Post by Takashi Sakuma on Feb 17, 2018 9:56:45 GMT -5
It was Tuesday, when they burned the corpses. In the distance Takashi could see thick smoke pumping out of the crematorium to fill the skies, which were also gray in color. And as he and the small company of Second Division Shinigami made their way through the empty streets of the Seireitei, he tried not to think about where the flecks of ash drifting in the air above them were coming from. Still, one could never quite forget the acrid scent of burning flesh: it was seared into the back of his mind, a constant reminder of his own mortality.
The four Shinigami, forming a detachment from the Second, moved methodically through the sector they had been assigned to patrol. They were dressed alike in black uniforms with tight-bound shin and armguards that differed from the standard Shihakkushou. Like his comrades, Takshi wore a white mask over the lower half of his face and a band of the same color around his left arm, which designated him as a member of a special detention unit. Their task was to track down any Shinigami displaying signs of the sickness, arrest them, and place them in quarantine until they were declared healthy or pronounced infected by the Fourth Division—and the latter was truly more like a death sentence than a diagnosis.
Under the current circumstances, however, it was more likely that anyone roaming the streets without an official purpose would be cast under suspicion, and this was mainly what Takashi’s group was looking for: anomalies.
Reaching a rectangular plaza, which served as the locus for several streets that branched off from the open area, the leader pulled the unit to a halt.
“We’ll split up here,” he said. “Each of you head in a different direction. Meet back at this spot in half an hour.”
As usual, the instructions were minimal. The four of them, who had so far outlived most of the other members in the Second, were accustomed to working together and knew the routine. But for all of their efficiency, they lacked a sense of camaraderie. Working side-by-side in silence, they were well-aware that bonds were futile in an environment so easily disrupted by death. Not to mention, one never knew when a former ally would begin to show signs of the disease. No one could be trusted.
Leaving the plaza and heading west, Takashi followed the main street, peering warily into the empty alleyways as he passed by. Here, the white walls had been stained gray with soot, as he was entering an area located closer to the main crematorium. That also meant that it was likely that the streets here were completely deserted. After the plague had begun to ravage the Seireitei, the areas around the hospitals and burial sites had been abandoned as Shinigami hoping to escape the reach of the contagion fled to allegedly safer areas. For his part, Takashi had given up on taking such evasive measures long ago, resigning himself to his fate. It had been nearly five years. If the sickness were to take him now, then he could only say that he had been luckier than most in surviving for so long. Although “luck” was, at this point, a relative term.
The only sound was the muted shuffling of Takashi’s hard-soled jika-tabi over the slated tiles of the street. Now that he was further from the central plaza, the buildings around him had become more dilapidated. The continual rain of sulfated ash had slowly eroded the roof tiles, and the walls were disintegrating near the downspouts where water had eaten away at the brick. All was still. Silent. Not even a breath of air was allowed to pass through the stagnant alleyways.
Lovely part of the city, Kohaku commented wryly. Somewhat atypically, she was perched on the leather epaulet that protected Takashi’s left shoulder, opting not to fly through the thick cloud of unidentifiable burnt matter in the sky above. He didn’t blame her, and in truth was glad she was with him, finding her familiar weight comforting.
Takashi was about to make an effort to reply when his foot brushed against a piece of debris, sending a fragment of brick skittering across the street. Taking closer stock of his surroundings, he realized that the disrepair he saw wasn’t merely passive: There was a crater in the wall, black streaks seared into the tile, and small piles of rubble lying scattered about. Obviously signs of a battle, although it was impossible for him to say how recently it had occurred.
As he stood in the midst of the destruction, Takashi was nearly startled when heard what sounded like the whimper of a wounded animal. Training his senses on the direction of the noise, he caught sounds of movement coming from one of the nearby alleyways, and a moment later, he felt a small stirring of spiritual pressure.
Someone was there.
Takashi moved away from the main street and towards the direction of where he had felt the Reiatsu, careful to remain silent while keeping his hand on the hilt of his Zanpakutou. As he drew nearer, he soon realized that the sounds of whimpering were human. There was a clattering sound as well: something hollow knocking repeatedly against the wall.
Entering a particularly narrow gap between two storehouses, Takashi spotted a small mass huddled over in a corner, practically drowning in the shadows. As he had expected, it was a Shinigami. A young man, barely past adolescence, was curled up against the wall, with his knees pressed up to his chest and clutching his Zanpakutou.
Takashi’s stomach immediately sank. The symptoms were evident: He already knew where this would end.
“You shouldn’t be here alone,” Takashi addressed the young Shinigami, “Are you alright?”
But the youth did not acknowledge Takashi. He continued to rock back and forth, whimpering and muttering to himself as his sword’s tsuba clacked against the wall, again and again. Careful to keep his distance, Takashi looked more carefully at the young man’s Zanpakutou. While he couldn’t be certain, it seemed as though there was a small patch of reddish dust creeping from the koiguchi of the saya: signs of rust.
“You’ll need to come with me,” he told the Shinigami, “That’s an order.”
In the past, Takashi had tried to reassure the disease-effected individuals his unit discovered and brought in. You’ll receive help, he would say, The Fourth Division will do their best. Their searching for a cure. Ultimately, however, all those promises had been nothing more than lies. Now, he didn’t even bother trying to soften the inevitable pronouncement. Everyone knew what it meant to fall victim to the plague. It was no use pretending otherwise.
“No,” the Shinigami shook his head violently. “No, no, no, no…” He bit back a sob. “I don’t want to die. Please… I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Despite himself, Takashi began to sympathize with the young man’s plight.
“Don’t make this harder on yourself,” Takashi said, although his voice had lost its hard edge. “You’ve already resisted long enough.”
For a moment, the Shinigami stopped shaking, as though he were considering the proposition of giving himself up.
“No,” he said, and this time he spoke with certain menace, staring straight ahead as he seemed to reach a decision. “I’ve made it this far haven’t I? I should survive. I deserve it. It’s so unfair… so unfair… not my fault…”
“What is your name?” Takashi asked him, redirecting his attention.
“No…” The Shinigami’s eyes began to fill with tears as his expression turned to one of horror. “Not that, please don’t….”
Takashi repeated the question. “What is your name?”
But the Shinigami’s only reply was a scream.
Without warning, he leapt up and rushed to attack Takashi. Taking his sheathed Zanpakutou with both hands, the nameless Shinigami brought the sword down towards Takashi’s head at full-force. Takashi stepped to the side to evade, which unfortunately trapped his right shoulder against the wall. Unable to maneuver in the narrow alleyway or to to strike back, Takashi was caught off guard as the young man turned the hilt in his hand suddenly, redirecting the direction of attack to drive the base of the saya into his throat. Having stepped back at the last moment, Takashi managed to prevent what would have likely been a fatal blow, but he still felt as though his windpipe had been crushed by the impact.
Damn it. He swore silently as he scrambled back. Kohaku was forced to extend her wings to regain her balance as he slid out into the open. The moment he cleared the alley, Takashi readjusted his scabbard, preparing to draw while blinking to clear his watering eyes.
He was still trying to force himself to breathe.
The situation quickly turned from bad to worse as the other Shinigami drew his Zanpakutou, which was coated in a veneer of dark red. He cut into the wall of the alley to his right, scraping off chunks of plaster. Then, moving with surprising agility, he kicked two blocks of heavy stone in Takashi’s direction.
Somehow, Takashi managed to dodge the first brick, but then his lack of oxygen caught up to him and the second landed squarely in his chest. Thrown off his feet, Takashi hung suspended in the air for a brief instant, which allowed his hawk time enough to take flight a split-second before he slammed into into the ground. Turning his shoulder to take the worst of the impact, Takashi’s momentum carried him to the other side of the street.
Still screaming, the other Shinigami was on him before he could move. Takashi watched as the young man turned his sword so that its tip pointed down. Raising the hilt above his head, the Shinigami then brought the Zanpakutou down towards Takashi’s head.
Takashi, get up. Kohaku snapped, concerned.
As he watched the descending blade, Takashi briefly reviewed the chain of events that had led him to his current situation. His primary mistake had been in not taking the offensive when he should have. Ironic that it should end this way, he thought, with him lying there unable to even cry out for help. Death came so suddenly, even to those who had escaped the disease.
Staring up at the ash-gray sky and the shadow of his hawk circling above him, Takashi realized that the only thing he felt was tired. So, very tired…
Word count 1,740
Running total 1,740
Yuudai Takeshi
The four Shinigami, forming a detachment from the Second, moved methodically through the sector they had been assigned to patrol. They were dressed alike in black uniforms with tight-bound shin and armguards that differed from the standard Shihakkushou. Like his comrades, Takshi wore a white mask over the lower half of his face and a band of the same color around his left arm, which designated him as a member of a special detention unit. Their task was to track down any Shinigami displaying signs of the sickness, arrest them, and place them in quarantine until they were declared healthy or pronounced infected by the Fourth Division—and the latter was truly more like a death sentence than a diagnosis.
Under the current circumstances, however, it was more likely that anyone roaming the streets without an official purpose would be cast under suspicion, and this was mainly what Takashi’s group was looking for: anomalies.
Reaching a rectangular plaza, which served as the locus for several streets that branched off from the open area, the leader pulled the unit to a halt.
“We’ll split up here,” he said. “Each of you head in a different direction. Meet back at this spot in half an hour.”
As usual, the instructions were minimal. The four of them, who had so far outlived most of the other members in the Second, were accustomed to working together and knew the routine. But for all of their efficiency, they lacked a sense of camaraderie. Working side-by-side in silence, they were well-aware that bonds were futile in an environment so easily disrupted by death. Not to mention, one never knew when a former ally would begin to show signs of the disease. No one could be trusted.
Leaving the plaza and heading west, Takashi followed the main street, peering warily into the empty alleyways as he passed by. Here, the white walls had been stained gray with soot, as he was entering an area located closer to the main crematorium. That also meant that it was likely that the streets here were completely deserted. After the plague had begun to ravage the Seireitei, the areas around the hospitals and burial sites had been abandoned as Shinigami hoping to escape the reach of the contagion fled to allegedly safer areas. For his part, Takashi had given up on taking such evasive measures long ago, resigning himself to his fate. It had been nearly five years. If the sickness were to take him now, then he could only say that he had been luckier than most in surviving for so long. Although “luck” was, at this point, a relative term.
The only sound was the muted shuffling of Takashi’s hard-soled jika-tabi over the slated tiles of the street. Now that he was further from the central plaza, the buildings around him had become more dilapidated. The continual rain of sulfated ash had slowly eroded the roof tiles, and the walls were disintegrating near the downspouts where water had eaten away at the brick. All was still. Silent. Not even a breath of air was allowed to pass through the stagnant alleyways.
Lovely part of the city, Kohaku commented wryly. Somewhat atypically, she was perched on the leather epaulet that protected Takashi’s left shoulder, opting not to fly through the thick cloud of unidentifiable burnt matter in the sky above. He didn’t blame her, and in truth was glad she was with him, finding her familiar weight comforting.
Takashi was about to make an effort to reply when his foot brushed against a piece of debris, sending a fragment of brick skittering across the street. Taking closer stock of his surroundings, he realized that the disrepair he saw wasn’t merely passive: There was a crater in the wall, black streaks seared into the tile, and small piles of rubble lying scattered about. Obviously signs of a battle, although it was impossible for him to say how recently it had occurred.
As he stood in the midst of the destruction, Takashi was nearly startled when heard what sounded like the whimper of a wounded animal. Training his senses on the direction of the noise, he caught sounds of movement coming from one of the nearby alleyways, and a moment later, he felt a small stirring of spiritual pressure.
Someone was there.
Takashi moved away from the main street and towards the direction of where he had felt the Reiatsu, careful to remain silent while keeping his hand on the hilt of his Zanpakutou. As he drew nearer, he soon realized that the sounds of whimpering were human. There was a clattering sound as well: something hollow knocking repeatedly against the wall.
Entering a particularly narrow gap between two storehouses, Takashi spotted a small mass huddled over in a corner, practically drowning in the shadows. As he had expected, it was a Shinigami. A young man, barely past adolescence, was curled up against the wall, with his knees pressed up to his chest and clutching his Zanpakutou.
Takashi’s stomach immediately sank. The symptoms were evident: He already knew where this would end.
“You shouldn’t be here alone,” Takashi addressed the young Shinigami, “Are you alright?”
But the youth did not acknowledge Takashi. He continued to rock back and forth, whimpering and muttering to himself as his sword’s tsuba clacked against the wall, again and again. Careful to keep his distance, Takashi looked more carefully at the young man’s Zanpakutou. While he couldn’t be certain, it seemed as though there was a small patch of reddish dust creeping from the koiguchi of the saya: signs of rust.
“You’ll need to come with me,” he told the Shinigami, “That’s an order.”
In the past, Takashi had tried to reassure the disease-effected individuals his unit discovered and brought in. You’ll receive help, he would say, The Fourth Division will do their best. Their searching for a cure. Ultimately, however, all those promises had been nothing more than lies. Now, he didn’t even bother trying to soften the inevitable pronouncement. Everyone knew what it meant to fall victim to the plague. It was no use pretending otherwise.
“No,” the Shinigami shook his head violently. “No, no, no, no…” He bit back a sob. “I don’t want to die. Please… I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Despite himself, Takashi began to sympathize with the young man’s plight.
“Don’t make this harder on yourself,” Takashi said, although his voice had lost its hard edge. “You’ve already resisted long enough.”
For a moment, the Shinigami stopped shaking, as though he were considering the proposition of giving himself up.
“No,” he said, and this time he spoke with certain menace, staring straight ahead as he seemed to reach a decision. “I’ve made it this far haven’t I? I should survive. I deserve it. It’s so unfair… so unfair… not my fault…”
“What is your name?” Takashi asked him, redirecting his attention.
“No…” The Shinigami’s eyes began to fill with tears as his expression turned to one of horror. “Not that, please don’t….”
Takashi repeated the question. “What is your name?”
But the Shinigami’s only reply was a scream.
Without warning, he leapt up and rushed to attack Takashi. Taking his sheathed Zanpakutou with both hands, the nameless Shinigami brought the sword down towards Takashi’s head at full-force. Takashi stepped to the side to evade, which unfortunately trapped his right shoulder against the wall. Unable to maneuver in the narrow alleyway or to to strike back, Takashi was caught off guard as the young man turned the hilt in his hand suddenly, redirecting the direction of attack to drive the base of the saya into his throat. Having stepped back at the last moment, Takashi managed to prevent what would have likely been a fatal blow, but he still felt as though his windpipe had been crushed by the impact.
Damn it. He swore silently as he scrambled back. Kohaku was forced to extend her wings to regain her balance as he slid out into the open. The moment he cleared the alley, Takashi readjusted his scabbard, preparing to draw while blinking to clear his watering eyes.
He was still trying to force himself to breathe.
The situation quickly turned from bad to worse as the other Shinigami drew his Zanpakutou, which was coated in a veneer of dark red. He cut into the wall of the alley to his right, scraping off chunks of plaster. Then, moving with surprising agility, he kicked two blocks of heavy stone in Takashi’s direction.
Somehow, Takashi managed to dodge the first brick, but then his lack of oxygen caught up to him and the second landed squarely in his chest. Thrown off his feet, Takashi hung suspended in the air for a brief instant, which allowed his hawk time enough to take flight a split-second before he slammed into into the ground. Turning his shoulder to take the worst of the impact, Takashi’s momentum carried him to the other side of the street.
Still screaming, the other Shinigami was on him before he could move. Takashi watched as the young man turned his sword so that its tip pointed down. Raising the hilt above his head, the Shinigami then brought the Zanpakutou down towards Takashi’s head.
Takashi, get up. Kohaku snapped, concerned.
As he watched the descending blade, Takashi briefly reviewed the chain of events that had led him to his current situation. His primary mistake had been in not taking the offensive when he should have. Ironic that it should end this way, he thought, with him lying there unable to even cry out for help. Death came so suddenly, even to those who had escaped the disease.
Staring up at the ash-gray sky and the shadow of his hawk circling above him, Takashi realized that the only thing he felt was tired. So, very tired…
Word count 1,740
Running total 1,740
Yuudai Takeshi
