2/2

"So?" I said, spearing a chunk of tofu. It was bad manners, but I was too irritated to care. Shinji had to learn not to be flippant all the time somehow. "None of us have met Captain-Commander Yamamoto, but nobody's stupid enough to disrespect him."

"I have to agree with both of you a little," Shinju spoke up. She swallowed a mouthful of rice. "I mean, the Captain-Commander's a physical person. We all have a cousin's friend's brother who's met him. Zanpakutou... they're swords. They're weapons with our powers, aren't they? It's not the same. But really, there's no point in being rude either way."

"I agree with Nariko-san," Minoru said, staring at his hands. "They're our badges of office, right? So we gotta give them the respect they deserve." He was right, just for the wrong reasons. I could see the soul-deep desire for prestige in his eyes, probably the source of his reasoning. He'd get shaken out of it when we went over Zanpakutou spirits in Introduction to Zanpakutou.

"I agree with Nariko-san also," Aizen said. "Zanpakutou are the most important part of being a Shinigami." There was something funny in Aizen's eyes too, harder to read because of his tinted lenses. Similar to Minoru, there was a hunger in his eyes. For what, I didn't know.

Yes, you do, the part of my brain reserved for Before reminded me. He wants to be God.

And right now he's a teenage boy whose mother died and probably has nothing to go back to, the part of my brain that dealt with the here and now snapped back.

Shinji opened his mouth. Before he could say something that would set off the future-psycho at our table, I kicked him so hard my toes ached. As Shinji rubbed both his legs, I glanced over to see Shinju grinning. We high-fived. Maybe she can take my place as Shinji-minder, I thought wryly.

The rest of the week went like that—Hakuda stressing me out, Oshiro out sick, and alternately tutoring Minoru and studying with Aizen. I should've found tutoring Minoru more rewarding—good deeds made you feel good, I'd learned—but I liked my study sessions better. Aizen was prone to leaving randomly, true, but he offered thoughts that never would've occurred to me. It was refreshing to have someone who challenged my thinking without being rude about it. I doubted Aizen even knew how to be rude to anyone, though. He keep everyone at a distance too much to know what it felt like to get mad at someone.

Too bad for him that I'd break down his guard, one way or another.

I staggered into Introduction to Zanpakutou one day to find Oshiro finally there, looking like death warmed over. He was not smiling. The complete silence of the classroom, broken only by the warning bells going off in my head, signaled that it would be a very bad idea to ask how he was feeling. I took my usual seat in front of Shinji gingerly.

"Class." Only traces of Oshiro's usual cheer remained in his voice, hoarse and cracked. I winced. He'd been—still was—really sick. Hopefully nothing serious. "Today we'll be going to the Mizuchi courtyard. As soon as you have completed your activity there, you will go to the Hou-ou courtyard by the Waki Boshi dormitory. I will arrive shortly after you, I expect." He rose and we rose with him, filing out in complete silence. No one knew what was going on. No one cared. When a teacher told you to do something, you did it. No questions.

Except, of course, for the silent one I asked Shinji, catching his gaze as we stood. What's going on?

A tiny shake of his head. I don't know.

If Shinji didn't know, I wasn't going to find out. Certainly not on the walk to Mizuchi.

I ended up somewhere at the back of the pack of students. It was a combination of my own laziness and common sense. Oshiro was acting weird. We were going to a place I hadn't been before. If Soul Society had bred Aizen, I was going to maintain a little bit of wariness with any other kind, mild-mannered person who started acting weirdly. The fact that I didn't feel much incentive to walk quickly helped.

The instant I set foot in the courtyard, my sense of reiatsu began to scream. Whatever was in that courtyard was Very Old, Very Strong, and Very Dangerous. And yes, it—or rather, they, since there was a slight pulse that suggested life—deserved every one of those capitals. I hunched my shoulders and started to breathe through my mouth, trying both to minimize the places that raw, metallic power—like iron ore—pressed on me and get more air in my lungs. I sneaked a glance at Oshiro and saw him gazing steadily at whoever was waiting for us. His back was straight, hands fisted in his hakama, but there was no fear on his face. I tentatively extended my reiatsu towards him and felt in his power—subtle, flowing, and mesmerizing, ink dropped in water—envy, but no ill intent. I stepped out of the pack to see this mysterious person.

To my dismay, I had no clue who this guy was. And I should've, I really should've. He was dark-skinned, even more so than Love, with the thickest, curliest black hair I'd ever seen down to his shoulders. I had to wonder how long it was when he took a shower. Although he wore a shihakushou, meaning he couldn't be a teacher, Curly-Hair had customized it with puffy, elbow-length lime wrist warmers, matching socks, and gold-rimmed glasses that were so dark-tinted I doubted he could see. My eyes narrowed when they reached his waist. No Zanpakutou?

What kind of guy was crazy strong, outrageously dressed, and wouldn't carry a-

Oh.

Oh.

I was going to have to do a lot more studying if I wanted to be the lieutenant of the Twelfth. With the kind of stupidity I'd just shown, even if no one had seen it, I'd be unseated. Moron. Especially if I was being stupid in the area I was supposed to be so good at.

See, the guy I was looking at, the guy who'd started laughing his ass off the second he'd seen our bunch, he was Nimaiya Ouetsu. Otherwise known as Toushin, 'God of the Sword.' He invented Zanpakutou. If I'd been in a cartoon, my cheeks would've been bulging with all the questions I wanted to ask. Weirdly, it was obvious that only Oshiro knew who he was looking at. Wakahisa Momohiko—aka the heir apparent to the Third Great Noble House—looked little more than bored. Then again, the Royal Guard didn't make house calls.

"Children. Form a line, please," Oshiro said. There was something similar to but more than curiosity in his scraped-raw voice. Desire, that was it. Not for Ouetsu, I was fairly certain, but for his knowledge. Made sense, given Oshiro's profession. Ouetsu was basically the ultimate Introduction to Zanpakutou teacher.

"Form a line? Hah! Man, it's killin' me how formal ya are, Oshiro," Nimaiya laughed—no, guffawed. His whole frame, sprawled in front of a large white tent, shook with laughter. "Eh, well. Better that y'all give your asauchi the respect they're due. They're basically you, after all."

Asauchi? My reiatsu joined the other students' in flaring with surprise and excitement. We were finally getting our Zanpakutou!

Well, whoever was at the front of the line was, anyway. Nimaiya led them—I caught a flash of peach-colored hair that might've been Hayate—into the tent. I had again miscalculated and wound up smack in the middle. Con of being a soul from another universe: I hadn't inherited the Hirako willingness to step on a few toes to get where I wanted to go.

As I waited, my mind buzzed with ideas. Could I ask Nimaiya any questions while I was in that tent? Should I confess my real origins? Would he even give me a Zanpakutou if I did? Would it change anything about my asauchi? Did he just hand over a blade, just like that? My whole future, casual as if it were just an inkstone?

I forced myself to be calm, concentrating on keeping my breathing deep and rhythmic until my heartbeat slowed. This is a solemn, important occasion, I reminded myself. Show respect.

Unfortunately, my brain didn't get the message. Soon enough, I was noticing the musky, sweet scent of the lilac trees around the courtyard, the heat baking my skin until I was sure it was as golden as Shinji's hair, anything that wasn't the situation I was in. I sighed, but let my mind wander. I'd be a ball of energy and stress if I dwelled on the Zanpakutou master right in front of me. Wait, right in front of me? I blinked rapidly, realizing that I was looking into dark-tinted glasses.

"Hey, girlie, it's kinda your turn. Man, they don't make cadets like they used to anymore," he chuckled. "C'mon."

"Yes, Nimaiya-sama," I said, fighting to keep my voice and face humble.

Turning back to his tent's entrance, Ouetsu froze. Oops. Looked like his identity was not public knowledge. After a second, though, he tapped the black cord tying the tent flaps together. The mind-bendingly complex knot it formed fell apart and he ducked inside. I hurriedly followed suit, the flaps tying back together after me.

The tent was refreshingly cool, despite the stillness of the air inside. It was also far bigger on the inside than it appeared. Racks of mounted swords surrounded me. A desk, just like the ones we used in school, sat at the center. Compared to the huge tent and the show-stealing Nimaiya, it was almost depressingly average. But then, Nimaiya was technically a smith, even if he was a smith who deserved his 'God of Swords' title. His palace probably wasn't ornate compared to, say, that many-armed Royal Guard lady.

Nimaiya turned to face me. "Well, girlie, how is it ya know my name? 'Cause I've got a friend and usually he's the only one who's that good at guessing."

I pressed my lips together, squirming uneasiness inside me. How could I explain what I thought was obvious? "You're strong. Captain-class. And you deal with asauchi. Zanpakutou are a special interest of mine." I shrugged, as though it was a casual statement. "I do my research. 'God of the Sword,' Royal Guard member Nimaiya Ouetsu. That's you, right?"

The edge of his reiatsu tightened. "Man, I just can't believe what you're saying, girlie. I'm pretty sure I'm not in any of the books you're allowed access to."

It was my turn to freeze before a idea that was probably better than the 'I read about it' angle popped into my head. "You don't spend much time in Soul Society, do you? I'm a Hirako. It's our business to know stuff people want hidden."

He snorted. "Can't argue with that. The last one of you I knew had his nose in everybody's business too. Alright, then. C'mere and we can get down to business. I don't bite. Much."

I walked towards him without hesitation, sinking a pinch of reiryoku into my mental circle to shield myself from the press of his reiatsu. There was nothing actively threatening about Nimaiya's power. It was strong, intimidating, and impersonal, like a mountain. Which explained a little of why no one had remarked on his reiatsu. It was just there.

The second I was within reach, his hand was on my chest. White-hot heat flooded me, but my heartbeat returned after a few seconds when I realized that he wasn't actually doing anything. His hand was just pressed there, firm and steady, like he was trying to feel my heartbeat. We stood there for a few minutes before he withdrew, reiatsu soft-edged in the way I'd come to associate with confusion from observing my classmates. Soon enough it smoothed, though.

"I was wondering who'd have that one," he murmured.

"What's wrong with my asauchi?" I asked, heart in my throat.

He grinned. "Don't get your hakama all knotted. There's nothing wrong with it. I wonder that 'bout every one of my blades. Kinda like when you're brewing sake, and you wonder if your guests are gonna get the full experience out of it, taste all the notes, or just get drunk and spend the night throwing up. Up to them, not you, though."

I nodded, breathing shallow. He couldn't have chosen a better analogy for my clan. "Oh. Okay."

"'Oh. Okay,'" he mimicked in a squeaky tone, casting his glance around. "That all you've got to say about the blade for your soul, girlie? If you're really a Zanpakutou nerd, you should know the potential in that asauchi!"

I flushed, but got no opportunity to say anything more. Nimaiya set off through the racks of swords and I followed dutifully.

The swords around me were pretty, but... there wasn't much to them. It was like looking at a picture of fire: nice-looking, but missing the heat, the smoke, the crackle of burning wood, everything that set fire apart from a particularly large light bulb. Everything that made a Zanpakutou a Zanpakutou wasn't there. I extended my reiatsu as subtly as I could and recoiled. Normally reiatsu was a little like light, or maybe wind—it bounced off and moved around the target without intent behind it, giving you a sense for the target, as I'd learned through bored-stiff experiments in Reiryoku Manipulation.

Asauchi, though, defied me. They were blank, reflecting only traces of my power and giving me no sense of their inner workings. I shuddered, a wave of nausea flooding me. How could something with the potential to contain an entire world be so flat?

"A curious little birdie, aren't you, girlie? Peck-peck-pecking away at the asauchi," Nimaiya said.

I flushed, pulling my reiatsu back under my skin again. "Sorry. They- they're alive, but they're not... I wanted to know."

He took a right turn, almost clipping a rack. "Don't be so apologetic, girlie! There's ambition in you, no matter how much you try and hide it. You'll get a hella weak Zanpakutou if you're all mixed-up like that. But still, don't be examining other asauchi. Gotta make sure they take to the people they're meant for, y'know?"

"Yes, Nimaiya-sama," I said, nodding even though he couldn't see it.

He snorted, but said nothing, coming to a halt in front of a particularly crowded rack. "Can you guess, girlie? Which one's yours?"

"No," I said honestly. Every blade looked identical, black hilt-wrappings and round metal guards in black sheathes. My stomach churned ominously. Well, this explains why Shinigami don't just force their reiryoku on an asauchi. If I touch these things again, I'll be sick, no question.

"Straight-forward and coy. Better iron yourself out, girlie, or at least reconcile them both," Nimaiya said. He selected one sword and turned, resting it in his massive, rough-skinned blacksmith's hands. "Well, what're you waiting for, girlie? You know what this is, don'tcha?"

I gulped. I couldn't possibly screw up taking a sword, but something in me was terrified that I'd handle it wrong. Or drop it. Or- Shut up, self. Just take it. With shaking hands, I reached out and scooped up the asauchi, resting it on my palms like he had. The nausea eased as the best feeling in the world settled in me.

Take the thing you love doing the most and combine it with the greatest achievement you've ever had and settling into your bed after a day of hard work. Then mix in a dash of coming home after being away for a week. Finish with getting a hug from whoever you love most. There. You've got the idea of what I felt, holding that asauchi. No room for fear for the future. I had my asauchi. I could do this.

My manners came back in a rush. I bowed as deeply as I could without falling over. "Thank you, Nimaiya-sama."

He stared down at me for a long second, then smiled broadly. "Wield it well, girlie."

My answering grin was huge. "I will, Toushin."

He flapped his hand at me and led me back to his desk, where long scrolls waited. Nimaiya dipped his brush in his ink and glanced up. "Your name, girlie?"

If he hadn't been so friendly and so powerful, I would've told him to stop calling me that. As it was, I couldn't muster enough bravery and irritation to do it. "Hirako Nariko," I answered. "Written as 'flat child' and 'hard-working child.'"

He chuckled, brush adding my name to an entry in his list. I squinted, but couldn't make out the kanji written there. "You didn't luck out, did ya, girlie? Okay, then. Let's get you back to the real world."

I poked my tongue out at him, then pulled it back, hoping he hadn't seen. It was true, according to the Hirako naming custom I hadn't done so well, I mused as he walked me through the racks of asauchi. See, our clan thought we were the funniest people on the planet, so kids didn't just get meaningful names, we got ironic names. My father Kenji? He was born to sit in his study and manage clan revenue, not hold a sword. Shinji's a born liar. Thankfully for her, my mom was born in the Matsumura clan. Wouldn't it suck to have your parents hope that you'd turn out fickle and treacherous? Me, apparently my parents had thought I'd be a lazy child. I got the suckiest name of all.

Nimaiya stopped right in front of the tent flaps. "Girlie? We won't be seeing each other again, so I'll give you a piece of advice: your teachers now, and your superiors if you make it into the Gotei 13, they're gonna want a hard-hitting weapon outta you and they'll try and make you the sort of person who forms one. Don't let them succeed. I didn't invent Zanpakutou so a bunch of bureaucrats could create cookie-cutter soldiers with them. Be the kind of person whose soul shakes things up, yeah?"

Nimaiya didn't wait around for my reply, stepping out of the tent. I blinked as the heat and sunlight returned, then nearly jumped a foot as he bellowed, "Next victim!" As my feet carried me away in a daze, I heard him laughing again. "Just kidding, but man, that was some look on your face," he said, voice fading as I got further away.

I left the courtyard and headed for Hou-ou. We still had class time, so we had to be doing something, and I was not doing schoolwork in my free time. Unfortunately, when I reached what I thought was the Hou-ou courtyard, not a single person was there. Oops. Sighing, I went back the way I'd come to ask Oshiro where it was.

When I rounded the corner, I saw Oshiro and Nimaiya standing in front of the tent. No other students remained. I frowned, taking a step forwards before their voices reached me. I stepped back, letting a low-hanging lilac branch obscure me. It was rude to eavesdrop, but I just needed to ask where I was supposed to go when there was a break in conversation.

"...would be beneficial if their teacher was in there with them," Oshiro was saying, voice tense. Bullshit, was my immediate thought. These kids were too ignorant to know who they were looking at. And whether they'd woken in the deep Rukongai or they'd been born to a Kuchiki lady with Unohana on call, it was pretty likely that they were all used to meeting new people and never seeing them again. Then again, I hadn't heard the beginning of the sentence, so maybe I was misunderstanding?

"Man, if they're grown enough to pass the entrance exam, they're grown enough to stand walking in there with a stranger to find their asauchi," Nimaiya replied. A facade of jovialness hung around him, but even from a distance I could read the tightness in his shoulders. This was a conversation they'd had before.

Oshiro tried a different tack. "I teach them about Zanpakutou, Nimaiya-dono. Shouldn't I be allowed to see each year's batch?"

Nimaiya's reiatsu shifted, ore to molten metal. "How did you get your position, man? Even that little piano-teeth girl, Koko, or whatever her name was, she got that Zanpakutou are living beings, not mass-produced hunks of metal." Was it possible to beam with pride and flush with embarrassment at the same time? If so, I did. He couldn't even get my name right, but he remembered me all the same. "Sorry, man, but I forge kids' futures. You've already got the task of shaping how they think about their souls. Don't go trying to pry into their souls."

"I'm not prying-" Oshiro began.

"It's a milestone to be reached privately, Oshiro. Sorry, but that's final. The only people I trust to be among the asauchi are myself and the people I'm giving them to," Nimaiya said firmly. "Now, don't you have a class to teach?" Dismissal rang through his voice, but Oshiro stood there for a second longer before bowing low and saying something I couldn't make out to Nimaiya. Nimaiya just laughed, turning and walking back to his tent.

What was that all about? I wondered. I was all for teachers trying to instruct their students better, but Nimaiya had clearly had a dim view of whatever Oshiro was asking for. I got the whole privacy thing, but it was Oshiro who was asking, not Ounabara. I couldn't see him being too threatening. Then again, Nimaiya did know all there was to know about Zanpakutou. Maybe it was key to asauchi functioning properly? But then, I'd gotten little more than chastisement when I'd examined other asauchi. Ugh, this was all too-

"Hirako-chan?" Oshiro said, eyebrows lifted in mixed worry and surprise.

-confusing. Note to self: stop getting lost in thought. "Oshiro-sensei! I didn't mean to barge in. I kinda got lost and wound up in the wrong courtyard, so I figured I'd retrace my steps and ask you where Hou-ou was." I rubbed the nape of my neck, heat staining my cheeks as I recounted the tale. It was more embarrassing when I said it out loud.

His expression shuttered briefly, but then his smile was back. "Oh, my mistake. I thought everyone knew where it was. Let's you and I walk there together, then."

Turned out I'd gone to the wrong side of campus entirely as Oshiro took a turn I'd missed. Left, left, left, right... I noted for future reference.

"So, Hirako-chan, Ikeda-san seemed to think well of you," he said after a few minutes of walking.

Ikeda? Who was- Nimaiya. Ikeda must've been the name teachers used to refer to him if curious students asked. "Well, I don't know," I said awkwardly. Nimaiya'd thought I knew a little about Zanpakutou, that was for sure, but he'd probably been trying to insult Oshiro with that comment. Realizing that Oshiro expected me to say more, I added, "He gave me some advice, but that was really it."

"Oh?" Oshiro's tone was casual, so casual I wouldn't have noticed that it wasn't genuine if I hadn't already been weirded out.

"He told me to try and stand out because people would try to make me like everyone else," I paraphrased. "He kinda got mad at me for looking at other people's asauchi, too. He wanted to make sure they 'took to' whoever they were meant for. I don't know what that means, but that's what he said."

Oshiro's reiatsu was more spreading ink than water. "I see," he said softly, brown eyes devoid of their usual sparkle. "Well, Ikeda-san's a very knowledgeable man, but he has little respect for the order of things and he doesn't like to share that knowledge. I wouldn't take what he said too much to heart."

Which part? I wanted to ask him, but bit my lip. Oshiro didn't think I was telling the truth, not completely. To be expected given my clan, but still. "I won't, Oshiro-sensei."

We arrived in a courtyard that was rather smaller than the one I'd initially gone to, an impression reinforced by the sprawling maple in the center. My classmates were already there, peering at each other's asauchi and chatting. I couldn't imagine there was much to chat about, given that they were all the same right now.

"Class!" Oshiro called, a hitch in his throat. He coughed, then tried again. "Class!"

He got their attention the second time. Untying a small pouch from his obi, Oshiro held it up for us to see. "Part of wielding a Zanpakutou means wearing it properly. This contains some hanging cords, for those who don't already have them." A few kids, Momohiko included, exchanged glances. They already wore their blades at their sides, cords tied into knots the Boy Scouts would envy. A cluster of students quickly formed, looking to get a certain color. Through blind luck, I got first pick—all Oshiro had to do to offer me one was turn, so it was convenient for him too. I selected a pale green cord and went to sit by Shinji, who somehow already had one.

"Before you ask, Dad gave it to me," he said, tapping the sunflower-yellow cord that secured his sword. "It was the one that uncle Youichi used when he was at Shin'ou. Want help with yours?"

I nodded. "Walk me through it?" I said hopefully. I wouldn't learn for the future if he did it for me, but the only knot I knew was the famous shoe-tying one.

He laughed. "Sure. Alright, first through this knob right here on the sheath, then through here, then..."

Soon enough I had a nice, tight knot securing my asauchi to my obi. "Hey, Shinji," I said lightly, "did the guy who gave you your asauchi say anything to you?"

Shinji shrugged. "Sure did." My heart sank. I'd hoped, just a little, that I'd been special. "Told me ta wield it well, asked my name. Why, did he perv on you?" The disappointment lifted. See there, Shinji, it pays to study.

"What?" I said, jaw dropping. "No way, you idiot! We just- talked. I'll tell you the rest later."

His eyes flicked over to me. "Who's the problem?"

Instead of answering aloud, I gave Oshiro a pointed look.

Shinji, of course, missed the whole point of my subtlety. "What, Oshiro? Nah, no way."

"That's Oshiro-sensei to you," I corrected automatically, then frowned. "But yes way. He's nice, yeah, but something happened between him and that guy, Ikeda. He has good intentions, but it'd be rude to discuss here."

Shinji's eyes met mine and didn't look away. Finally, I broke the stare. "I said I'd tell you the rest later, Shin," I told him, pursing my lips and tasting salt. "Be patient like a good little boy."

He took the bait. "Hey! I ain't a little boy! I'm only four years younger than ya, y'know!"

I arched a brow at him. "Hmm? Girls mature faster, though. You're still in that awkward phase, if you ask me."

"No one did," Shinji grumbled, scooting away from me. He opened his mouth to say something else when Oshiro, standing beneath the maple, spoke again.

"Class, form eight rows of three in front of me," Oshiro said, voice distinctly froggy. He cleared his throat and continued. "I don't want you distracted by your classmates."

After a bit of argument, everyone wanting to be next to their friends but having different ideas on who their friends were, we settled into rows. I ended up between two girls, both with impractically long pigtails and intent on holding a whispered conversation. Not even my best glare for keeping Shinji in line worked. Oshiro's glance over at them did the trick, though.

"I expect that you've gone over the proper way to draw a sword in your Zanjutsu classes," Oshiro said. "Draw your asauchi now and lay it across your laps."

I fumbled with mine for a second before it slid out of its sheath. To my slight disappointment, it didn't make that sharp-sounding noise I'd come to associate with drawn swords. Oh well. Maybe I could persuade my Zanpakutou spirit to do that.

"Hajimezen is the precursor to jinzen, which you all will perform when your Zanpakutou spirits settle," he said, brushing hair out of his eyes. "For now, hajimezen will help you to impress your will on your asauchi. Close your eyes, rest your hands on your asauchi blades, and focus only on the sound of my voice. Steady breathing is essential." I shut my eyes and tried to take slow, deep breaths.

Far from removing distraction, I found myself able to focus on physical discomfort instead. The heat and humidity, I was sure, would turn me into a Nariko dumpling by the end of the day, boiled in my own skin. Actually, I could go for some pork dumplings right now, maybe with- Focus, Nariko. Listen to your teacher.

"Call reiryoku to your hands," Oshiro instructed. Piece of cake. Reiryoku already flowed thickly in my arms, courtesy of the reiatsu vents in my wrists. All I had to do was encourage it to move a little farther. Cracking an eye open, I noted with satisfaction the mostly-steady turquoise sheen of power on my skin. And, no surprise, the pigtail-girls had managed only flickering violet and tea-green light on their respective hands. Oshiro circled around to correct the girl on my left's technique, bending down to whisper instructions in her ear. For just a second too long to be accidental, his fingers brushed her asauchi. A frown creased ponytail-girl's forehead, but her purple light steadied. I closed my eyes again so he wouldn't scold me.

"Now, think about the answers to these questions as honestly as you possibly can. Tell your Zanpakutou what you want from it," he said, punctuating his sentence with a sniffle. I carefully avoided breathing in case he sneezed near me. "First, what do you hope to get from joining the Gotei or Onmitsukidou?"

Startled, I released the breath I'd been holding. That... I hadn't expected that question. What did I hope to get from a Shinigami career? Prestige? Shinji'd outshine me there. Money? My clan was decently wealthy already. Praise? Sure, I'd like that, but it'd be icing on the cake. Justice? As much as I hated to admit it, no. I steadied the power around my hands as it flickered, shame disrupting control. I'd definitely do my part to be a good soldier and affect what little change I could, but I wasn't brave or suicidal enough to be a radical here. I discarded security and peace easily. In a society like this one, safety was a joke and while fighting went against a lifetime of 'to avoid a fight is to win it' the life of a Shinigami was a life of war.

Ambition, greed, pride, morality, comfort, all out. My duty to watch Shinji's back and guide the timeline to canon didn't count. What did I want from my career here and now?

Closure.

I wanted... closure? Beneath my fingers, I thought I felt the touch of my reiatsu on the asauchi smooth, like it had accepted the answer. But closure... was that the word for what I really wanted? I wanted to know why Seireitei was as screwed-up as it was, certainly. I wanted to know why Aizen had tried to become God. I wanted explanations. I wanted everything to fit. Closure was for people whose lives had been torn apart. People who were missing something. I was—as I always had been—a privileged, loved child from a well-off family that cared for me, as much as they had odd ways of showing it. I wasn't missing anything. I just wanted to do it so I knew I could.

But if closure was the word for my need for answers, for my need to respond to the greatest call society could give me, then I wanted closure.

Oshiro's voice broke through my thoughts. "If you can't answer that question now, I'll be posing it to you many more times, I assure you." A hint of a chuckle edged his words. "Second question: why do you want to join the division you have your sights set on?"

Much easier. The Ninth appealed because they handled security and the Seireitei Bulletin. I prided myself on my eye for writing both good and bad, if not my own skill at it. The security bit was my own personal interest—rule-breakers rubbed me the wrong way, even if my own brother was one. The Twelfth was a means to an end, with the promise of information about how souls worked to sweeten the deal.

I closed that mental topic and let myself simply relax. I might as well use my chances for relaxation before things got complicated. A breeze ruffled hair and leaves. Someone sneezed, mouse-like. I grinned, hiding it quickly as the scratch of Oshiro's footsteps came closer. They stopped, loud as if they were right by my ear. I opened an eye and nearly jumped to my feet. Oshiro was right there.

"Hirako-chan," he murmured, bending down, "your Zanpakutou will only manifest more slowly if you do not focus." Reaching out, he laid his hand on my blade. "You must want-"

I jerked away. "I'm sorry, Oshiro-sensei," I replied, low and harsh, "but I want you to not touch my asauchi. I mean, ah, could you please give me a little space?" I softened my voice slightly. "My studies suggest-"

"Then we must talk privately, you and I, about your studies," Oshiro said. A little warmth left his voice. "I don't think they're leading you in the correct direction." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw heads start to turn. "As a teacher, I can't let my brightest student's progress be slowed."

I should've replied with some brilliant comeback. The Hirako clan wasn't nicknamed the 'Golden Fox' clan for nothing. We were supposed to have the ability of a kitsune to talk our way out of situations.

Instead, my deference to authority took over. "As a student, I'll obey my teacher," I heard myself say. "Sorry, Oshiro-sensei."

The warmth returned. "We can talk later, Hirako-chan. Try to focus on the lesson, please."

I shut my eyes tight, listening to his footsteps retreat. With each one my anger, at him and myself, ebbed. I pulled back my reiryoku from my hands. If hajimezen really worked, I didn't want my Zanpakutou getting the wrong idea. I needed a strong blade. Not whatever would come from the person who'd clammed up when she should've defended herself.

I fled with Shinji by my side the second class let out. Today wasn't the day for me to talk to Oshiro. Tomorrow wasn't the day for me to talk to Oshiro. I needed time to think of what to say. Shinji would help, but I'd talk to him tomorrow. Right now I needed Shinju.

I arrived back at our room to find her already there, kneeling at her desk by a stack of completed sheets.

"Hard at work, huh?" I said, sliding the door shut behind me.

"Mhm. Ise-sensei assigned us to pick us an aspect of Hakuda and write about it. I just don't know what to write. It's so vague, you know" she confessed. "How do you do something you've been told to do when you haven't been told anything about it?"

I frowned. "Hard to say. What exactly did he say?"

"She," Shinju corrected. "Ise Kazue-sensei. She told us that 'Hakuda, done correctly, is an art that uses all of one's body and mind to defeat an opponent. Stiff fingers in a ridge-hand strike make it more effective, but the arm swings through, and the mind pinpoints the correct target. Many aspects are unified in Hakuda. Write about one.''

"Wow. You have a good memory for things other people say," I told her, kneeling at my own desk to begin my work. "Ever thought about the Onmitsukidou?" It wasn't completely a joke. I remembered written information well, and most people used techniques to keep track of information, but in the field an onmitsu couldn't stop to take notes. Clear memory of spoken words could be a valuable skill.

Shinju laughed. "Thanks, but I'm not even under the Shihouin. If I didn't have reiryoku, I'd be fine working with cloth my whole life. All I'd be good for in that service is darning prison uniforms."

I giggled, imagining Shinju handing a robe to Kurotsuchi. Knowing her, Shinju would personalize every uniform. Maybe little bugs on Kurotsuchi's. He was rotten enough to deserve those. "Back to your essay," I said, growing serious. "I think she meant for you to write about how a part of the body can be used in Hakuda. Or something like breathing. Good breathing'll be helpful if we're in a fight and have to be running around a lot, I bet." I scrunched up my face, thinking of an example to give her. "'The palm is essential for less lethal styles,'" I invented. "'A-" I glanced over. "What do you call these?" I demonstrated a crescent-palm.

"Palm-heel," Shinju reminded me.

"Right. 'A palm-heel strike to the nose will break the nose and cause a nose-bleed, potentially humiliating the opponent. If done well, it could burst the blood vessels around the eyes, causing black eyes and impairing vision.'"

Shinju blinked. After a second, she beamed at me. "Thanks! Though I couldn't imagine doing something like that, you know. Fighting someone is one thing, humiliating them is another."

I stared at her. We were training to become killers, for heaven's sake. "That's not really how a fight works. If you're at the point where you're fighting someone, anything's fair game."

She stared back, satisfaction fading. "That's just cruel! I don't want someone doing that to me, so I'm not going to do it to them. There are other ways to win."

Oh, poor, naive Shinju. "There are two," I replied, swirling my brush around my inkstone to get some ink made. "First one is to not fight at all—talk it out. Second one is to crush them."

Shinju stopped writing, red tinting her cheeks. "Are you crazy? We can't go around killing everyone who picks a fight, you know. At least we could knock them out."

"Not realistic," I said, heat touching my own cheeks, though my voice remained cool. "Most ways to knock someone out have a high rate of killing them anyway. And I'm not saying to kill everyone who picks a fight. Just beat them however much they'd beat you. Someone means to give you a black eye, give him a black eye. Someone means to kill someone you're protecting, you kill him."

Her jaw dropped. "You are crazy! How can you talk about killing someone so easily?"

Was it a lifetime of learning about the horrors of war that let me be so detached? Or just my own level head? "Because it's just talk," I said, eyes dropping to my paper. "I'll regret- I hope I'll regret when I have to kill. But, Shinju-san? I know I will. And when it comes down to someone who won't regret it killing me or me killing them? I won't have the time to ask myself what the right thing to do is."

Silence hung in our room for a while, disturbed only by the swish of our brushes.

"Hirako-chan? How long have you known you wanted to be a Shinigami?" She asked.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. "I don't know," I answered. "Forever, really." Was it safe to tell her that I didn't agree with the Gotei? No, not yet. Not so soon. "I want to serve. Always have. And in my family I had to take some kind of military path. It was this or spymaster." I tried for a smile. "Shinji got forced into it, 'cause he's strong, but me? I'm more responsible than I should be. I guess... I didn't want to be able to write off the people I killed as 'not my fault.'" At my side, my asauchi hummed. I glanced down at it, but nope. Still an ordinary sword. Probably my imagination. "What about you?"

"Since my brother told me I could be one," she admitted. "He was always saying how awesome Shinigami were. When I realized I had the power to, it was a dream come true, you know?"

"Yeah."

More silence, but more comfortable silence this time. I finished a paragraph about the formation of the first Gotei 13. It was weird, how our teachers expected us not to show our opinions in the essays we wrote. The original captains of the Gotei 13 would've been tried as war criminals if they'd done what they'd done in the Living World. Here, their actions served Soul Society and that was supposed to be enough for us to call them good. Of course, it was probably a thousand times safer in that case to not pass judgment. Yamamoto and Unohana were still alive, after all.

Huh. I wondered if the Fourth was full of people who would've been normal soldiers anywhere else and were the closest thing Soul Society had to conscientious objectors here. It would explain part of why no one did anything about how the Eleventh treated the Fourth. Actually, a lot of why no one punished the Eleventh. Beyond their Kenpachi captains, Eleventh Division members were probably, attitude-wise, models of what the Central 46 wanted their brainwashing to produce.

"So, what're you writing about?" I asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Oh, I picked breathing. It's important to have good breathing, you know," Shinju said, taking the change in subject with a grateful smile.

We chattered on like that for a while, conversation touching on many topics, none of them serious, as we worked. Nerves I hadn't known were frayed were soothed.

Unconsciousness hit me like a sledgehammer, if the most merciful one I'd ever seen.