Who Ya Gonna Call? [Closed, Daisuke]

The second of the pair of Hollow-men guards began to slowly move towards Daisuke, its teeth twisted and lengthened into fangs that jutted forward into a pseudo-muzzle.  Was it reluctant?  He could only hope so, his sandal-clad feet stepping over the shriveled halves of its cleft compatriot.  As much retribution as there was to dole out, a battle won before it begun was one of the best kinds.  He bared his teeth at it, a pale echo of its own intimidating maw, although the sword he carried was much more intimidating than the thing’s empty, clenching fists.

Then Walkren burst from the other side of the warehouse, and Daisuke shot him a look, his arms keeping his unwavering zanpakuto pointed at the remaining enemy.  He certainly looked much worse for wear than Daisuke, obviously using kaido on a limp-dangling arm even as he rushed towards him.  For all that he’d been cut and bitten in various ways and places, Daisuke had avoided any truly debilitating injuries; Walkren had plainly not been quite so fortunate. 

The smaller Shinigami was in the midst of blurting out a greeting when he was interrupted, and Daisuke studied this new enemy, opening his senses.  The man was similar and yet distinct from the abominations that he had encountered this night; there was something of the mortal man, and something of the Hollow, in his reiatsu, but much more closely integrated; the Hollow taint had been allowed to merge and mellow, like metals alloyed over the forging process rather than added as an inlay at the end.  The man would likely have some sort of powers, although he certainly seemed fond of speaking.  More concerning for the moment was the new cadre of Hollow-men that melted into view; unraveling the manner of their concealment was a matter for brighter minds than Daisuke’s, although determining the mechanism of their defeat was something much more on his level.

Once more, Walkren spoke and whirled away.  No matter; his plan was reasonable, and more words at this point were not particularly what was called for. 

One quick flash step took him to Fangmouth, those twisted teeth emerging from a face otherwise human, brow furrowed in anger and fear.  With a loud kiai he brought his zanpakuto down, the creature’s raised arm offering a surprising amount of resistance – no matter this one’s more (generally) human appearance, it was more than it appeared.  The edge slid along the thing’s forearm, cutting loose a thin strip of flesh as it went, before it slid off the elbow.  Blood streamed from the raw wound as air hissed between the warped teeth while the other hand sprang forward, hardened knuckles striking Daisuke’s belly with a sound like slapping a hanging side of beef.  He winced; that would leave a particularly-shaped bruise later, he was sure.  The arm returned to battery, joining its mate in a fighter’s stance, fists up and shoulders hunched.

The other two creatures that he appeared to have been delegated were moving; he could hear them, see them, feel the movement of their reiatsu.  He had no time to fool around with this one.  He pressed forward, several slashes carving gouges out of his enemy’s arms, each strike blocked but taking an increasing toll.  The thing made a few jabs, but Daisuke was skilled enough to spot them, and either evaded them or brought his sword down in a punishing rap on the knuckles.  Blood flowed freely down the creature’s arms, painting its body and the ground, one more stain to add to all the others.

There.  The strip of flesh at the wrist parted, and the edge of the zanpakuto lanced between the bones of the arm and hand, severing connective tissues , nerves, blood vessels, all those myriad connections between the outer reaches of the body and its core.  Fangmouth gasped, deep and sharp, as his hand flopped, barely hanging on to his arm thanks to one small strip of hide; a reversed slash on that same side cut far enough into the thing’s neck to grate against its vertebrae.  Blood, freely flowing once, now poured from the two wounds; as the thing staggered back, no doubt feeling a sudden rush of lightheadedness, Daisuke impaled its heart, the quick strike sending it stumbling backwards to collapse and wither, body too damage to live.

A searing spike of pain in his back and side informed Daisuke that he may have spent too long dealing with his first enemy.  He whirled, sword up in guard position, even as the icy-white flash faded into a throbbing soreness with just a touch of nausea.  The wound had been deep, not like the myriad small wounds he’d suffered so far.

With his attention now drawn, he sized up his pair of the new Hollow-men.  The nearer one looked like a normal woman, perhaps a little pale but nothing excessive . . . until he arrived at her bare feet.  They each had a normal big and little toe, but those between had been fused, rising and bending back to lay along the upper surface of her feet, while from their tips emerged a single claw of smooth, white Hollow bone fully a foot long.  Her right claw was tipped with a bit of red; she grinned viciously.  Her partner’s face was oddly flat and rectangular, as though it had been stretched a bit up and down and given sharper corners; however, it was his arms that seemed to have borne the brunt of his changes; white, smooth, abnormally long, and with an extra elbow, the five fingers drawing to sharp points of porcelain material.

He snapped a quick flash step towards the woman, and she sprang back, preternaturally fast, knee already raised and foot lashing out.  He caught her bone talon on his blade’s edge, quickly pushed it away, and withdrew a pace.  He hadn’t heard the flat-static noise of a sonido, but she was dangerously fast, and clearly able to detect his own shunpo.  That was a bad combination.

Flatface lunged at him, arms moving inhumanly to try to take him from strange angles, low and high.  He flash stepped back, only to immediately bring his forearm up, catching Clawfoot on the shin as her foot arced in on him with lethal intent.  The pair clearly had some experience working together; that was an even worse combination.

However, sometimes the answer to finesse was not more finesse, but something much more straightforward.

Here came Flatface again; again, the flash step; again the arcing foot, lancing for his heart.  He interposed his forearm, instead – but not aiming for her shin.

The spine of bone sent a shock of icy cold through his arm as it stabbed straight through, icy cold that throbbed in his veins, and transmuted from cold to heat, a heat so intense that the brain, struggling to make sense of it, threw up its hands and told the mind that it was, in fact, cold.

Blood streamed down his arm.  He saw a moment of victory in her eyes, a triumph that turned to ash as he gritted his teeth and twisted his arm.  The pain sang in his arm, his guts, his brain.  He couldn’t ignore it, not precisely, but he held tightly to a simple statement.

I have no body.  Only the soul remains.

The words filled his mind as Clawfoot, streaming tears and yowling over her broken appendage, jumped, using her good foot to lash at him; he batted it away, poorly aimed and struck as it was.  Off balance, she couldn’t get it back under her, and fell to the ground, screaming as her trapped toe wrenched further, twisting the Hollow-bone blade in his arm even further, like a capstan drawing up an anchor.

You have no body.  Only the soul remains.

He stomped down.  Hard.  The ankle of her good foot crunches, an awful sound of tearing gristle and breaking bone.  The pop of her other knee as he kicked it sideways, by contrast,was nearly noiseless.  She is in agony, both legs crippled and useless – but agony was not his mission here.  The cycle must turn.

He pulled her claw out of his arm with his free hand before stabbing her in the forehead.  Her body grayed and shriveled in moments, just like all of her kin.

Break him.

The answer seemed so obvious, with Daisuke’s mind slightly divorced from his body – although he was starting to slip back into it, the sensation of an air-filled hole in his arm being a new one to add to his tally of experiences. 

Flatface lunged, having watched the hulking Shinigami take apart his partner with a stomp, a kick, and a stab.  His arms reached out, claw-tips shiny and limbs wrapped in protective Hollow-bone.

“Bakudo 1: Sai!”

HIs voice was rusty with strain, but the kido took effect, sending those long, dangerous, complex arms wrapping around the creature’s back back.  It was the most basic of bakudo, the simplest spell; something even a corrupted mortal should be able to overcome within a few heartbeats.  Daisuke  lowered his sword and thrust, stabbing it into the abomination’s heart, reducing the amount of heartbeats the thing could afford to wait to zero.  The form slapped into Daisuke even as it crumpled, the remainder bouncing off of him like a paper ball off of a wall.

Great chest heaving like bellows, Daisuke took stock of the situation.  Walkren appeared to have managed to distract his pair, at least, but he was impaled on some kind of hook, and the Hollow-men were beginning to gather themselves to come at him.  Daisuke leapt, slashing at the rope, before landing by his comrade, blade up, blood drooling to the ground from his savaged arm and the deep stab on his back.  He wasn’t usually much for show, but sometimes a little intimidation could go a long way; he raised his sword high in both hands and then snapped it down into a ready stance, perfectly stomping and bellowing a kiai in synchrony.  It was a novice’s maneuver, a simple exercise to start to teach people to hold a sword and to kiai with conviction – but that show of conviction was a bit more intimidating coming from Daisuke than a class of hesitant cadets.

With a hard thump, Walkren crashed onto the floor. Daisuke’s attempt at intimidation gave him the moment he needed to recover. Thankfully, his left arm wasn’t as badly damaged as he thought. His right still hung limp at his side. Heart pounding, he took three deep breathes and stepped forward, “I will take it from here, Daisuke.”

A foreign fire burned in Walkren’s eyes. Determination to finish what he started. The snake headed man hissed at him as he approached. The gorilla-armed man beat his fists on the ground. They both smiled as they saw Walkren, the battered, beaten opponent they had almost killed, step forward. They could kill him easily. The snake-man laughed in Walkren’s direction. An evil piercing laugh. An ignorant laugh.

“Scatter beast bones! Spire, Crimson Crystal, Steel Wheels!” Walkren spoke in almost a whisper as he heard taunting jeers escape the creature’s mouths. “The wind if it moves, the sky if it stops, the tone of the spear striking fills...”

A huge smile spiralled onto Walkren’s face. His body tensed. Not a moment later he disappeared and reappeared directly in front of the laughing face of the snake-man. Energy welled up in Walkren’s left arm as he felt the spell build. It was ready to release. It wanted to fly free.

Who was he to stop it?

“...the lone castle.”

His arm flew forward with the momentum of his moving body and he was practically jabbing the snake in the head with his outstretched fingers. His momentum was counteracted by an enraged bolt of yellow tore itself out of his outstretched arm. All the pent up energy flew forward and utterly obliterated the snake-man’s snake head. Blood, brains, and skull splatted everywhere in a furious force. The bolt impacted the ground and concrete crumpled under the force.

Walkren’s feet touched the ground and as an after thought he said, “Hadou #63, Raikouhou.”

This had happened in mere moments. The gorilla armed man’s mouth was still agape from laughter, but it was quickly turning into shock as Walkren turned to face him.

Another deep breath.

Another tensing of the muscles in his body, and he was gone.

He reappeared in front of the gorilla man, positioned so the wall was behind him. He rested his left palm softly against the man’s abdomen and spoke, “Tenren.”

A wild gust of wind blew forth from his palm and he had to brace himself not to be pushed back. The gorilla man, on the other hand, wasn’t prepared at all for the gusting gale that he found himself in. He flew back and smashed into the wall, creating a small crater in the process.

Walkren dropped his arm and and drew his dagger, stepping forward into the gale. He flew forward with the wind, the dagger, glinting in the light, directed towards the gorilla. He slammed equally hard into the concrete. Directly onto the gorilla man. The only noise the gorilla man made was a muffled squelching noise.

Walkren dropped to the ground, his dagger and whole front covered in blood. The gorilla man fell to the ground, gushing blood. He had made sure it would stay down this time.

The fire in Walkren’s eyes was still burning as he sheathed his dagger and picked up his katana. A familiar smile broke through the wicked one that was currently placed on his face as he beamed at Daisuke, “Thank you. I owe you a drink after this.”

He turned to where the other man had left into the darkness and scanned the area. The man’s reiatsu felt like it was everywhere. He took a final breath and spoke, “Alright, let’s find the leader.”

Exhaustion wanted to wash over him, but he couldn’t let it just yet.

Not when he was having so much fun.

[633] [12] [158]

Daisuke grunted heavily.  “I’m pretty sure there’s gonna be plenty of room for drinks each way.”  The blood streaming down his arm flowed over the red-and-black checked grip of his zanpakuto, fusing them together with a thin coat of warm, red life, the excess slowly pattering to the naked cement below.  Similarly, his heel left an arc of crimson with each movement, the trickling from his back wound having traveled all the way down his leg.

He cleared his mind, opening his senses, just as Walkren had next to him.  The other shinigami seemed exhausted – and no wonder, with his injuries and the display of kido that he had just made.  Daisuke himself wasn’t doing so hot, but he was tough, and strong, and enduring, shaped by the metal he had shaped for centuries. 

Other than Walkren next to him, he felt Hollow taint everywhere, and Pluses, and humans, all tangled and wound up almost inextricably.  He could piece together parts of what had happened – humans being twisted into Hollows, and Pluses being held prisoner until they did the same – but what was the connection? 

There was a whisper of cord extending, a brief spike of killing intent, a thing not felt, not known, but simply reacted to.  He whirled, slashing with his sword, and half of a metal hook fell to the ground.  The rest of the hook, attached to a sturdy cord, struck his shoulder, the fine edge he’d put on it scoring a red line into the flesh.  After its impact, the cord reeled back; he watched it go, vanishing into the shadows high above, in the naked girders that supported the few hanging lights.

“Impressive, Shinigami, to sense my hook.  It has been a while since I’ve had to really flex my powers.  You’ve slaughtered most of my workers; let’s see if you are in any shape to do the same to me?”

The voice came from nearby, somewhere ahead; having luckily cut one of the hooks (and seen the effects of one on Walkren), Daisuke was in no mood to rush blindly on.  But he could not stay in place, either; and as for Walkren, well – he might or might not be able to dodge the hooks, and if he failed, they could do serious damage.  No, there was a simple solution.

He shot Walkren a tight grin.  “You get to chase him down.  Don’t leave me hanging.”  And then he was off, doing exactly what he knew he shouldn’t – rushing directly for the source of the voice.

He felt a tingling weakness in his gut, the product of blood loss and the depth of the stab he’d taken; that did not stop him, did not slow him, as the first hook came arrowing down upon him.  His senses weren’t so open, so sharp, as they had been, and the thing embedded itself in the meat of his bicep (of which there was no small amount).  The pain was quick, the sensation of gradually increasing tension a new form of pain. 

He flicked his zanpakuto up, parting the cable.  The hook itself he left embedded in his skin, a painful, blood-weeping weight, but one he could deal with later.  He rushed forward, steps pounding on the ground with perhaps a bit less sprightliness than his usual fare.  Another hook arced down, catching his thigh; it immediately began to try to pull, to take him off his feet, but he was too heavy for that, and with another slash, the hook joined its brother as a temporary decoration.

A door set in a shoddily-made wall loomed, slowly swinging: the man?  The master? Had come this way.  Daisuke didn’t bother with nicety; he pulled his reiatsu together into his fist, feeling weirdly light and stretched, save for his fist, with veritably throbbed with weight and sensation.  He gave the door a backhanded strike, his empty hand streaming pale green fire, and it smashed away, sending a little burst of splinters flying, accompanied by two smaller puffs of dust where his Banishing Fist had torn its hinges out of the wall.

Motion out of the corner of his eye: another hook.  He grimaced, welcoming the pain, absorbing it even as he absorbed the master’s attention.

He wondered if Walkren would bring the man to bay before Daisuke had accumulated his own weight in hooks.

He knew what he had to do.

He just wasn’t sure he could do it.

The only thing still driving him on was adrenaline. This would have to be over fast. Daisuke was walking through a room, taking another hook. Walkren took a long breath. He closed his eyes and felt with his reiatsu. He saw everything laid out before him. Daisuke, the man, the hooks. Even as he felt, he saw more flying for Daisuke. Without any more hesitation, Walkren let out his breath and dashed forward.

He ran past Daisuke, who was being pulled in multiple directions by his chains. Using his momentum, he sliced through a few of them. At least that might help his partner get out of the rest. He kept barreling forward after that, into the room filled with darkness. It didn’t matter, Walkren wasn’t using his eyes.

He could feel the man arrogantly standing in the back of the room. He could feel Daisuke, wavering behind him. He could feel the hooks beginning to fly towards him. Daisuke had done what he could. Hopefully it was enough.

Three hooks were flying out of the darkness towards Walkren. He could feel them coming and his instinct took over. The air split with a sickening sound that tore as Walkren disappeared and reappeared right next to the man. His hope that the hooks would fly onward into the darkness didn’t pan out and they turned mid-air and continued towards Walkren.

The man just stood with a smug smile on his face, as Walkren spun to try and stop the hooks.

“Bakudou #39, Enkosen!”

The spinning barrier was erected just in time for the first hook to smash itself into it. It cracked the shield and shattered itself. The second hook came exploding onto the shield not a moment later. The shield didn’t stop the third hook. It cracked and dissipated as the hook flew through it, snagging Walkren in the left shoulder.

He staggered from the blow, but it didn’t let him fall. Instead the hook pulled him forward and he fought against it to stay where he was. His focus wavered as he fought to stay conscious. He was on his last strands of energy. Teeth grinded against teeth as he pulled against the hook. He couldn’t keep it up for long. With the last of that energy, he spun on his heel and shouted, “Bakudou# 61, Rikujokoro!”

His body almost became limp and flew with the chain as the power of his Bakudo left his body. The six rods of yellow light were wavering and incomplete, but they slammed into the smiling man and turned his smile upside down. They would hold him, but not for long.

Walkren finally got his feet on the ground and he was shaking as he tried to stay standing.

His voice was heavy as he panted.

His words were barely a whisper.

“Daisuke. Finish it.”

[488] [9] [167]

The last cable parted with a metallic ting, the cable falling slack before starting to be drawn back into the shadows.  The hook joined its brothers embedded in Daisuke’s skin, blood dribbling from each of the two holes it had made.  He could feel them all, feel the way his muscles moved under them, feel the way they stretched and pulled at his skin with their weight, feel the stinging soreness of the injuries they had done him.  All in all, it was a very unpleasant situation.

Walkren’s words pulled him back to the fight.  He had expected the Shinigami to blast the enemy, or to take his head, not to imprison him – but in the heat of combat, you did what you could.  Daisuke needed no special urging; he flash stepped, the dangling cables from the hooks in his flesh jingling, over to where the man stood, trapped by the fangs of mystical energy that embedded themselves in his body.  He drew back and cut as halves of the same motion, the keen edge of his zanpakuto neatly cutting a not-so-neat line through the man’s lower jaw.  He strike was not so swift, nor so keen, to leave the head in place to slide off later; no, it went flying off, smacking wetly into the wall and rolling to a stop.  Blood spilled freely from the stump, a piece of the man’s mandible dangling as he toppled over.

The air of the warehouse seemed to at once lighten, in the absence of the man’s reiatsu, and also darken, as the suffering of the trapped Pluses could be felt more keenly without its deadening effect.  But for now, Daisuke made one more cut, severing the hook trapped in Walkren’s shoulder, before catching and lowering him to the hard, concrete ground slowly.  Dimly, he could hear the moans from the Pluses, the cries of terror and surprise, as whatever supernatural power had been holding them unresponsive faded with their captor’s death.

“All done, great work,” he said, looking over Walkren’s injuries, doing his best to ignore the cacophony from the other room.  “Now let’s see if we can maybe take the edge off you.  Those Pluses can wait for another minute or two.”

Despite the blood wending small trails down his arms and having soaked his shihakusho into a different texture of black than it had been before, he virtually ignored his own injuries as he examined Walkren’s, letting his senses open to assess the man’s reiatsu.  With motions that seems surprisingly deft and precise until you remembered that this man made needles as one of his many tasks, he removed the hook from Walkren’s arm, carefully feeding it through the injury and removing it, giving it one last quick look before sending it to clatter away on the hard ground.

He flexed his hands and then placed one over Walkren’s chest, the other over his shoulder injury, and began to channel.  The warm and glowing light of kaido came to his hands, spreading healing warmth down into Walkren’s battered body.  With deep, slow breaths, Daisuke knelt, and concentrated, and did what he could to alleviate the other Shinigami’s suffering. 

Then, it would be time to konso the dead.

Walkren just stood stunned as Daisuke, still covered in injuries and looked as ragged as the chained up Pluses in the other room, tended to the wounds on Walkren’s body. It seemed like the man had all the energy in the world to tap into. Walkren felt completely inferior in comparison. He had barely been able to hang on to consciousness in the final fight.

He looked up at the big man and his graceful motions as he repaired Walkren’s wounds, a smile broke through his pained face, “Daisuke, you don’t-”

The world spun and for a moment he felt himself falling into unconsciousness. The world melted away and he found himself looking at woman. That too faded as his body responded instinctively and he caught himself before he fell to the ground, consciousness being caught before it fell from him as well. He looked up at Daisuke and gave him another smile, “Nevermind. Do your work. Thank you.”

Daisuke would eventually take enough of the edge off that Walkren was able to function and move without the fear that he would pass out randomly. He also was able to seep out the poison that had made his arm numb and useless. Walkren would return the favor and heal up as much as he dared of Daisuke. He didn’t want to overextend himself again.

After they were both adequately healed, they moved to the main room to get started on their gruesome task of seeing the wretched souls into the next life. The work would be difficult. Walkren would do it with a quiet reverence that was quite unlike his normal jovial self. The fact that people could do this...the fact that the cycle even allowed this kind of horror...it shook even Walkren’s unfazed mind. He didn’t have a thought of apathy in his mind as he worked. This was something he needed to do.

It would come back. He knew Tamashioko was somewhere waiting for him to slip up.

He sighed.

Eventually, he would make it back to his music.

For now, as they finished their work, Walkren would finally speak...

“Now...Daisuke, about that drink I owe you...”

-thread exit-

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