My Little Captor Can't Be This Cute

‘My father used to take me to places like these in Seireitei when he was still alive,’ said Hazuki, as if to no-one in particular. ‘It was a point of pride, hand-picking the freshest ingredients like that, and something my mother always teased him about.’ Hazuki picked up a clear plastic carton of grapes and looked at it, her usual stern look growing soft, a mixture of sorrow and pain. ‘Used to spend what felt like hours cutting into each grape with a razor,’ she continued, ‘just to remove the seeds for us.’

She let the grapes fall from her hand, the edge of her mouth tightening almost imperceptibly. In many ways, Hazuki’s cold exterior was an act, her brusqueness just a ploy to wall people off in that almost regal way of hers. She had no need for that here. This was not some subordinate to intimidate with her power, not some superior to impress with her strength. Hazuki and Shinpei Minamoto were strangers, and that meant that Hazuki had no need for façades.

Still, this wasn’t a chance meeting. It was not happenstance that had guided Hazuki to the world of the living, not coincidence that had led her to this little grocery store. She had come here because she was looking for someone, but not on anybody’s orders. She had looked for him because she had wanted to, and she had found him because he had wanted her to. Where they went from here was anyone’s guess.

‘I miss my parents,’ she continued, in a voice tinged with regret and just a hint of longing. ‘They say you don’t truly know what you have until you’ve lost it, but that’s not always true. I considered myself lucky for what I had, it didn’t take losing them to realize that. People who say that it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all have no idea what they’re talking about.’

They were an odd pair: one gaudy and the other somber, but to the good people of the nameless grocery store, Shinpei was alone. Hazuki was simply a breath of air, a rustling in the aisles as far as they were concerned, and as far as Hazuki was concerned—

Well, the dead didn’t often mingle with the living for a reason.

She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, before she finally turned to Shinpei. It came as no real surprise that there was something there that reminded her of the man’s brother, despite their (vast) differences. Family was like that; there was a lot of Hazuki’s parents in her, as her foster parents had been glad to point out time and time again. In what she imagined was the same fashion, she thought she could see traces of Shun underneath the garish robes. ‘Do you miss your family, Shinpei Minamoto?’


°480

Shinpei heard a sweet kind of voice from behind him. He smiled and closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the air growing colder by just a few degrees. Whomever she was, that was the kind of impression he got.
"That's an odd kind of hobby," he replied with an easy, nonchalant tone. "You know they sell seedless grapes nowadays? I don't mean to demean how your father spent his time, but don't you think that's a little like buying loaves of bread and then cutting them into slices?"
He didn't really think that the gesture was all that meaningless, but he made a living (well, not really) teasing women. It came naturally by this point. Had for several centuries.

Still, even his perpetual grin drooped for just a moment. Just for a moment: that was all. "I've never understood that saying," he commented offhand, and held the bunch of bananas up as if examining it. Several people looked at him a little odd, but he was used to the attention. "There's no sense in it. Love, real love, consumes and changes you. There's no comparison you can make between 'I, who has not loved' and 'I, who have loved and lost;' if you're one way you can't possibly imagine what the other would be. It's like..."
He tried for an example. Some simile or a kind of metaphor. Eventually he just shrugged: there wasn't much else to say.

He considered the ethereal, disembodied voice. It was a game he played every now and then: what did she look like? Could he make a guess from her speech whether she was light or dark-skinned, beautiful or alluring, tall or short, staid or loose? Well, he could certainly make a guess but it was rare for him to be anything near correct. That certainly didn't stop it from being fun, though.
As for her... he supposed she was black-haired, vaguely asian, short, and on the outside perfectly stoic. Secretly, he continued to imagine, she absolutely craved male attention and loved relentless advances as much as she professed to be annoyed by them.

So he turned, and there she was:
or rather, there she wasn't, and the reason for his fellow shoppers' curious glances became clear. He could see ephemeral Shinigami (but only just barely, and only if he knew where to look) so the moment of disconnect between "there's no one there" and "someone is there" was vaguely confusing. He did appreciate that the two of them had turned at about the same time, though, and he was more pleased that a fair few of his guesses had borne fruit for once.
Though for some guesses, he'd have to wait and see.

"You know who I am, so surely you know the answer to that question." He could see her sizing him up. Did he match her expectations? She certainly matched his. She was easily the third prettiest Shinigami he'd met on Earth. If she took that formal wear off and what was under it matched what he expected it would (there was always margin for error) then she might rise to belle numero 2. Dos. He'd learned a few words of Spanish from various lovers and even tried to master it for an exceedingly brief time: it was, after all, a romance language.
He made no secret of the fact that he was undressing her with his eyes: every now and then, Shinpei was unfailingly honest. He liked what he saw: the very picture of a stick-up-her ass, formal-occasions-only, duty-or-death kind of girl. He was a fan of that archetype. Not over certain others (sharp-tongued tease, inferiority-complex bookish type, true blue slut, and so on) but it did hold a special charm. Often, that charm was the fact that her type had no experience and could be teased in a particularly pleasant way.

"Do I miss my living family? Of course not." He scratched his cheek and had the decency to look a little sorry. Even if he didn't necessarily feel it. "And most of them (maybe all) don't miss me either. It's better that way. Maybe you had a happier time growing up, though. I don't mean to say that family isn't important, but mine is a little dysfunctional." He gave a twisted little smirk.

"I don't have any grapes at home, but after coming all this way the least I can do for you is offer some hospitality. I can promise a better atmosphere than a grocery store, too." That casual grin. It never quite left his face, even when something else was stamped on top of it. "We can have a drink to celebrate. It's 7pm somewhere, I bet."

‘Have you ever eaten a seedless grape?’ she countered with a grimace, as if reminded of something foul. Hazuki may not have been a particularly gifted cook herself, but she certainly knew her way around good food. She had made the mistake of bringing home a bunch of seedless grapes once, long ago, and her father had simply smiled. Let’s eat them together, he had said, producing a small bowl and a pair of grape scissors.

Needless to say, Hazuki had been unable to hide her disappointment upon biting into the first grape. It was flavorless, a pale imitation at best. That had been the first and last time she had made that mistake.

‘They told me you lived a life of indulgence, Minamoto, but if seedless grapes and pre-sliced bread is something you’d consider adequate,’—she crossed her arms, hands finding their way into her sleeves—‘then I’d say you’re not particularly good at it.’ Hazuki wasn’t above a little snobbery now and then.

She was wholly unsatisfied by his assertion that love somehow blinded people to what once was—Hazuki remembered being happy as clear as day. It wasn’t the love that had changed her, it was the loss. Loss was what had torn her life to shreds, loss was what had led to her current situation, and loss, in a sense, was what had killed her mother in the first place. It controlled everything as the most powerful force in the world: through fear and through results, loss was the alpha and the omega.

At least as far as an orphaned twenty year-old was concerned.

When he turned to her, she caught a glimpse of the hilt of his Zanpakutō sticking out from under his robes, and her mind went at once to her own, jutting out from the sash around her waist like so many others. It was a last resort in this case, she didn’t want to come to blows with this man but if he forced her hand by being uncooperative, then...

Well, for now it wasn’t on the table, but Hazuki knew of a few women who would have drawn their blades just for the way he was looking at her. She didn’t mind much, he was a man and she was a woman, and any man who didn’t look was clearly lying to himself. Propriety or respect had nothing to do with it. She had seen the look in her father’s eyes when he spoke with her mother. To deny it was foolishness. It was the natural order of things.

It only made sense—in a twisted kind of way—that he would invite her back to wherever it was he called home, but she knew better than to accept. Instead, she made a counter-offer. ‘It may very well be 7pm somewhere, but it’s not even lunch yet here. Live in the moment, Minamoto. I passed a café on my way here, I think I saw some booths. You won’t get so many stares for talking to yourself there.’ She turned on her heel and made for the exit, giving him a critical look over her shoulder. ‘Coming?’

Officially, she was here on some assignment and she had stated as much when she had requested use of the Senkaimon, but when asked if she would be needing a gigai, she had declined. Hazuki had no intention of interacting with the living—if Shinpei wanted to make that particular mistake she couldn’t stop him, but Hazuki was having none of it.

This meant that to the average human being, Shinpei Minamoto was a man in gaudy clothes sat in a booth with a cup of something or other holding a quiet conversation with the empty seat across the table from him. She doubted he’d mind. Hazuki certainly didn’t, but then this was only her second time visiting the world of the living, and as far as she was concerned they didn’t amount to much.

‘Something tells me you’re not really very interested in why I’m here, Minamoto, so we’ll wait with that for later,’ she said, sitting back in the tall sofa with her Zanpakutō in her lap. Their swords made sitting down such a chore sometimes.

‘Why did you leave?’ Blunt, as usual.


°711

Shinpei laughed. "Of course I have." He could even remember when: someone, somewhere had reminded him of the cliche where some king or other is being fanned and fed peeled grapes by an endless line of beautiful attendants. Shinpei had, naturally, thought that looked like fun, and he just so happened to have an almost endless line of beautiful ladies vying for his attentions. So he had them do it: even dressed up in some Egyptian king's garb and had them almost naked while they were doing it. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find palm leaves in the Seireitei?
It had been a fun experience (for them as well as for him, he trusted: a little bit of newness was always appreciated here and there) but like a cup of fine wine too much was too much. He cut the scenario short before it got boring and he moved on to the next thing, which just so happened to be the tried-and-true method of laying in bed all day surrounded by the cutest, most willing ladies he could find.
You can imagine how happy Douji was with that. I'll spoil the surprise for you: he wasn't.

He shrugged his shoulders, one slim peek of pale skin parting from underneath the silk. "They sure do like to talk about me, don't they? 'They' still don't really understand what makes me tick, though. I'm sure even my brother has given up scratching his head about it. I have a one-track mind, always have. So I like indulgence just fine, but it takes a second seat to what I'm really after."
The smirk on his face and the way he looked right through her clothing gave a clear answer to what that was. "A crisp, steaming loaf of bread and a juicy bunch of fresh-picked grapes are tasty, but if I was concerned with surrounding myself with the finest of everything, I'd go crazy in a heartbeat."
This was evident just looking at him. He wore soft clothes, true, but they weren't the most expensive or even the silkiest he could have found. His hair was neatly trimmed but a better style could probably have been found at a more expensive salon. The most beautiful women sometimes refused him.
To put it another way: he had no trouble choosing the more expensive batch of grapes, but he was shopping at a supermarket.

Live in the moment, Minamoto. Shinpei laughed: "You're not a very good mouthpiece for my brother, are you? He always says I live too much in the moment. Says I should always be thinking ahead, one hundred percent of the time. If that's the way he lives it might explain how dense he is about things that are happening right now."
He had never failed to tease his brother about the come-hithers he missed or the longing looks sent Shun's way. It had been true since the Academy: women gravitated towards the two of them, Shun for his stoic presence and Shinpei for his easy confidence. The difference was that Shinpei took what was offered and Shun failed to recognize the offering.

He eyed the bunch of bananas and set them down, shrugging before following her. He didn't much mind the stares (if he did, how could he act like this day after day?) but he liked being led almost as much as he liked leading. Maybe the place she was taking him would be fun: that was the way he thought.
As it turned out, the place was one he'd been to before under somewhat unfortunate circumstances. How life loved to repeat itself: he grinned at the young maid as she bowed and welcomed him (them) but privately he was sighing in disappointment. If his fortune repeated itself exactly, it meant that they would have a little tiff that led into a walk to the park and then the two would continue to argue until Seryu--excuse me, Hazuki--said something she shouldn't have and got the shit kicked out of her. And then his mother, incredibly, would show up and disown him. Again.
Shinpei didn't think it was likely that the whole thing would play out like that again, but the unfortunate similarities did a good bit to depress him.

At least their waitress/maid looked properly confused when Shinpei ordered two shakes and failed to produce a photo or some body pillow with an anime girl stamped on it (often in various states of undress) as he'd seen some do. That moment of confusion before the pink-haired maid gave in to his request lightened his spirits just a little.

"You'd be right," he said to the invisible apparition seated across from him. But her following comment brought him up short, and suddenly he was interested in why she was here.
"Hold on a second. Why did I leave?" He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a long breath. "You must not have heard a single word from my brother. If Shun had an opportunity to tell you anything, he would have started blubbering about how everything was his fault."
One of his brother's many flaws. He tended to believe, even when all the evidence suggested otherwise, that somehow he'd caused the world to come crashing down. He reminded Shinpei of a child who thought not saying "goodbye" and "I love you" to his parents meant he was the reason they went and got themselves killed in a car wreck.
"So that must mean... either someone else sent you..." but whom? Not any of his nephews. They would have come to him themselves. Not his sisters; the same applied. And not his father, who probably would have just waited for his son to come around. That left his mother and his brother--but his mother had recently disowned him in a particularly final manner. And no one but his family would bother.
"Or you came to visit me on your own..." also unlikely. She seemed to him like the kind of person who'd come out and say it outright. If she even knew what sex was.
"Or..." he snapped his fingers and grinned. "You're eyeing my brother up, heard his brother had gone missing, and wanted to secure his good graces." He tsked and shook his head, the sly smile on his face filled with just a little bit of irony. "Trust me, you should find some other guy. He doesn't treat his partners well: did you hear what happened to his wife?"

Hazuki wondered how many others had come looking for Shinpei Minamoto. The way the man himself had reacted, it was a fair assumption that at least some of them had been sent by his brother. That pleased her, if only a little bit—it meant that she wasn’t wasting her time here. She couldn’t abide wasting her time, despite having a lot of it to spare. That was the kind of girl she was. She might fail, of course, but success would leave precisely the impression she wanted, she was sure of that.

Thinly veiled distaste rode her features as the waitress came and went with Shinpei’s order. Her uniform was cute enough (provided one had the prerequisite tastes) but her hair was an affront to traditional beauty. The girl’s natural color would have suited her better, but judging from the rest of the clientele—and indeed, the decor—this was that kind of establishment. Why it hadn’t occurred to Hazuki before, she couldn’t say. She decided to motivate it with no reasonable alternatives, and made a mental note never to return.

Her face remained impassive as Shinpei rattled off his list of reasons she could possibly be there, unimpressed by the trick such as it was. There were some—Hazuki knew; she had met them—who fell for the deception of making it seem as though one possessed remarkable insight, but guessing two or three times only to arrive at what was still the wrong conclusion would only have worked on the most vapid Shinigami, or someone who wanted him to be right. A good indication of who he spends most of his time with, I suppose, she thought. His misses had been narrow, of course, but misses all the same.

‘Not quite. Or at all, actually,’ she replied, not bothering to specify how Shinpei was wrong. Sooner or later, he would ask. ‘In any case, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Hazuki. There’s a long list of titles and duties that comes with it but I’ll spare you, you wouldn’t listen anyway. As it happens, your brother’s personal life doesn’t interest me. Yours are only relevant in the context of this meeting. I’m merely making conversation.’

She gave him a skeptical look. ‘You know how conversation works, I trust? I say something polite, maybe recount a story or an anecdote, then you reply with something of your own? Women don’t just untie their kimonos at the sight of you, I hope. Here, let’s try again with something simpler: have you ever noticed how someone has always read your file in Seireitei? It’s remarkable, isn’t it? They don’t always admit to it, of course, but everyone always knows everything about you before even meeting you. Every social or professional encounter is preceded, apparently, by having someone look into what a nameless archiver has scribbled on a sheet of paper with your name on it.’ She smiled, and although it was polite and joyless, there was something different about it. It wasn’t so tiring. Why was that?

‘I must confess: I’m guilty of it myself, but then you are technically a wanted man, and I’m a just a frail young girl.’ That, and I’m not from around here. Hazuki had been spending a lot of time in the archives lately. She placed her hands flat on the table in front of her, a gesture of—of what? Good intentions? Peace? She wasn’t entirely certain herself, but she went on after a slight pause. ‘Then what happens is I cleverly segue back into the original question, which you didn’t answer: what could possibly have made someone like you become a wanted man like that, leaving the relative comfort of your life in Soul Society for one on the run? Theoretically, anyway. I doubt you treat it as such, but then I don’t expect many people come after you these days.’

Until me, she thought. And I will be the last.


°664

Hazuki's assumption of Shinpei's curiosity was kind, but not quite accurate. It was true he felt the stirrings of interest in just why she'd dropped in on him, if not the reasons he'd thought up, but it quickly disappeared. Shinpei, after all, had a one track mind. Even he said so. Had, not ten minutes prior. If something didn't latch onto him it had little chance of sticking around. But when it did--well, then he was hard-pressed to spend a single moment without it in his thoughts.
It was simultaneously why he was so incredibly good at a few things and so incredibly poor at most others.

He didn't miss, of course, the clear dislike Hazuki had for the establishment. He'd thought it had been an odd choice, but it made much more sense if she'd simply chosen the closest location without knowing the ins and outs of it first. She'd probably seen enough to be convinced it would work and missed the admittedly strange style. Shinpei himself had never quite accustomed himself to it either, but he at least appreciated it.
You might say he appreciated it for all the wrong reasons, but I don't intend to pass judgment one way or another on that. He did love it for the way women had to bow, scrape and smile towards their supposed "betters," but it wasn't because of some idea or other about a woman's place or power roles or something like that: he was far simpler-minded. He just loved the way a shy woman blushed when she put on a revealing outfit and the way some knew how to flaunt it better than others. He just loved the way a willful girl furrowed her brows before saying "master," and the way a docile girl shivered ever so slightly when being praised by her so-called master.

It was also a good reason (did he need one?) to imagine his companion in a maid outfit, which ended up being a major stretch of the imagination. It did put a permanent grin on his face, though.

"I've held a few conversations down on my own before," he offered amiably. "But you might be surprised at how little is needed for a little bit of kimono-dropping sometimes. It comes with the reputation." That was one of the major benefits of being a world-renowned (okay, locally-renowned) playboy: women tended to know what they were in for the second they got themselves alone with him. He was sure there was some psychology in that, but he didn't know it: he was just aware that it worked some of the time.
"I've always wondered what they put in there. Do they say I slept my way to an Academy graduation or that I don't particularly like cilantro?" He had passed the Academy on his own merits, of course, primarily through his proficiency with a sword--but sleeping with a couple of the cuter proctors probably hadn't hurt. "I bet you know I like flowers, right? Do they make any conclusions in the file or are you left to form your own?"

Just a frail young girl.

He had to laugh at that. "Frail? You look like the last poor fool who asked you out on a dare (I can't imagine you get approached too often with a glare like that) left with a fist-sized hole in his face." He was at least somewhat familiar with her type: dangerous in her own right, partially due to intensive training and partially due to an exterior so prickly she'd put a porcupine to shame. He didn't have terribly good luck with her kind, but it never stopped him from trying. Little enough did.

"Alright," he announced, leaning back in his seat with arms folded behind his head. "I think what happens now is I apologize for mistaking you and, as apology, I give you a more comprehensive and truer reason than I might have otherwise." He shrugged. "Not much to tell. I had a nice thing going for me in the Soul Society, but my brother always had designs on me becoming some upright member of society. We came to blows, he demanded house arrest and some time in a Division, probably some psych evals... so I split."
He paused long enough to order two shakes, confusing the poor waitress, but she accepted the oddity and left. Shinpei didn't much care what happened to Hazuki's: the idea that he was sitting with a ghost was amusing enough to motivate him.
"I think that's the long and short of it," he continued as soon as their company had left, scratching the back of his head lightly. "I've never been down here, so I thought it might make a fun change. And so far it has been pretty interesting."

"If I've got this conversation thing down," he grinned, "then I think it's my turn to knock the ball back in your court. If you're not at my brother's beck and call, why are you here to check up on me? Does some part of you chafe at the idea that despite my time as a Shinigami, I'm not living my life correctly?"
It came out with a little more force than he'd intended, but that was okay. He made a habit of being at most 98% honest.

Look at that! He did end up asking her. Maybe I don't know him so well after all. I did only meet him for a very short time, I suppose. But I'd been watching since long before that.

Somehow, Minamoto’s answer didn’t surprise her in the slightest. Some women, Hazuki was convinced, wanted to be taken advantage of. Whether it was some deep, instinctual need to be desired or some kind of self-affirmation she couldn’t say; all she knew was that if a girl struck you as the type, you probably weren’t far off the mark.

‘Not exactly what I would call fine prose, just a haphazard collection of data. It certainly makes for boring reading. No conclusions drawn, simply—’ she paused, giving a sideways glance as she sought the right phrase. ‘Cold facts. Like your short stint in my former division, for example. That’s just about as close to opinon as it gets: they didn’t leave out the comments about laziness or lack of respect. Other than that, it doesn’t really say much. Mentions your relationship with your brother very briefly, doesn’t go into much detail. No mention of any flowers, but I guess that’s one more thing that you and I apparently have in common: we’ve both been in the First Division, we both like flowers, and you’re almost as good as I am with a blade.’

She gazed at him cooly, almost issuing an unspoken challenge. It was a tactical move—albeit one she expected would have little effect given Minamoto’s personality—but she felt compelled to try it. Ideally, she would leave here with the man in tow peacefully, but if not, then they would come to blows. Even a moment’s hesitancy on Shinpei Minamoto’s part could stand to benefit her, so she wasn’t going to shy away from underhanded methods. The ends justified the means, after all.

She smiled at his retort, a genuine smile that made her cold grey eyes light up. It was fleeting moments like these, when the girl she had once been shone through the dullness she had wrapped herself in, that reminded her of her raison d’etre.

‘You’d be surprised, there are a lot of foolish men out there—and some foolish women. It usually only took a single look to halt their advances, sincere or not. It earned me a bit of a nickname in the Academy, you know. They used to call me Empress: talented and regal, perhaps, but not any less of a frosty bitch. They weren’t entirely mistaken. I’m sure you’re familiar with the feeling yourself—some things command a certain respect among Shinigami.’ Hazuki didn’t like using coarse language, but unfortunately there were few words that summed up her classmates’ opinion of her quite as well. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

She listened to his reasoning, noting his usage of the word truer rather than simply true. A measure of degree, not an absolute. She didn’t mind much—it was just conversation—and she hadn’t really expected anything less. Everyone had their reasons for keeping secrets, Hazuki included. She couldn’t blame him, and no matter how much he told her about his past, she wasn’t about to fix it for him. In short, the reasons he gave made sense, and that satisfied her. She had suspected relations between Shun and Shinpei were strained, and this confirmed it. It made sense, even looking at the way they sat; Shun had been straight-backed and formal, Shinpei seemed incapable of not lounging. She didn’t put it down entirely to personality, of course—there was some effect of rank mixed in there somewhere, no doubt—but she could see why they wouldn’t get along.

‘Oh, there’s nothing about your lifestyle that bothers me, Minamoto. You’ve clearly made it work. Can’t blame a man for his life choices if you’re unwilling to do anything about them. Can’t write laws you can’t enforce. I’m not about to pass judgement on a man I’ve just met. Your business with your brother is just that: yours. But, since you’re asking so nicely, I suppose I may as well tell you why I’m here.’

Her hands slipped off the table onto her blade in her lap, ready to draw it. There was no mistaking her action, no hiding her intent—just like a police officer who was expecting trouble, her hand went to her weapon in preparation. She wouldn’t draw first, but she wasn’t going to be caught off-guard. Her eyes met his and she held his gaze, cold and uninterrupted.

‘The First Division is being emptied by the Captain-Commander, and I’m overseeing the process. As part of my duties, I made an appointment with your brother to speak about transferring my department to the Fourth Division, which you may or may not know that he is currently the captain of. It was a pleasant meeting, and he mentioned—in passing—his family, among which you were indirectly named. Soon after, I departed. No orders were issued, no requests made, but I found myself wondering why I had never heard of his brother. It didn’t take much looking to find you in the archives, but I’d be lying if I said you were what I expected you to be, given Captain Minamoto’s... Accomplishments.’

She paused, a moment of silence passing over the table. Hazuki was the first to break it.

‘So, to answer your question in the most direct way I can: I’m here to bring you back. Peacefully, if possible. Not because your way of life is wrong or because I was asked to, but because this is the most direct way of getting what I want. I’m simply being...

‘Proactive.’


°911

"Respect," he sighed, "is such a difficult word. My brother sure throws it around a lot--gets it from our father, I imagine--but somehow I never 'got it.' Too much of a rebel, I guess. It's in my nature, said the scorpion to the frog," he offered with a self-deprecating smile. It wasn't at all that he thought of himself as someone above the law, too important to be bound by it or, god forbid, too special to have to pay attention to it.
It just wasn't in him. He had no business pretending to be anything besides a playboy, anything besides a self-absorbed and self-interested individual.

Almost as good.

Shinpei turned his head ever so slightly away, pretending to look out the cafe window, but he couldn't hide the honest grin spreading over his face: don't get me wrong, he had no pride behind being so skilled a swordsman as he was (just as anyone would become good at cooking when they spent a certain amount of time at it, he was simply practiced, not talented) but he understood the dance. How could he not, after spending so many centuries a-courting? He knew well what the first turn looked like, the subtle hook of an arm behind the back to better lead, the flexible frame established between two who knew just what they were doing... it was just too much!
He felt giddy, as he always did when any little exchange like this began, and he had to admit it was a little hard not to say his piece immediately. But he could wait.

"A shame," he answered her little anecdote. "It must have been very lonely." He passed no judgment: it was a decision she'd made because she thought it would be best. Perhaps she enjoyed the loneliness--but that didn't make her any less alone. All that time she could have spent lying happy in someone's arms, he thought but did not say. He was familiar enough with the type of girl that shut herself away and ended up poorer for the choice.
His placid gaze flicked down as she settled her hands in her lap. That grin grew again: the dance was just about to start! He could hardly wait. It was almost hard to listen to the rest when he knew the certain conclusion of this little conversation.

"I like proactive girls," he winked. "Saves me the trouble of having to go out looking for them if they turn up right in my lap." He slowly tugged his Zanpakuto, still sheathed, out of his Kimono and slid it home in his Obi. It felt right. How long had it been? Too long, whispered Douji in the back of Shinpei's mind, and for once he didn't mind the intrusion. In times like these, they really did feel like partners instead of the broken family they imitated otherwise. For a moment's time, Douji forgot all about the abuse he'd suffered over the years. For a moment's time, Shinpei forgot how the little boy had ruined his life time and time again.
It was... nice to feel that alignment settle into place again.

"I'll tell you what," he announced: "we'll have a little sparring match, sword against sword. If you win, you can take me back to your place--and if I win, I'll take you back to mine. That's fair." He was honorable in the sense that once he made a deal he'd follow through with his end of the bargain no matter how much griping he did. In fact, he had a hunch that his visitor might end up winning--but that might be fun in its own right. He enjoyed playing the captive almost as much as he enjoyed playing the captor. Both roles had good lines. Like this one:

"You're certainly the cutest girl I've ever crossed swords with," he mentioned offhand.

Shinpei leapt out of his Gigai and slashed upwards, his spirit-form identical to his kimono-wearing body. The silvered blade snapped from his scabbard with a whistle and stopped above the playboy's head, both hands clasped to the hilt in a simple Ko Gasumi stance: sword pointed straight as his opponent. One second later, a blinding downward slash straight down the middle of Hazuki's body followed.
It was a dance between a man and a woman, so he was most comfortable leading.

In a single fluid motion, the man across the table from her—elevated, now, to opponent—shrugged off his Gigai much like any other man may have shrugged off a heavy overcoat and drew his blade, splitting the table between them cleanly in two, sending the milkshakes flying, glasses spilling their contents as they spun through the air. Somewhere in the chaos of wood, milkshake, and tableware, Hazuki muttered a single, inaudible word:

‘Deal.’

She hadn’t budged, not yet, but when Minamoto’s blade came whistling down at her head, her own hands finally took action. Almost instinctually, they rose, parting slightly as they gripped hilt and scabbard. A thin sliver of metal glinted in the dim lighting of the cafe and their blades met above her, pink sparks scattering from the edge of her sword. Minamoto had connected with the sweet spot of his own blade, and Hazuki recalled that satisfying feeling, having felt it innumerable times before. That singular moment when blade met resistance at the perfect distance from the tip. It felt effortless, like the cut could cleave through a mountain, and Hazuki had come to love it. She could only imagine Minamoto’s own satisfaction—if Hazuki had learned only one thing from her mentor, it was that the best swordsmen took the greatest pleasure not in a fatal blow, but a cut executed perfectly. She couldn’t help but grin as she pushed back, her own arms numb from the impact. She had never been in a real fight before and for some reason she found herself looking forward to it.

Endless hours of practice, of sparring with her mentor and—on the odd occasion—her father, of cutting down students several years her senior: all just games played with toy swords and toy intentions.

She thrust her scabbard back down the blade with a clack in the few brief moments she had to spare—she would gladly beat Shinpei Minamoto black and blue if this was where their encounter was headed, but there was no need to cut him—and then she was on her feet, kicking the booth wall behind her away effortlessly as her blade swung round as she followed through with her block, readying for her riposte. Around them, people were stood still and staring, dumbstruck by the sudden flurry of violence. As far as they were concerned, the table in front of the oddly solitary patron had spontaneously exploded and he had collapsed back in a crumpled heap, unconscious or worse. What was happening? What was going on? They would never know, and the only explanation anyone would be able to conjure up would be a freak gas explosion or something along those lines—whatever the standard explanation for the inexplicable was these days.

Her return strike was low and fast, intended to gauge Minamoto’s response more than anything: their first clash was high and strong, the result of a beautifully fast draw clearing the immediate obstacle between the two and simultaneously putting her opponent into a position to strike at her from a high stance. Textbook, and for a reason. It had an excellent success rate. Despite his professed affection for letting his partner take the lead, Hazuki could tell leading was one of Minamoto’s stronger suits. He liked to go first.

Her sword didn’t whistle as it separated the air—the scabbard transformed the usual high pitch to a lower whoosh as it headed straight for Minamoto’s ribs at blinding speed, his right side still exposed. It was a difficult parry, but Hazuki didn’t expect him to miss it. They were just getting warmed up, after all—feeling one another out, letting their swords take over the conversation.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, adrenaline and excitement carrying her pulse higher and higher in a way that she hadn’t felt when practicing.

This is real, she thought, her eyes flashing with determination and the slightest hint of glee.

This means something.


°661

Chaos was fun every now and then. It was impossible to avoid enjoying the looks of surprise, terror and confusion on the faces of the various staff and patrons who'd been so placidly enjoying their afternoon.

He was pleased to find Hazuki more than ready for the challenge: showing a clear love for finesse, she slid her blade free the minimum necessary to block him. A loud and vicious clang resounded, shivers running down both of their arms. A quick clash that tested one's strength against the other's--but Shinpei retreated before a clear victor could emerge. His sword snapped back from hers just as she shut the scabbard tight: an ingenious move that could have trapped his weapon if he hadn't been quite as cautious. He shared a helpless grin with her as he regained his distance. Now this was fun!

Still, he couldn't resist chiding her just a little bit. "Now now," he tsked, "That's not how you should be holding your sword at all. You'll chip the edge like that." Probably she knew not to meet a katana's sharp edge with the same, but telling her was as much for his benefit as hers. He could hear Douji keening from the pain of the clash--Zanpakuto weren't as likely as earthly metal to chip, crack and break, but they certainly felt it.

"Although, even better than blocking with the flat is not blocking at all," he shot at her as that thick piece of wood came hurtling straight for his ribs. So she meant to beat him black and blue? He didn't mind, but he had no intention of giving himself the same handicap. Not because he had no interest in being sporting, but because he had trained for millions of hours in a single way. He had no business switching it up now.
Shinpei turned to face the rushing strike, offering it more of his body to mangle--but he had no intention of letting her scabbard connect. He held his katana out in front of his chest, sloping from his head downwards. His right hand braced the back of the blade, palm towards Hazuki: if she followed the cut through, her wrists were poised to slice themselves off in their unstoppable momentum.

He could have left it at that, but he thought it unlikely she'd fall for such a simple defense--especially given the warning he'd granted her. Besides, there was no sense in cutting such clever little hands off. He thought they might feel just divine working the knots out of his neck or his back.
There were more delicate tasks they might just find themselves doing, but I'm sure you've already thought of those.

Shinpei took the initiative back, snapping his sword through the upwards arc that would contact her little wrists if she continued or if she halted right there. He expected to have pushed her backpedaling, so he followed the upward slash with a hard diagonal cut downwards.

The tip of his sword made a small circle about his head as his right hand caught the hilt once more. His knuckles shifted onto the top of the hilt, giving him control over the snap of the sword which would do the bulk of the cutting. It gave his strike a keening whistle as he cut downwards, legs spread to let him reach with the cut he aimed at her. This particular strike had a place: when he needed extra range, as he thought he might, and when her torso might be exposed, it made for a very quick end to the fight. He'd seen whole bodies cut apart this way: a hard line sloping from her right shoulder to her left hip. Bifurcating. Deadly. As if she was a piece of tightly wrapped bamboo.
Naturally, the force entailed left him committed to the downward stroke, and it formally ended pointed at the ground, stopped just past his forward left leg. It had its drawbacks, but it was the best technique in the book for the situation he was in.

He'd played everything from the manual so far, and there was no sign of a deviation.
"Enjoying yourself?" he laughed, the grin on her face unmistakable. "Good. So am I."

Hazuki had seen Minamoto’s eyes dart briefly to her hands, and while his answer to her cut—or attempt at bludgeoning him to death with her still-sheathed blade—was unorthodox, it wasn’t something she hadn’t seen before. It was something western, a technique well-suited to the heavier, sturdier longswords and claymores that the knights of yore favored, and it struck her as odd, given Minamoto’s reputation as an iaido aficionado.

Still, it achieved what it set out to do—in part, anyway. The black saya met Minamoto’s blade with a dull sound, halfway between a clang and a thud, and it slid up the length of the curved blade as it bled speed. Hazuki was silent—she had never been particularly fond of expressing her kiai, a (bad? she wasn’t quite sure) habit she had picked up from her mentor—but her lips curled at the corners once again when she realized what Minamoto had tried to do. His comment registered somewhere at the back of her mind, but she offered no reply, not yet.

He had been expecting more eagerness, but Hazuki wasn’t one to rush headlong into things. No senseless risk-taking, trying to end this in a single blow. She was proactive, yes, but patient; she had the edge in this fight and she had known it from the instant their blades had first clashed. There was no sense in hurrying. The weight of her spirit was heavy and ponderous, a glacier in movement carving great swathes out of even the hardest rock. No rush.

Minamoto raised his blade, taking Hazuki’s with it, and for half a second they were facing one another, swords raised above their heads, a deep breath before the plunge. The prudent choice here would have been to disengage, to step back. The sensible choice. She met his eyes in that brief moment and saw Kasumi there.

Sensible just means predictable, she had always said, hefting her blade absentmindedly as Hazuki rubbed whatever bruise she had just been dealt. Predictability gets you killed. Don’t be stupid, but don’t be sensible, either, Hazuki. That’s something your father was always very good at.

Yes, master.

There was no moment of time slowing down, no sensation of extreme speed. Just a man and a woman who were far better at this than anyone had reason to be. She saw the minute tremor of Shinpei’s muscles as he begun his downstroke, and her response was—

Well, it wasn’t sensible.

She stepped forward, her own arms tensing as she pulled her own Zanpakutō down, down and forward, smashing the hilt into Minamoto’s hopelessly open face. It wasn’t a very large step, Minamoto had taken one large enough for the both of them as he put put his entire weight into his attack. She was inside his cut now, the folds of their clothes lightly touching, and his one arm bumped into her shoulder and the other bounced off her flawlessly straight black hair as they came down around her. It was uncomfortable—hurt, even—but even a bruise was unlikely. The tip of the blade would have been lethal, yes, but Minamoto’s arms certainly weren’t. Odds were he wasn’t going to be as lucky.

An instant before it hit him, she smiled pleasantly at his question.

‘Lots,’ she replied with a soft voice through clenched teeth as she braced for impact.

And remember: The blade isn’t the only part of a sword that’s dangerous.

Yes, master.

Only an idiot fights by the rules. The look on her face was always so smug when she made her point only after proving it.


°601

Well, he didn't end up taking her hands off. That was something he could live with, as mentioned before: they were prettier attached than he thought they might be flopping on the floor. The two blades met with a clatter and a clash, though the angle was all wrong to cut into the scabbard. That was a good thing, by Shinpei's estimation: there was no way he could imagine getting his sword caught in the pieces of Hazuki's scabbard would end well for him. It was a chastising reminder to keep his movements quick, fluid and terminable--as if he had ever practiced anything else.

His upswing left them both facing each other in Jodan no Kamae. It was a brief moment of almost unbearable excitement: which one of them would swing down first? Which could cleave the other in half and escape ay harm in doing so? If one completely outmatched the other, then doing so would be a very quick and painless end to the fight. If they were closer, however, neither would be able to escape getting sliced up.
It was this calculation Shinpei was counting on. Since the two had seemed well-matched so far, Hazuki's choice would be between suffering a near-fatal wound herself or straight up losing the exchange. She would hesitate--she had to. Or she would begin something else, but his commitment to the strike she'd avoid would make him the victor.
These were the sorts of things he was banking on as he swung that sword down.

At least, it would have gone according to plan if she'd ever read the playbook. His wiry arms came whipping down and she stepped inside his guard. It was a risky move, especially given their relative heights: standing a head taller than her, he was perfectly willing to continue the cut and lay open her back. He had that sort of range, even with her in this close: his arms made pitiful contact with her shoulder and her head, robbed of all their force, but the sword continued downwards--
Or it would have if her hilt hadn't had a very unpleasant interaction with his face.

He managed to hook a foot behind the edge of the booth and throw himself backwards, but by that point the contact was a foregone conclusion. Her clenched fist missed his nose but the hilt of her katana certainly didn't miss his chin. It snapped his head back and wiped his mind clean for a few seconds, like a violently-shaken etch-a-sketch. He was aware of the ceiling whirring past his eyes, but it didn't really register until he'd made a proper mess of a recently vacated table and got most of what looked like a cake all over his nice clothes.

He struggled to his feet and ran his tongue all over his mouth. Everything hurt and his mouth was full of blood but somehow his teeth were still intact (some loose, several broken but none shattered or missing)--ah. He belatedly realized that the smashing blow had clacked his teeth shut on a small bit of his tongue. He spat out the lump of flesh and the mouthful of blood with it. Of course, it was hardly seconds before it began to fill again.
He moved his jaw briefly and regretted it. Something somewhere had shattered or broken or both and he couldn't imagine he'd be eating solids for quite some time. Of course, he could still talk: no amount of pain would keep his mouth shut.

"That washn't very nishe," he slurred before spitting out another mouthful of blood. He flicked his own sword back, shedding imaginary blood from it, then slid it expertly into his sheath. Here, at least, was where his expertise lay.
"Ready to play the game?" he asked her, but of course he didn't say the rules. She'd been playing all along, she just didn't know it. Now she would. "Grow," he commanded his Zanpakuto, though of course it didn't change a bit. This was just a formality.

He stood for a brief second before centuries of training, centuries of practice whipped his sword out in a predictable cut. Iaido: drawing the sword and ending the fight in a single slice. The blade was set to travel all the way from his sheath to the other side of her body in a hard, quick slash. Impossibly fast.
There was no nuance to it, just the flawlessness of a move practiced a million times.
He grinned as the blade cut right through her, like she wasn't even there. Then his other hand found the hilt and reversed direction: a copy of the earlier cut, just moving the opposite way across her waist. This time he spoke.
"You remind me of someone, did you know that? She fought dirty too."

Her mentor would have been proud of her. Hazuki’s first real fight and she had been the first to strike a blow, and not just that—she had done so in a very unconventional manner. Minamoto hadn’t been prepared in the slightest, and although his reactions were good, they hadn’t been quite good enough.

The impact had been glancing, but satisfying all the same; she had felt something break when the hilt of her sword had connected with her opponent’s jaw, and as he sailed through the air to land in someone’s dessert she wondered where exactly his jawbone had fractured. She watched him get—rather shakily—to his feet and spit out a disconcerting amount of blood and gore, but Hazuki was unconcerned. It was going to take a lot more than that to put him in the ground. It certainly wasn’t enough to get him to shut up: Hazuki merely shrugged at his accusation with an uncaring look on her face. This may not have been the first time a woman had spurned his advances, she thought, but this time there had been a little more force behind it than he was used to. Perhaps he would approach girls with a little more caution in the future.

Somehow, she doubted it.

His blade was re-sheathed and Hazuki looked on warily, readying her own stance. This was it, the art of the draw, and his (reportedly, at least) greatest strength. Again, she offered no response to his question, but the surge of spiritual pressure when he released his Zanpakutō made her frown. They were still on fairly even ground, of course, but this introduced a new variable and Hazuki hadn’t been able to learn anything about Shinpei Minamoto’s blade before coming here today. She tried her best not to pay any heed to the command he spoke—sometimes they were a hint at the sword’s ability, and sometimes they were almost deliberate disinformation, but there was an uneasiness in her all the same, compounded by what must have been some primitive form of envy—she had not yet unlocked the secret of her own nameless Zanpakutō, and it always frustrated her whenever someone unleashed Shikai against her. The feeling was made worse after she beat them all the same, because she felt on some level that if the same option had been open to her too, she would be completely unstoppable.

A naïve young girl’s arrogant delusions of grandeur, perhaps, but not without some shred of truth.

In a fluid motion, Minamoto sliced at her, the blade glinting as it slid out of its scabbard, and she moved to intercept. She responded with a disciplined block, one that didn’t move an inch too far, and it was that discipline alone that saved her in the end: her heart skipped a beat as Minamoto’s blade passed right through first her own, scabbard and all, and then her. Hazuki’s eyes widened in shock as they followed the movement his hands made right past her. For a split second, she was frozen, but she recovered quickly enough to realize that there was going to be a follow-up cut, and she scrambled to intercept this one, too, not sure what to expect. Again, she swung to block, again it was disciplined, but the moment of hesitance—that tiny little voice in her head telling her it was another ploy of some kind—weakened her. She only barely registered what Minamoto had said before his blade smashed into hers, splintering the polished black saya into a thousand pieces, adding yet more debris to their surroundings. There had been no change in her opponent’s intent between the two cuts—each had been trying equally to disembowel her—but she hadn’t been able to detect any kind of surprise from Minamoto, either.

The air hummed as she opened the distance between the two of them with a short flash step backwards. She was shaken and needed to collect herself, and she took in the scene once more as she calmed down. Most of the cafe’s furniture had been shoved to either side of the room, leaving a convenient little arena for the two Shinigami to fight in. The onlookers were frozen in terror, huddled up behind whatever remains of the furniture they could find, and somewhere under a pile of debris lay Shinpei Minamoto’s half-exposed Gigai, forgotten. She took a deep breath, steadied herself. Her voice was calmer than she felt as her mind raced to try to figure out the secret behind her opponent’s Shikai.

‘Some game,’ she observed cooly as she raised her now exposed blade to the ready. ‘You’re going to get someone hurt if you’re not careful.’

The unspoken threat was obvious, but it wasn’t anywhere near hollow. Shinpei Minamoto’s games weren’t going to be enough to stop her.

‘You like to lead, don’t you? Come try it again.’


°818

Shinpei raised his eyebrows slightly, impressed on some level that she'd managed to react so quickly. Hazuki didn't know it, but she was in the running for being involved in one of the longest, most drawn out fights Shinpei had ever bothered with. Most clashes (when he couldn't defuse a situation by simply running away or charming his opponent) tended to end one way or another in the first couple seconds, or at least in the first real meeting of steel against steel. Oh, he'd lost before--it just didn't happen very often. He'd gotten good over the centuries at figuring out whether or not he would win a fight with a particular partner, and he avoided those battles he couldn't win. Usually. Sometimes losing could be fun too.
But there were two firsts Hazuki was all mired up in: first number one, she had survived not only one or two but now three direct meetings of their blades. First number two was that he was trapped. He couldn't just run away now that some real punishment was on the line. Funny, he thought for a moment, that returning to the Soul Society (his home!) had become something to be so fervently avoided.
As for the power balance between them... well, he didn't really bother gauging it. He had to win: it was that simple. The odds wouldn't have motivated him particularly one way or another.

Besides, there was a little deal on the line, and he intended to collect.

Shinpei wondered idly if getting a scabbard shattered like that hurt. Douji wasn't too sure either, but both agreed it probably wasn't a pleasant feeling.
He watched her retreat and took the opportunity to chastise her. You might say he played the mental game as much as the physical; he would probably say he had a habit for running his mouth.
"No no no, you're supposed to attack when I show an opening," he lectured. "After a cut like that I'm off balance. Take advantage of me." His bloodstained grin glinted wetly and he spat out another mouthful of blood--thankfully staunched little by little.

He chuckled slightly at her reprimand. It sounded to him like she was stalling for time, trying to puzzle out the secret to his Shikai. The way he saw it, it wasn't so much a secret as a stupid little rule he couldn't fight without. He didn't like Douji so much already but if he needed further ammunition, there it was. It only served to make his life harder.

He held his sword upright, hilt to the side of his head. Zanshin. He flicked his sword back to his right side, again discarding the imaginary coating of blood. Notto. His fingers automatically found the blade as he slid it back into the sheath. Hassa no Kamae. His hand came oh-so-naturally to rest on the hilt, his left turning the whole assembly to the side. All the better for an easy, smooth and blindingly fast strike.

"I do like to lead," he answered her. "Did I make it too obvious?" Slow, measured steps to close the distance. He cocked his head and considered her, head to toe: "I will say, I've always thought girls wielding swords were attractive, but I much prefer the weapon in their hands to be mine."
He knew his range. As soon as he finished the pointless, dirty little joke, he was within it. Shinpei leapt forth and struck a wind-whipping cut across her midsection... barely an inch short. It didn't matter if she blocked or not: his sword would have ignored her defense as surely as it had the first time.  He halted the slice and surged forward, his Zanpakuto diving for the area just beneath her ribs. His sword was turned horizontal, though I doubt he could tell you just why. It was simply how it was done.

"Just between you and me, though? Women never know what to do with their hands. I've had to teach almost every girl I've slept with since the first one, and even after that they still suck." His smile glinted in the ruins of the once-pristine shop. "Hopefully."

And just like that the blade was tangible.

Conversation with Shinpei Minamoto, Hazuki was quickly learning, was all about ignoring the static and picking up the signal. The ratio of the former to the latter was almost unbearably high, but she could hardly hold the fact that he enjoyed talking against him. That was just who he was.

It was the lecturing, really, that grated. That, and the incessant sexual innuendo. Hazuki wasn’t a prude, but she was a traditionalist all the same: monogamy made people happy, as long as they chose their partners carefully. Nobody was completely innocent of the things that came out of Minamoto’s mouth, she was well aware of that, but she wished people could be slightly more selective. Transience undermined trust when it came to those matters. Hazuki’s stance on love was idealistic, but simple: there was someone out there for everyone—it was just a matter of finding them, either in this life or the next. As a Shinigami, her lifespan had no foreseeable end, and so she remained choosy, much as her parents had been.

So she filtered the static, focusing instead on what everything but what was coming out of Minamoto’s mouth. The subtle tipping of the sword, the approach. The talk was camouflage, that was all. It registered, but she didn’t dwell on it. Then came the draw, and this one, unlike the others, was a trick. He had cut at her four times since their tussle had begun, and each time she had felt and seen his intent as clear as day: long, powerful movements that ended somewhere past their intended target.

Two cuts from above. Two from either side. One mysterious dud, but all four aimed to cleave her in two. This one was unlike the rest, she could see that as soon as the sword started moving; he was holding back, and more than that, his sword wasn’t going to reach without an extra commitment on his part. His blade finally cleared the scabbard and the tip of Hazuki’s own sword dropped as she lowered her left hand from the hilt.

Camouflage.

That was all it was.

She fought the impulse to swipe his cut aside—the way she handled her blade had long since crossed over from conscious action to instinct—and took another step. Iaido was too predictable, too rigid: there was no need to guess which direction the blade would come from, because the starting position was always the same. It was the entire basis of the discipline. Sometimes that knowledge alone was enough to defeat it. So her step took her in the direction opposite the slash, to her own right, and the tip of Minamoto’s blade caught on the folds of her uniform. Or would have, had it been solid. The effect was still so alien to her, and Hazuki winced despite herself, having prepared herself for a superficial wound, but her movement remained uninterrupted.

Her hips swaying as only a woman’s could, she had sidestepped his gambit and the thrust that had been his goal all along came immediately after, this time catching a bit of the black fabric and some of the flawless white skin on her flank underneath. The cut was clean and her uniform split without much resistance, but her skin was not so flimsy. Blood welled up in the ridge it made and she gritted her teeth, but the pain wasn’t as bad as some of the beatings she had suffered at the hands of her mentor.

Minamoto’s words still ringing in the air, their eyes met. Something passed silently between them as Hazuki’s patience finally ran out.

He had said it, after all.

I much prefer the weapon in their hands to be mine.

Her hand shot up, gripping Minamoto’s very corporeal blade tight, tight enough to draw blood, and she yanked him closer, pulling the blade past and away from her, using his own momentum against him to pull him off-balance. Her eyes narrowed, a dangerous rubiline glint in her eye as her lips formed a cruel mockery of his own words.

‘Between you and me,’ she articulated very deliberately as she wound up her sword arm, ignoring the pain in her fingers and side, ‘I’ve never met a man worth learning it for.’

And like a shot, her arm let loose: another smash, this time with her tsuba, in what was best described as a bladed right hook with the extra weight of her sword for emphasis aimed straight at Minamoto’s jaw.

Maybe this will finally shut you up.


°756

 "It was just a matter of finding them, either in this life or the next." Well, isn't that a pretty little sentiment! I think I'd give her some flowers if she came by my door. In this life or the next! Or the one after that, presumably, or the one after that, or I would suppose the several after that. She sounds and thinks exactly like a girl who's never once been in love, although I'm sure she's read some pretty touching books on the subject. Shame she never thought to ask her parents if love maybe wasn't all fun and games all the time. Maybe her father would have words to say about loving someone in another life.

I'm sorry, was that cruel?

It would have been interesting to hear her say it to Shinpei, though. He might have run her through or just stopped fighting. He might have laughed at her or maybe cried a little bit.
But she didn't, so all we--you and I--can do is laugh about it, and wonder.

But back to the fight. I'm sure you're wondering if she did finally manage to shut him up, but I think anyone hoping for that will be sorely disappointed.

Shinpei did appreciate how literally she took his words, although it didn't have the exaggerated effect you might see in movies. She did pull him off balance, but it was a minor enough difference that anyone casually watching might have missed it. Balance was the key to a proper stance, and a proper stance was what kept you from getting taken advantage of in the manner Hazuki seemed so fond of. Shinpei had practiced everything by the book, but it would have been a pretty poor book if it didn't stress the importance of keeping one's balance at all times, in all situations. So it was enough to tug him away from his measured stance, but not enough to send him sprawling. Of course it turned out the former was what she was going for, anyway.
"Did they find you in a bar fight and strap a sword to your hand?" He asked her as she, incredibly, hung on to that razor-sharp blade. He was feeling more and more like they'd sent a brawler after him and just happened to toss a Zanpakuto at her. She used it well enough, but her go-to weapons seemed to be anything but the sword. Maybe the bounty on his head was worth more if he was bludgeoned half to death.

Again she aimed a devastating blow to his face and let me tell you, he was getting kind of tired of it. It didn't surprise him this time, but it wouldn't be accurate to say that meant he was able to evade or counter it. Instead it was more like he was able to make the best of a shitty situation this time.
He began to rip the blade out of her hand, trying to take a few fingers off, and he tried to duck the hit, but she was too strong and too fast. He only managed to turn with the blow and save his whole face from shattering. Only as the blood began to flow from her hand did he remember he'd almost forgotten the game.
"I don't want to go back," he whispered, and the tsuba crunched into his face.

Again he was sent flying through the air, but this time it was in a less friendly direction. He pitched away from Hazuki and into the wall of the restaurant, shattering a few windows and sprinkling the street with glass. He'd had the presence of mind to keep his hold on the katana, and he hoped the force of her punch applied to her hand had done at least some damage. The momentary lapse hadn't led to any intangibility he was aware of, and he would have been profoundly distressed if she'd avoided at least some of the necessary consequences for holding his blade like that.
He picked himself up from the hole in the wall and groaned, his ears ringing. This time she had knocked a few teeth loose, molars from the back left of his mouth. He spat them out and coughed and coughed and coughed.

"That's a shitty secret," he complained, slapping the flat of his katana into the wall, punishing his Zanpakuto spirit for his fickleness. "Anyone with half a brain could figure that out just by looking at you. No man good enough, huh? Poor you." He beckoned her as blood dripped from a long, ugly slice in his cheek. It ran from his gums to his cheekbone and in the abused edges faint marks of an intricate maze could be seen. Beneath the bloody, fleshy mass occasional peeks of white managed through the red. He spat out another mouthful of his blood and began once more the formal end. Hand by head. Flick of the blade (this time, sending a crimson spatter to the floor). Sheath.

He beckoned. "I think maybe you like to lead too. Come on: I'm waiting."

He'd given away the rules of the game. Now it was his turn to play reactively.

The feeling of metal breaking teeth and bone was satisfying beyond words, and for a few moments she forgot all about the sword biting into her fingers and relished the incredulous tone he managed to spit out what she hoped would be his last words in. Hazuki had never been in a bar fight, and in all honesty she didn’t feel particularly strongly about fighting either way; as a whole, it was merely a clash of wills, no different than a conversation—sometimes noble, sometimes not. A means to an end, as the tired old saying went. Tired, perhaps, but not any less accurate for it. Whatever beauty she found in it was in the details: a perfect cut, the color of blood on the tip of the blade. The same could be said about the right word in the right place, or a particularly poetic expression. To hear the almost plaintive implied cry of this isn’t fair from Minamoto pleased her to no end.

Life wasn’t fair. He, if anyone, should have known.

Her opponent was wrenched off his feet and she thought to let go of his blade a moment too late: the blade cut deep as it was pulled free of her grasp, a splatter of blood hitting the floor when she finally let go. The nick in her flank was a papercut in comparison, and she didn’t have to try gripping her sword with both hands to realize she was going to have to continue this one-handed. No matter, she thought to herself, trying to dull the pain. Won’t need more than one to finish this.

She remained silent, almost pensive as she swung her long blade to and fro slowly and deliberately with closed eyes and a placid look on her face, as if reminding herself how it handled with just one hand. It wasn’t that alien to her; a lot of times she’d wield the saya in her off hand, but for now she’d have to make do without—the splintered remains of her scabbard wouldn’t be much good in the first place, much less so with ruined fingers. Still, for her first time, she was doing very well. Kasumi would have been pleased.

Minamoto was slowly picking himself up to the tinkle of broken glass and his complaint—how he was still talking at all was a marvel—made Hazuki open one eye. Secret? What did he mean by that? It seemed almost as if he were speaking openly with his Zanpakutō (another flicker of envy, and she clamped down hard on it) but then he was unmistakably addressing her again.

‘Does it bother you, meeting a woman with high standards?’ she asked as he, rather shakily, in her opinion, got to his feet. His form remained clean, but she couldn’t help but feel there was very little backing it up at this point: the way he readied himself felt more like posturing than anything else. She suspected he was slowly reaching his limits on maintaining his Shikai, too, but he probably had one or two clashes left in him with whatever it was his sword did backing him up.

‘Have it your way,’ she said, and took a step or two toward him. They were a few paces apart now, and a quick step or two further would take her into range. She held there a few moments, then lowered the tip of her blade to rest on the ground. Her stance relaxed. It almost looked like she was standing down, until—

The tip shot up again as she darted forward, bringing with it a spray of debris aimed at Minamoto’s face in an attempt to blind and disorient him. She followed behind it like a shot, Zanpakutō already arcing back down in a cut aimed at his exposed right shoulder, set to cleave into it and render his sword arm useless. At most, her blade was set to maybe nick a lung, but further than that she wouldn’t go; she knew precisely where her blade was going to stop if it was allowed to proceed unimpeded, and it was just enough to end this without killing her opponent.

A dead Shinpei Minamoto did her no good.


°705

Well, it was good that she was enjoying herself. Honestly, despite the constant battering and the somewhat less than artistic sword clashes, some part of Shinpei was having fun too. It was good to be in a real drawn-out battle for once but more than that, he was getting the sense that every passing minute was revealing just a little bit more of Hazuki's nature. Oh, she had a very idealized and proper sense of self; he'd been able to see that the second he met her. It was the kind of type he saw a lot in the stricter divisions.
He had a strategy with girls like her, though it was less a "strategy" and more something he did sometimes and it had a tendency to work. He got them in a fight one way or another, and the more they started to get into it the more something besides a prim and proper Shinigami started to shine through. That way even if things didn't end the way Shinpei preferred, he still got something out of it. He was a big fan of that whole "expressions only I've seen" business, when he could come by it.

She was waving her sword around with closed eyes while he pieced himself back together. It was a dangerous move on her part, but she'd guessed correctly that he was too beleaguered at this point to take advantage of the lapse. Quite frankly, he was having difficulty just standing up straight. The only place his unsteadiness wasn't evident was in his calm and measured ritual finish. If the blade wavered, it was because his legs were shaking.

He even looked like a mess. Hazuki, he was pleased to see, was sporting a cut or two and a nasty gash on her left hand, but he was in far worse shape. He looked it, too: even if his battered and sliced-up face was ignored, shards of glass had cut part of his kimono to ribbons. His blood had dripped and spattered all over the left side of his chest, ruining his nicest kimono and highlighting his pale skin in bright red where the garment either hadn't been or had soaked through.
More irritating was the confection caked upon his side by his first fall. He wasn't terribly distressed by the ruination of his clothing, since he could just buy another outfit (as Hazuki had seized upon earlier, he was no connoisseur, just a hedonist). Instead it was a palpable reminder that he was losing, and somewhat badly at that.

Still, if he had to lose to someone, a cute girl was the best option.

Shinpei tottered slightly, hand clamped on his hilt, blade shivering in his sheath. "A bit," he shrugged, still as flippant as ever. The cut through his cheek gave his voice an odd, sonorous quality. "No more than meeting a woman with too low standards. Too high and too low are both just you being scared. It's sad, but it's your life." He was struggling to focus through the pounding headache his Shikai was becoming.

But he didn't miss her failure to understand the rules of this little game. He didn't duck or dodge the screen of debris; instead, he simply let it pass through him. And, despite himself, he deviated from the playbook.

He surged forward and caught her upswing by the wrist, caught her good right hand crossed against her body. Trying to disable his good hand, was she? Rude.
Quickly, hastily he wrapped his other arm around her--both to keep her close and to make sure that damaged hand of hers didn't smash him to pieces. Only by the virtue of catching her before she'd begun her downswing was he able to match her strength, and even then his ground began to give way. He sacrificed his Shikai first, groaning as he fought her for control. The tile beneath his feet cracked. His right arm screamed. And for a few seconds, he held.

"Listen," he managed with a groan, "I could put up some more of a fight and make this irritating for both of us, but I think we both know you're winning." crack. The state Shinpei was in, he wasn't quite sure whether that had been the tile or his arm.
"Or," he grinned, both struggling Shinigami pressed close, "you give me a kiss and I come with you willingly."

Death by a thousand cuts--that was the way to crack a straight-laced girl's shell!

They weren't quite what you'd call a pretty picture. Pain and exertion had made their skin blotchy, flushed and bloody. Sweat trickled down Shinpei's forehead and back. They sure didn't smell so hot.

But sometimes a little excitement could make you forget all that.