Post by Knowledge on Nov 28, 2013 18:17:37 GMT -5
It was strange, being home. He wasn't even sure what home was any longer—Seireitei had been his home once, and after that, Hueco Mundo. Even the Special Detention Facility had been a home of sorts, in a twisted sense of the word. Was the Annex his home now? Or was it the comfortable little townhouse in Northern Seireitei? Both, perhaps?
Or was it neither?
A sudden wave of melancholy washed over Kyousuke, and he shuddered involuntarily beneath the thick fur collar of the haori despite the sunshine. He had once told Mitsutaka—a Mitsutaka so very different from one he had met just moments ago—that he had missed this sky, but seeing it now made him feel nothing but despair. Despair, and guilt.
A price had been paid, but it didn't seem fate was quite satisfied yet.
He wandered through the streets of Seireitei, knowing full well where he was headed but trying his best not to think about it. It was a perverse compulsion, really, and the fact that he was drawing looks and whispers
Isn't that—
Look, the Swordbreaker!
I thought he was—
Didn't he—
did little to help. He found himself wishing for his senses—the same senses he had tried so hard to hone to a razor's edge in the past—would simply cease, yet the whispers, the emotions, the sights and sounds and smells of his surroundings assaulted him like some sort of unholy barrage, unrelenting and unforgiving. He realized now that the clarity he had experienced in the remains of that ruined reflection of the Court of Pure Souls had been an illusion, a byproduct of the numbness.
Kyousuke Tsukimiya wasn't ready for this.
Yet he trudged on, trying not to think about what he would do when he arrived. How he would react. How he would feel. It was still so new, so fresh, so devastating, feeling. White-hot hooks in his gut, crushing weights on his shoulders, icy rocks in the pit of his stomach. Was everyone subjected to this on daily basis? How could they possibly cope? Kyousuke wanted nothing more than to retreat to the safety of his emotional void, but he knew that was no longer possible. He was too far gone. Kannaduki and Hazuki no longer existed in the way he had always known them. The fracture had been repaired, the personifications reabsorbed. All that remained was a white fragment and a stolen sword.
In a sense, it was fitting. His confidence seemed shattered and his emotion was simply the result of theft, theft of a man's life and memories. The blade was simply an accessory, mere loose change.
His eyes was duller than usual, his expression more sullen, and he forced himself to take step after step until he finally reached his destination. It looked smaller in daylight, less imposing, but he supposed the rain and the figurative blood on his hands had made it seem so much more intimidating. It was an elegant home—Junko Aizawa was a woman of some taste and great wealth, after all—but it was unfamiliar, somehow. He stood on the opposite side of the street, ignoring the passersby who threw his haori odd glances, and he tried to figure out what it was that made it seem so alien. Was it the plaque on the gate? The perspective?
No, he thought, as it dawned on him. Home is where your family is.
He blinked, and Mitsutaka's advice from earlier seemed to claw its way to the forefront of his mind. He had to see Kiriko.
The mood at the foot of stairs leading up to the Second Division compound seemed foreboding, almost oppressive, and he prodded at it delicately with his sixth sense. Fear seemed to flow down the stone steps like blood, and Kyousuke waded up through it, knowing what lay at its source. There were words for what Kiriko had been doing in his absence, and while loyal and dutiful were among them, so too, were insane and psychotic. Her run-in with the Impostor during what people were apparently calling the Seireitei Massacre had left her a changed woman, and Mitsutaka had made the claim of knowing why—and more importantly, how to reverse it.
The fact that he had been indisposed at the time angered Kyousuke, yet another unfamiliar emotion he was uncertain how to deal with. Kiriko was his responsibility, and she was not to come to any harm under his watch. His footsteps quickened, and he reached the courtyard at the top of the stairs. Kyousuke couldn't remember the last time he had seen it in such an immaculate state—or so utterly devoid of people. It was completely empty, and seeing it like that unnerved him. There was always someone running across the flagstones, or a pair of lithe assassins discussing something, but now...
The silence was absolute.
And yet he could feel people inside the headquarters, focused single-mindedly on their tasks in fear of reprimands, in fear of disciplinary action. The word seemed to jump out of their collective minds at him, and with what he had been told, he could understand why. Kiriko had been losing her grip on herself as her grip on the Second tightened, almost choking it.
He crossed the wide open space without a sound and ignored the wide-eyed stare of the rigid woman behind the receptionist's desk, her surprise at seeing the lost captain plain as day. He strode down the winding hallways like a ghost, spiritual pressure suppressed to less than a wisp, until he reached the barracks. As the Annex loomed ahead, he could sense his lieutenant's spiritual signature permeate the air. The feeling of blood was thicker here, as if it was gushing out of the Annex itself, reaching up to his knees. He pressed on, uncertain of what to expect.
His hand on the door, Kyousuke paused for a split second. Home is where your family is, he reminded himself, gritting his teeth.
Then he stepped inside.
°1,009
Or was it neither?
A sudden wave of melancholy washed over Kyousuke, and he shuddered involuntarily beneath the thick fur collar of the haori despite the sunshine. He had once told Mitsutaka—a Mitsutaka so very different from one he had met just moments ago—that he had missed this sky, but seeing it now made him feel nothing but despair. Despair, and guilt.
A price had been paid, but it didn't seem fate was quite satisfied yet.
He wandered through the streets of Seireitei, knowing full well where he was headed but trying his best not to think about it. It was a perverse compulsion, really, and the fact that he was drawing looks and whispers
Isn't that—
Look, the Swordbreaker!
I thought he was—
Didn't he—
did little to help. He found himself wishing for his senses—the same senses he had tried so hard to hone to a razor's edge in the past—would simply cease, yet the whispers, the emotions, the sights and sounds and smells of his surroundings assaulted him like some sort of unholy barrage, unrelenting and unforgiving. He realized now that the clarity he had experienced in the remains of that ruined reflection of the Court of Pure Souls had been an illusion, a byproduct of the numbness.
Kyousuke Tsukimiya wasn't ready for this.
Yet he trudged on, trying not to think about what he would do when he arrived. How he would react. How he would feel. It was still so new, so fresh, so devastating, feeling. White-hot hooks in his gut, crushing weights on his shoulders, icy rocks in the pit of his stomach. Was everyone subjected to this on daily basis? How could they possibly cope? Kyousuke wanted nothing more than to retreat to the safety of his emotional void, but he knew that was no longer possible. He was too far gone. Kannaduki and Hazuki no longer existed in the way he had always known them. The fracture had been repaired, the personifications reabsorbed. All that remained was a white fragment and a stolen sword.
In a sense, it was fitting. His confidence seemed shattered and his emotion was simply the result of theft, theft of a man's life and memories. The blade was simply an accessory, mere loose change.
His eyes was duller than usual, his expression more sullen, and he forced himself to take step after step until he finally reached his destination. It looked smaller in daylight, less imposing, but he supposed the rain and the figurative blood on his hands had made it seem so much more intimidating. It was an elegant home—Junko Aizawa was a woman of some taste and great wealth, after all—but it was unfamiliar, somehow. He stood on the opposite side of the street, ignoring the passersby who threw his haori odd glances, and he tried to figure out what it was that made it seem so alien. Was it the plaque on the gate? The perspective?
No, he thought, as it dawned on him. Home is where your family is.
He blinked, and Mitsutaka's advice from earlier seemed to claw its way to the forefront of his mind. He had to see Kiriko.
The mood at the foot of stairs leading up to the Second Division compound seemed foreboding, almost oppressive, and he prodded at it delicately with his sixth sense. Fear seemed to flow down the stone steps like blood, and Kyousuke waded up through it, knowing what lay at its source. There were words for what Kiriko had been doing in his absence, and while loyal and dutiful were among them, so too, were insane and psychotic. Her run-in with the Impostor during what people were apparently calling the Seireitei Massacre had left her a changed woman, and Mitsutaka had made the claim of knowing why—and more importantly, how to reverse it.
The fact that he had been indisposed at the time angered Kyousuke, yet another unfamiliar emotion he was uncertain how to deal with. Kiriko was his responsibility, and she was not to come to any harm under his watch. His footsteps quickened, and he reached the courtyard at the top of the stairs. Kyousuke couldn't remember the last time he had seen it in such an immaculate state—or so utterly devoid of people. It was completely empty, and seeing it like that unnerved him. There was always someone running across the flagstones, or a pair of lithe assassins discussing something, but now...
The silence was absolute.
And yet he could feel people inside the headquarters, focused single-mindedly on their tasks in fear of reprimands, in fear of disciplinary action. The word seemed to jump out of their collective minds at him, and with what he had been told, he could understand why. Kiriko had been losing her grip on herself as her grip on the Second tightened, almost choking it.
He crossed the wide open space without a sound and ignored the wide-eyed stare of the rigid woman behind the receptionist's desk, her surprise at seeing the lost captain plain as day. He strode down the winding hallways like a ghost, spiritual pressure suppressed to less than a wisp, until he reached the barracks. As the Annex loomed ahead, he could sense his lieutenant's spiritual signature permeate the air. The feeling of blood was thicker here, as if it was gushing out of the Annex itself, reaching up to his knees. He pressed on, uncertain of what to expect.
His hand on the door, Kyousuke paused for a split second. Home is where your family is, he reminded himself, gritting his teeth.
Then he stepped inside.
°1,009
