Then you understand” –
“Choosing to use the gentei kaijo will not only result in the loss of innocent human lives; it will give him an idea of how strong we are when fighting at our full potential.”
“Aizen is no fool. He understands the power levels of the Thirteen Court Guards, but any information he can gather with regard to our skills, our techniques, our weaknesses: all will be useful to him. We need to decide whether we can afford him that advantage.”
Byakuya shuddered. All these banks of computers, all these streams of data: they sat about in the dark and gathered information on hollow, which the Divisions then used to devise strategies that would target their enemies’ weaknesses. Now he found himself imagining Aizen and his comrades holed up in a similar control room, formulating fail-safe plans to seal the individual fates of each captain within the Gotei.
“The other option is to sacrifice the advance guard,” he said. Their silence was suddenly as raw as an open wound: “Is it not?” It was a cold logic, but it was the truth, plain and simple. He glanced towards Mayuri: “You have not given us the odds.”
“What odds?”
“Of a captain-class shinigami defeating a vasto lorde arrancar.”
Mayuri sniffed:
“We have no data on battles at that level. Twenty percent; maybe less.” He seemed offended at having to make a guess. Kenpachi grinned:
“Good odds.”
Byakuya turned a blank gaze on him, trying to work out if he was being deliberately obnoxious or was merely unschooled.
“Aizen’s troops are not yet at full strength,” Ukitake said: “Kyoraku and I estimate that it will be another two months before the hogyoku is fully awakened. At that point, the war will commence and Karakura will be their battlefield. Do we therefore allow Aizen to goad us and, in so doing, reveal some of our secrets? Or do we, on the other hand, risk going to war without some of our best men: Hitsugaya Toshiro, Ikkaku Madarame, Kurosaki Ichigo.”
Another silence and Mayuri shrugged as if it were neither here nor there for him:
“There’s still a chance that some, if not all, the advance guard will survive” –
“Your odds are not good,” snapped Byakuya. Though no emotion showed on his face, the interruption made the Twelfth Division captain’s jaw snap shut. Mayuri stared at him and, after a moment, grinned, showing two rows of perfectly yellow teeth. Very slowly, he said:
“Good is a subjective category, Kuchiki-taichou. My odds are – accurate.”
“I do not like them.”
“That is no concern of mine.”
Kenpachi giggled. It was an alarming sound, and Byakuya’s frown deepened. Mayuri cleared his throat:
“Our last reports suggest that Hitsugaya and Matsumoto were fighting side by side. That would increase their chances of survival exponentially. Abarai Renji was alone. Kuchiki Rukia was with Kurosaki Ichigo. Hmm. The Kurosaki boy is a wild-card; I wouldn’t want to predict the outcome of his battles. If Yumichika and Ikkaku worked together they might have a chance” –
“They will not,” grunted Kenpachi and, when the others turned to face him, he added: “Leastways, they’d better not show their faces back in my squad if they choose that path. Division Eleven fight one on one, without exceptions.”
“A pointless waste of life,” said Byakuya. Kenpachi smiled again:
“Their  lives are wasted entirely if they are incapable of defeating an opponent in one to one battle. My men accept that. If other divisions lack that discipline” –
“You are a brute” –
“Yet I’m not the one who, a moment ago, suggested the sacrifice of my own sister” –
“There are no limiters on Rukia or Kurosaki. Gentei kaijo neither increases or decreases the odds of their survival and, anyway, it would be wrong of me to base a decision on my personal interests” –
“Assuming your personal interests were in her favour” –
“What is that supposed to mean” - ?
A silent ghost, Ukitake moved between them:
“We are running out of time, Gentlemen.” His fingers tripped over the keys on one of the monitors, but a series of entries only brought up screens of static. It was clear that communications were still down.
“It makes no difference to me,” said Kenpachi: “My men are not handicapped by limiters. They will do their best and, if they fail, they will not come back.”
“And the others?” asked Byakuya through gritted teeth.
“ – Are not my men.”
“Abarai Renji was one of your officers!” He forced his hands to uncurl from the fists they had made: “Mayuri-sama,” he said, turning towards the Twelfth Division captain: “To ask my men to enter battle without their vice-captain is like asking them to fight blind-folded. No advantage gained by concealing our powers is worth his life. Or that of officers like Ikkaku and Yumichika. I advise the activation of the gentei kaijo.”
“I concur,” said Ukitake quietly. Mayuri only nodded and moved swiftly to one of ther terminals.
“The loss of human life” – said Byakuya.
“I know,” was Ukitake’s only answer. Behind him, Mayuri dropped one lever with a flourish:
“Limiters released.”
Ukitake closed his eyes:
“They’re on their own now. All of them.”
******************************************************************************************
The smell of cooked meat and spices and, somewhere, the warmth of a fire.
Heavy blankets, roughly woven, weighed Rukia’s body down and, for a long time, she chose to keep her eyes fast shut. There was an excruciating pain in the back of her skull. Something had hit her. She didn’t need to be a genius or even fully conscious to work that one out, but she wasn’t yet sure how much damage it had done. She waited to see if she would fall back into sleep, but she didn’t. Only now she felt a little sick. Dizzy in the head. Yet, at the same time, hungry, which meant she was probably going to be alright. Curiosity got the better of her and she opened her eyes.
A small fire was burning merrily. It had melted the snow on the surrounding ground where someone had erected a pavilion over both Rukia and the flames to protect them from further snowfall. The same person, presumably, who had all but buried her in a mound of blankets and was now cooking dinner. She pushed some of the covers back from her face. At the very edge of the light, a figure was seated, legs crossed, gazing out into the darkness of the forest.
This was her inner world, Rukia realised. She recognised the arctic forest with its vast, over-sized trees under permanent cover of snow and the decadent light of a full moon. But Sode no Shirayuki was not here.
“Hey,” she tried, after a time. The figure turned.
His face was gaunt, but not old. His hair had perhaps once been black, but it was now matted and faded, as if he had been on a dusty road for many months. Wound into it were dead flowers and brown leaves and, across his back, he wore a fur stole. Beneath it, he was thin, almost wasted:
“You’re awake. Good. I wasn’t sure hoe badly he had injured you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left it to chance.” He rose and stepped into the firelight, moving lithely for someone who looked so ill, and he crouched down to remove a steaming pot of broth from over the fire. “Would you like to eat?”
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Rukia asked, raising herself on one elbow. He looked surprised at the question, and then said:
“Ah. I had hoped you would remember.”
“Remember?”
“I am your zanpakuto.”
She watched him ladle steaming broth into two bowls, part of her mind reeling. Another part though was betraying her. It’s true, it told her. He is. He always has been. She sat up, rubbing a lump on the back of her head. Someone had hit her, hard. Maybe this was all part of a hallucination. “You can call me Hana,” he said, as he ladled broth into a bowl: “Until such time as you remember my name.”
“Sode no Shirayuki.” He didn’t respond to that, and she stared down at the stewed meat and vegetables he gave her: “Do you know where Sode no Shirayuki is?”
“What is that?”
“She is my zanpakuto.”
His eyes widened a little. They were a deep sea-grey, she noticed, and watered a little. She wanted to ask if he was ill, but it seemed rude somehow. And, anyway, another part of her knew that he was ill. It was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Won’t you eat?”
“I need to think.” He reached over and took the bowl, continuing to eat without slowing. For such a tragically thin creature, he had a wolf-like appetite. “You get hungry?” she asked curiously.
“All the time now. It seems that nothing will sate it.”
While he ate, she pushed aside the blankets, rose and walked to the edge of the pavilion. It was made of a loose thatch, just thick enough to keep out the snow, and there were dry flowers entwined into the roof. She could see that they had once been red: streaks of faded scarlet wound into clumps of yellow grass.
“Hana, do you feel the cold?”
“Yes. I preferred it when we had sunlight here, Rukia.” She glanced back at the sound of her name.
“You are not my zanpakuto. But yes, I – I remember you.”
“What do you remember?”
“The ocean.” She put her hands over her eyes as if, by blocking out the present, she would be able to see the past more clearly. “Yes, sunlight. Daylight.” She turned back to him, eyes narrowed. It was not in her nature to trust impulsively: “Who are you?”
“You are my wielder, Rukia. If not then how could I be here, in this world?” He rose and came to stand before her. He was tall, she realised. Much taller than Ichigo, so that, in stature, he seemed much more suited to the scale of her inner world than she.
“I don’t know, but I need to find Shirayuki. You can come with me if you like.” She turned back to the blankets, searching to see if there was anything she needed to take. There was no sword on her hip in this world. It was patently absurd to try and gather supplies for a journey across her own consciousness, so she turned back to her new companion. He had plucked a flower from the thatch of the pavilion. When she returned to his side, without her permission, he bent down and threaded it into her hair. The dead bloom lay against her temple. She reached out and brushed it delicately, half afraid that it might dissintegrate under her touch:
“Why?” she asked.
“This world is too dark for you, Rukia.”