Post by Hazuki Tsukimiya on Nov 30, 2016 3:42:51 GMT -5
It was sunny. It usually was this time of day, especially out in Rukongai. Soul Society was a glorified waiting room, after all, its citizens simply waiting for their grain of sand to pass from one bulb to the other in the ever-turning hourglass of life and death. It was almost as if whatever cosmic force that had once willed this place into existence had done so with the barest of effort, a quick and easy solution to a problem that, while certainly sufficient, hardly impressed.
In a sense, that was all Rukongai was; like the people in it, it was mundane, a shining example of the tried and true.
Monotonous.
The weather, the people, even the houses—they all followed the same pattern, even the breaks from the monotony monotonous in themselves. Every once in a while it rained. Every once in a while a plus became a Shinigami. Every once in a while the little houses that dotted the countryside and lined the dirty roads had two stories instead of just one. Only Seireitei was exceptional. Only there could one find varied weather, interesting people, grand towers that shone brightly in the midday sun.
But Rukongai? Rukongai was bland. Just long string of beige days.
It was only natural, then, that when something out of the ordinary happened beyond the heavy sekkiseki walls of the gleaming white fortress city, it attracted a lot of attention. Like when someone committed petty theft, or slept with the another man’s wife.
Or when a wooden wall exploded outwards in a shower of splinters, the air itself feeling an order of magnitude heavier than usual as a limp figure smashed into a tree trunk with a grisly crunch of breaking bones. And that was precisely what had happened.
Hazuki’s legendary patience, it seemed, had finally come to an end. Kicking a loose board out of her way unceremoniously, she stepped through the gaping hole in the wall she had made and strode with sword in hand toward the man that she had—just moments ago—sent flying through the air. A girl could only take so many I’ve got no idea what you’re talking abouts before she was liable to do something for which she could not be held fully responsible.
‘I asked you nicely,’ she said, her voice taut with anger as she reached the man who by now had managed to prop himself up in a seated position against the tree trunk, a thin trickle of blood seeping out of one corner of his mouth, ‘and if you had simply answered my question instead of trying to look tough in front of your friends’—the remainder of which were peering out in stunned silence from the hole in the side of the seedy gambling den—‘I wouldn’t have been forced to do this.’
As if to punctuate her statement, she raised the tip of her sword—blunt and heavy mere moments ago when she had used it to hurl her unfortunate victim off his feet and through the wall and now impossibly sharp and light—and thrust it through the man’s shoulder. The tip bit into the wood behind him, and Hazuki twisted, the squelch of flesh and groan of wood only barely audible over the sound of the man’s shrill shriek of pain. She could feel Sakurazuki trying her best to calm her down, but Hazuki had long since passed the point of no return. Her grip only tightened, like she was trying to choke her meddlesome Zanpakutō spirit into silence, her pulse running as high as her temper.
‘So, I’ll ask you again—’ Just like she had done moments ago, she produced a small picture of a dark-haired asian man wearing glasses from the folds of her uniform, and leaned forward to hold it up in front of her reluctant interviewee. Enunciating every word in an exaggeratedly clear manner, she continued:
‘When did you last see this man?’
‘A year ago!’ he gasped between panicked breaths as his feet fought to find purchase against the dusty ground, trying—and failing—to push himself away from the Shinigami that stood over him. His hands—well, the one he could still move, anyway—wes bloody from gripping the sword embedded in his torso, but he may as well have been trying to hold back an avalanche for all the good it was doing him.
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘Please,’ he wailed, and Hazuki twisted some more, her mouth a thin line, ‘Some bar in the Eighth district, the-something-sword. There one day, gone the next, I swear!’
Hazuki grimaced, then put her foot up against his ribcage and effortlessly pulled Sakurazuki free of both him and the tree. He slumped to one side, sobbing, and Hazuki put the photo away again, seemingly paying the quivering wreck before her no mind whatsoever. With a flourish, she flicked the blood off the blade and slid it back into the saya at her waist, then pulled out her notebook and pen, jotting something down with her brow furrowed and lips pursed.
She looked up, then, and as if for the first time noticed she had attracted an audience—as things out of the ordinary in Rukongai tended to do. She scanned the sparse crowd with disinterested eyes until she saw someone she certainly hadn’t expected to meet.
‘Miss Enyo,’ she called, her voice like the crack of a whip. ‘Come here. See to this man’s wounds.’
°911
In a sense, that was all Rukongai was; like the people in it, it was mundane, a shining example of the tried and true.
Monotonous.
The weather, the people, even the houses—they all followed the same pattern, even the breaks from the monotony monotonous in themselves. Every once in a while it rained. Every once in a while a plus became a Shinigami. Every once in a while the little houses that dotted the countryside and lined the dirty roads had two stories instead of just one. Only Seireitei was exceptional. Only there could one find varied weather, interesting people, grand towers that shone brightly in the midday sun.
But Rukongai? Rukongai was bland. Just long string of beige days.
It was only natural, then, that when something out of the ordinary happened beyond the heavy sekkiseki walls of the gleaming white fortress city, it attracted a lot of attention. Like when someone committed petty theft, or slept with the another man’s wife.
Or when a wooden wall exploded outwards in a shower of splinters, the air itself feeling an order of magnitude heavier than usual as a limp figure smashed into a tree trunk with a grisly crunch of breaking bones. And that was precisely what had happened.
Hazuki’s legendary patience, it seemed, had finally come to an end. Kicking a loose board out of her way unceremoniously, she stepped through the gaping hole in the wall she had made and strode with sword in hand toward the man that she had—just moments ago—sent flying through the air. A girl could only take so many I’ve got no idea what you’re talking abouts before she was liable to do something for which she could not be held fully responsible.
‘I asked you nicely,’ she said, her voice taut with anger as she reached the man who by now had managed to prop himself up in a seated position against the tree trunk, a thin trickle of blood seeping out of one corner of his mouth, ‘and if you had simply answered my question instead of trying to look tough in front of your friends’—the remainder of which were peering out in stunned silence from the hole in the side of the seedy gambling den—‘I wouldn’t have been forced to do this.’
As if to punctuate her statement, she raised the tip of her sword—blunt and heavy mere moments ago when she had used it to hurl her unfortunate victim off his feet and through the wall and now impossibly sharp and light—and thrust it through the man’s shoulder. The tip bit into the wood behind him, and Hazuki twisted, the squelch of flesh and groan of wood only barely audible over the sound of the man’s shrill shriek of pain. She could feel Sakurazuki trying her best to calm her down, but Hazuki had long since passed the point of no return. Her grip only tightened, like she was trying to choke her meddlesome Zanpakutō spirit into silence, her pulse running as high as her temper.
‘So, I’ll ask you again—’ Just like she had done moments ago, she produced a small picture of a dark-haired asian man wearing glasses from the folds of her uniform, and leaned forward to hold it up in front of her reluctant interviewee. Enunciating every word in an exaggeratedly clear manner, she continued:
‘When did you last see this man?’
‘A year ago!’ he gasped between panicked breaths as his feet fought to find purchase against the dusty ground, trying—and failing—to push himself away from the Shinigami that stood over him. His hands—well, the one he could still move, anyway—wes bloody from gripping the sword embedded in his torso, but he may as well have been trying to hold back an avalanche for all the good it was doing him.
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘Please,’ he wailed, and Hazuki twisted some more, her mouth a thin line, ‘Some bar in the Eighth district, the-something-sword. There one day, gone the next, I swear!’
Hazuki grimaced, then put her foot up against his ribcage and effortlessly pulled Sakurazuki free of both him and the tree. He slumped to one side, sobbing, and Hazuki put the photo away again, seemingly paying the quivering wreck before her no mind whatsoever. With a flourish, she flicked the blood off the blade and slid it back into the saya at her waist, then pulled out her notebook and pen, jotting something down with her brow furrowed and lips pursed.
She looked up, then, and as if for the first time noticed she had attracted an audience—as things out of the ordinary in Rukongai tended to do. She scanned the sparse crowd with disinterested eyes until she saw someone she certainly hadn’t expected to meet.
‘Miss Enyo,’ she called, her voice like the crack of a whip. ‘Come here. See to this man’s wounds.’
°911
