Shiranu Ga Hotoke [Nagisa]

Steamed buns and sunshine. What more did one need in life to be content?

A blissful smile on her face Nagisa made her way from the market square towards the academy building. Every once in a while people called out to her, mostly the owners of food stalls who had gotten to know her rather well ever since she joined the Gotei. The majority of them Nagi counted as friends of sorts. Due to her loyal patronage she enjoyed several benefits, like the ‘on the house, welcome back’ buns she was cradling in her arm right now.

Nagisa smiled and waved, but seldom stopped for a chat, and even then kept it brief. Today, after all, she was here on official business. Wearing her uniform the proper way, her thick black hair bound in a lose ponytail with bangs framing her face on one side and the badge of the Fifth displayed proudly on her left arm the Chinda had come to the academy in order to scout for potential recruits. And because Haruna got more boring work done when she wasn’t in the office.

Savoring the taste of free food Nagisa made her way onto the training grounds, deciding to stop by an old favorite place of hers first before making her presence officially known to the Zanjutsu instructor so that he may present his star pupils to her. However, while walking her merry way something attracted her attention. It was a lone girl, small and scrawny with hair darker than the black of her uniform. At her side she held one of the wooden training swords and all in all she gave Nagi the impression that something interesting was about to happen. More on a whim than anything else she closed in.

The young woman, or perhaps old girl would be more apt, moved through the Kata well enough, though to a connoisseur of the sword arts like Nagisa it felt as if she was being served fermented grape juice instead of wine; she could barely suppress a cringe.

The girl as of now lacked the built of a fighter, but pretty much everybody did when they first joined. That would remedy with time. The form, the footwork, her stance, the look in her eyes and the very lack of spirit in her Reiatsu though…those were things that left the younger Chinda with a downright sad expression on her face. The way of the sword could be so beautiful and fulfilling, and yet the scrawny kid before her was growing to despise it, that much seemed certain. Especially when she all but lost her blade and burst into a curse.

The little lady sighed and returned to position, that’s when Nagisa stepped forth.

“Your problem is that you think too much. One of them at least,” a friendly smiled curled her thin lips upwards, partially in an attempt to offset the often harsh impression the eye-patch made on people. “Another one would be that you have Makeda-san as teacher, am I right?” A knowing spark of amusement stood in the blue eye.

“The way you stand and hold your sword must really hurt, no? You look so tense and uncomfortable”

She grabbed the tip of the sword and began to make a wavelike motion. “Don’t be so rigid. You’re not a statute, you’re a person.”

She took a step back for another look before closing in again and correcting the girl’s footwork.

“I ought to send Fujimura here to help people like you,” she mumbled and brushed hair out of her face that promptly fall back. “The way you move…” Nagisa said and began to make ad-hoc motions with her arms that looked more mechanical than human. “It clearly shows how much of a chore Zanjutsu is to you. It’s a pity, because in fact it’s a beautiful and creative thing. It’s like drawing, really. In the beginning you have to learn some tools and then you are free to paint your own pictures, create your own style…but you don’t really think so, hu?”

The younger Chinda rubbed her chin. “Other people compare it to dancing. Is that a better analogy for you?...Maybe I should just show you. Let’s switch.” She held out her bag of treats and waited patiently to be handed the sword. Beauty in simplicity, Nagisa thought to herself and opted to do one of the easiest Kata the academy taught in order to hammer her point home. Smiling she inhaled and gripped the blade. “Are you good at Hakuda? Cause this is a bit like Hakuda. When you strike you don’t tense up your entire arm directly but rather do it at the last moment in order to add that extra ‘omph’ into your hit. Keep your wrist steady, but not rigid. If you’re flexible you have a much easier time reacting to what’s thrown at you; latest when they have you sparring for teams you’ll remember this.”

Then Nagisa set out to walk a form that consisted of very few moves, but all of them were executed beautifully. She did not step but rather was gliding over the floor. The wooden sword described arcs that were short, direct, and effective yet at the same time retained some sort of mystery. As if, at a whim, it could transform from pen to sword to brush. There was an effortlessness to Nagisa’s moves that made it seem not like she was walking a Kata, but rather creating one.

When she had ended the young woman returned to her starting position and opened her eye. Resting on the face of the young girl before her she said. “Zanjutsu can be very Zen in nature. However, is not about peeling potatoes and thinking about god,” Nagisa handed the sword back with a smile. “It’s just to peel the potatoes.”

A moment passed during which the impression grew in Nagisa’s subconscious that there was something familiar about the little girl in front of her. The slim built. The way she stood up straighter than straight. The way she fought the hair that fell into her face. But especially the lips and eyes. The latter were red in color, reminiscent to the one she hid under her eye-patch, but that was not that had sparked her interest. The Chinda leaned forward, a peculiar look on her face.

“Say, have we met?”

1062/50=21

Same word count. Coincidence or... #JustChindaThings

Inhale. She closed her eyes, imagining the movements that would flow from her body like liquid flowing downhill. If only, if only. Exhale. Opening her eyes, body snapping to attention, Hanabi felt the twitch in her shoulders as she prepared for a fierce downward strike – the opening move of her beginner's kata. So focused on the form she could see only in her head Hanabi had no telltale warning signs to moderate her response as a warm voice sounded off to her side.

Spinning with reflexes honed in the Dangai, her sword was jagged in an abrupt guard position that appeared between her and the intruder, even as her ears sang out at the visitor's harmonious voice. The world seemed to twist, edges blurring as she spun, solid shapes leaving a trail of color blotting her gaze as Hanabi stared up at someone shaped in the exact outline of one of the holes in her soul.
 
Nagi-chan? The voice had drawn up an instinctive reaction, lips twisting downward in a formal scowl as if danger was lapping at her heels. That voice, so full of honeyed warmth, bright and cheerful as if nothing was ever wrong in this world of theirs. As if all the deep blue of the sky existed only for Nagisa, the sun itself glowing in time with the girl's heartbeat. That was Nagi-chan's power, to be so pure that even the world loved her.

But... It was impossible... It was impossible... Rust coated eyes darted around like a jackrabbit, jerking upward and in winding circles as if all her staring would reduce the composite parts of Nagi-chan into something stranger. The more she looked though, the harder she gazed, the more those tiny traits stared right back. The ice-blue eye, twinkling with genial kindness. The long wash of blue-black hair, shiny and slick in a neat queue. The button nose that could so easily wrinkle with laughter and those familiar lips pressed together as the woman studied Hanabi's form.

Even her reiatsu felt the same, enveloping and warm, wrapping all around her as if it could block out the nightmares that had turned real.

Nagi-chan...

But Nagisa was dead. Everyone was dead. Kiriko had shown her the truth. And she knew better than to believe in false hope. Better to have nothing, so that it couldn't be torn from her. Eyes drinking in the sight of her sister, sister-not-sister, Hanabi exhaled shakily as she blinked away the mirage. This wasn't her world. Wasn't her home. The flutter of excitement that was her heart had to be ruthlessly cut to pieces. Why would Nagi-chan have become a Shinigami, anyway? It was wrong, for that happy child to be called to war. Wrong in so many ways and she was already bowing in apology for her knee-jerk defensive reaction and returning to her original starting position as this mystery sister-not-sister studied Hanabi's posture.

Blushing faintly at the string of corrections from a woman she told herself was new, a perfect stranger, Hanabi stilled her sword arm before it could quake under her flood of embarrassment. “Ah... Yes, ma'am!” She knew better than to hastily over correct, taking her time to ponder the woman's advice before resettling herself in a looser stance, arms clasped in less of a death-grip around her bokken. Over thinking? How could you over think this type of thing? It required so much movement so quickly that you couldn't think when you were acting, so therefore all your thinking had to be done beforehand, right? How else could you succeed?

The woman seemed personally upset with Hanabi's affront to the art of Zanjutsu, as if it hurt her own soul to see someone struggling so. Maybe it was just that Hanabi really did lack inspiration, like Makeda-sensei had said, if she could instill such a response in random-passersby. It hurt though, the flicker of pain in the stranger's face. In the eyes of her sister-not-sister. She wished it was as simple as wishing. That Hanabi could close her eyes and breathe out fairy dust over her hands and suddenly she would move with actual grace instead of the stumbling fool that her body seemed to contain.

She took it as her lot in life, the shallow mercy of some frivolous god, that at least the stranger wasn't actually angry with Hanabi's lack of skill. Instead it seemed as if she was puzzled, genuinely curious about how to help some random academy student. Did she care so much for the art of Zanjutsu? The way she talked about it, dancing, fluidity, drawing... If only Hanabi could see what this woman saw, maybe it wouldn't be such a chore.

Dipping her head in polite submission, Hanabi handed her bokken over to the other woman and stepped away to give her space, cradling the warm paper bag that had been thrust into her empty hands. Eyes critical, for that seemed to be the only part of combat that she was good at, assessing and seeing to the truth of movements, Hanabi couldn't help the shocked gasp that flew from her lips as this gregarious and cheerful woman turned into a serious and deadly dancer. She truly flowed in all the ways that Hanabi had imagined, moving like ink forming intricate characters across pristine rice paper. Each gesture was full of power, but more than that it was full of control. As if for that one moment the woman had been suffused with the energy of a god, slipping her way through time and space in an almost religious flowering of physicality.

Blinking away the shock, the bokken poking delicately at her hands, Hanabi hastily bowed again in thanks for the lesson to her sister-not-sister as she scrambled to switch the loads in their respective hands. “A-ah, peeling potatoes?” She felt the confusion bubbling up, whapping her around the head like Hinata-shishou's fan as if she had lost her concentration and was being punished. But, what did potatoes have to do with zen meditation? Hanabi thought she understood the rest... Movement as art. Truly seeing it from what must be a master's hands banished any disbelief she would have had earlier about that statement. It might not be art in her hands, but this woman could depict life itself in a kata.

Ducking her head, bangs covering her eyes as her pale skin reddened once more, Hanabi gripped the bokken tightly as if to ward off her own feelings of incompetence. “I'm sorry, Shinigami-san, but I do not understand,” she avowed solemnly, looking back up so as not to cower away from her own flaws. It was better to admit failure than to hide it. Better to confront it and hopefully overcome it. That didn't mean she liked the feelings of stupidity though, or the unintentional flinch that accompanied her admission as she waited for the world to rally against her weaknesses now that they had been voiced.

Lost to the misery of her roiling thoughts, Hanabi missed the close inspection the stranger suddenly gave her, as if the woman was seeing her for the first time. Blinking rapidly as the older woman stepped into her space, Hanabi backpedaled without thinking, her heart hammering in her throat at the sudden proximity. Pausing as soon as she could still her traitorous legs, Hanabi tried to erase the wide-eyed despair at her lapse in protocol, bowing rapidly as if that would cover her tracks and finally registering exactly what the woman had said as she came closer.

Her mind shuttered to a stop, flickering half-heartedly through various sentences, starting them and dropping them just as quickly still unfinished. Wha... wha... what? What? Met before? The words echoed like lead in her skull, rattling around as if someone had discharged a full clip of bullets in there and sealed the whole thing off. Quietly her eyes rose, staring at that oh-so-familiar chin, dragged higher to those serious lips, ever higher to the burning eye of blue. She couldn't look away. Couldn't back away from the determination in her sister-not-sister's gaze. To deny even a ghost of her past such honesty was like a knife twisting in her gut. To deny this woman anything was like killing her all over again.

And yet, and yet, as filled with longing as Hanabi was staring into that loved face, she could not break her training. She had learned enough lessons in her lifetime to know that obedience was the first law. And she could not break it. Not even for the mirror of Nagi-chan.

Something inside solidified, shards of glass pouring together to form smooth walls that wrapped all around her and let that stare wash right off her skin. Bowing again, a perfunctory and perfectly executed form, Hanabi murmured without an ounce of recognition, her voice the formal brocade that put an artificial distance between the two of them, “I am sorry, Shinigami-san. But I have never seen you before in my life.”

And it was true. For this was no life. It was more like walking through death, a shrouded spirit dragging her feet in grave soil.

WC: 1524 | GP: 30 | Total GP: 51

Nagisa put a finger to her lips and furrowed her brow as she leaned forward, a contemplative ‘hmm’ on her lips. There was something about this girl…The blue eye rested on the recruit, but seemed to see right through her at the same time. Nagisa felt as if she was searching for something. Something so obvious that it was obscure; hidden in plain sight.

”…I have never seen you before in my life.”

Nagisa took another step until their faces were mere inches from one another.

“Is that so?” she mused and slowly reached out, fingertips hovering over the raven hair, wandering over the other woman’s cheek without ever touching her. Why was she so fascinated by this girl? Revelation dawned upon her slowly as her eye wandered over the pale face once more. The cheekbones. The lips. Something in those eyes…it was a bit like staring into a mirror. Or perhaps like seeing a much younger version…a memory. That’s what it felt like; it was as if she had come face to face with a living memory, but of what and whom and why…

“I am Chinda Nagisa, lieutenant of the Fifth Division,” she introduced herself and slowly straightened, towering over the smaller girl, still a pondering expression on her face. “What’s your name? And where are you from?”

Nagisa took a step back to look at the girl from a different angle. She was slim, devoid of all womanly charms, but perhaps that simply was due to her age. As far as the Chinda could tell though this recruit was well trained, and after watching her practice Nagisa had little doubt that she was the type to put effort into everything she ever did. All of that formed a thought in the back of her head, something that seemed to linger in the corner of her eye but vanish once she looked; it was at the tip of her tongue.

“There are many ways to interpret the potato part,” she finally said, picking up on the one thing that was not a mystery to her. “I think the most important part is not to think too much. Once you’ve got the basics down stringing things together is something that should be fun and come naturally. If you meticulously try to plan out your every single move you’re cramping, failing, and consequently not having fun. And once you lose the joy in doing something you’ll never get good at it.”

Nagisa massaged her hand absentmindedly and went on.

“Yes, there are those for whom that calculating style comes naturally; to them fighting is one big game of chess. However, that’s merely how they operate. It is neither superior nor inferior to fighting based on instinct. It is merely different, that’s all. Fighting your way through a simple Kata like this…” she shook her head. “The style you’re trying to pursue simply does not suit you. Personally I don’t see much sense in forcing yourself to get a two to a three if you could be increasing a five to an eight, but you strike me as the type who hates to be told to give up, so I won’t.”

“Instead I will tell you the names of a variety of people whom you should talk. I am sure that will help you see things from different angles, and subsequently you might find the courage to break out of the training norms and pursue a style that brings out your natural talents.” Nagisa held up fingers as she began to list people. “Fujimura, he is a member of the Fifth and used to teach Zanjutsu in the Rukongai. He is very solid and emphasizes how important it is to master the basics; if anyone can get that cramp out of your hands it’s him. Gintama-san, he used to teach here, but I think since then he has moved on work as calligraphist and part time teacher. If you tell him I sent you he is sure to show you his skills. What he can do with a variety of weapons inspired many people, and I am sure it’ll change the way you view Zanjutsu.”

A smile spread over her lips.

“And lastly, once you’ve met and trained with both of those, you should come back to see me.”

“Now,” Nagisa said: “Any chance you’ll ever give me back those buns of mine?”

732/50=14; 35

She could only hold her breath, perched on that moment of perfection as she slowly asphyxiated from the tight-rope tension. Nagi-chan was so close. So close. She could smell the familiar heat of her skin, beneath a flowery scent that was new. Perfume perhaps? If she closed her eyes, if she let the sun beat down on her back and her tired hands soak in the ache of practice, she could almost imagine the past. Almost picture the two of them bent over their work, Hanabi weaving strands into a new piece of cloth while Nagi-chan doodled in the prized sketchbook that Hanabi had worked so hard to buy for her. There was that same frission of tension as before, the twinge in her back of having worked too long, the same ache of blisters and muscle exhaustion in her hands from twisting and forming wool into yarn, the ascerbic sting of cleansing and dyeing chemicals beneath her nails. If only she closed her eyes, she would be back there. Back home.

The ghost of a breath against her cheek fluttered so close, and Hanabi struggled not to blink, not to give in to wishful temptation. Nagi-chan was so close, and yet in truth it was a distance more staggering than the deepest of separations. Her little sister was dead, and she was dead in turn. What remained, what lived, what skulked in the skeleton of her old life was Enyo Hanabi. And Enyo Hanabi would not close her eyes as that face drew near, would not blink away forgotten tears, because Enyo Hanabi had no reason to care about this woman. Enyo Hanabi had no reason to respond emotionally to such a display. That was the reality of her new life.

And so she stayed perfectly still, preternaturally frozen in time as Nagi's hands ghosted a centimeter above her skin and her eyes plumbed the natural concave of Hanabi's face. The ruse seemed to work, or maybe it was only that the clench-hold over her heart, the bruising fist that was slowly turning it into pulp, had made her entire chest seize so sharply that she felt momentary success at even the smallest of things.

Her sister-not-sister withdrew, those questing eyes emboldened as they peered down from above. It was the differences that were the most painful, though she knew logically they should have soothed her weary soul. If only Nagi-chan could be more different, totally and utterly unlike her own little sister, then there would be no reason to mourn. No reason to feel that kinship the moment their eyes locked. And yet, instead of relief, the more she saw the changes of this world upon her sister the more she felt as if the very earth was rising up to crush her. For what could this world be like, that it had made her into a monster and Nagi-chan into a warrior? What could have scarred such a woman, recast her tall and proud and strong, and yet not strong enough to protect herself, not strong enough to prevent whatever marred her eye so badly that it had to be hidden away from sunlight and wind alike? What nightmare of a world had she ended up in, when it was the younger sister who was trying to teach the older the arts of war?

She didn't miss the title drop, nor the way that her sister-not-sister's eyes lit up when she mentioned the Fifth. It was pure training that elicited such a speedy response, as Hanabi snapped out a text-book precise salute while reciting her pertinent information. Such drill responses were a rote exercise in the Academy and she had not yet had enough time seep in to lighten that robotic response of protocol. She could probably still march in line too even though that entire class had been her first few months of Academy and was now at least a year removed.

“Enyo Hanabi, Lieutenant Chinda! I am sixth in the final year's class rankings, ma'm.” Blushing just a hue, she glanced up through her bangs, bright eyes just this shade of nervous.

She was relieved when Nagi-chan stepped away again, those piercing eyes smoldering somewhere other than right in her face. What had made the girl so intense? What had turned the smiley little troublemaker into such a fierce fighter? When she spoke about the joy of learning Zanjutsu, it was a truth that one could see suffusing her very body, the fluid way in which she lit up at the subject clear as crystal. But why would Nagi-chan love Zanjutsu so much? It was an art to kill, perhaps more so than any of the Shinigami's other skills. You used a blade to cut, unlike Kidou which could heal or delay or Hakuda which could restrain and cripple. A sword was a sword, and it was meant to make others bleed. The thought of Nagi-chan, of her sister-not-sister glowing with that fierce joy even in battle, even as her opponent bled and emotions ran high, it was a fearsome image. She was too sweet to be a fighter. Too good to be used like this by the Gotei.

But then again, Hanabi herself had been that way too. People who were going to be used couldn't complain about being the sorts who shouldn't be taken advantage of. It was in their nature, if you were too weak to fight you could be turned to another's devices. Just as a piece of clay too soft to hold its form could be shifted and remolded however the stronger hands pleased. She and Nagi-chan were only bits of clay in this world, fresh but oh so easily manipulated by those with stronger wills.

Those thoughts consumed her, but not so heavily that she missed the continued flow of conversation. Her surprise only shifted, growing cold and soft, the jagged edges settling into place. She supposed if this world's Nagisa was going to be a warrior she would be a good one. Good enough to give instruction, good enough to inspire those around her. Enyo Hanabi, if she even existed, would have heard that speech and been moved. Hard work was her trademark, and if someone so clearly superior, so openly skilled, had said that instinct was the correct way to do things then Enyo Hanabi would throw herself into this new method without looking back.

Mouthing the names she'd been given, sure that she would look up at least Gintama even if wandering into the Fifth itself for this Fujimura was beyond her current confidence levels, Hanabi's head jerked upward as her hair flew like a whiplash, skin colored crimson as she quickly hopped forward towards the older woman. “A-ah!” Her hands jutted forward, halfway through the motion realizing that her bokken was still held haphazardly in one hand, and the aborted gesture to keep from stabbing her superior only resulted in a hotter blush as the student bowed low over outstretched hands. “Please accept my apologies, Lieutenant Chinda! H-here!”
 
WC: 1173 | GP: 23 | Total GP: 74