Guys, please watch the one liners. This isn't just our rule, it's a general Clubs Forum rule.
Anyway, I wrote
another thing. This time, it's actual fiction. Not a chapter mind you, just a prologue. Also, I'll be updating my library post with everything I've written recently if you need to find anything easier.
Bleach Main Fanfiction: Threnody
Prologue - Tetelestai
[spoil]A cold breeze, tinged with the scent of ocean salt, traced across the nearly-bald scalp of the shinigami. Himuro Takekura, sixth seat of Soul Society’s Tenth Division, had been in this position many times, having been the person tasked with integrating shinigami to their new jurisdictions for well over three decades. His fingers nervously fiddled with the excess twine on the end of his zanpakuto’s hilt, the anxiety being caused by the conflict taking place on the rooftop not far from his. The most recent trainee, a young boy by the name of Iwao, was locked in combat with a Hollow, gorilla-like in appearance. Himuro flinched a bit as Iwao’s shoulder took the full impact of the beast’s punch. The attack knocked Iwao prone, laying on the rooftop fully vulnerable. Seeing this, Takekura leapt from his position.
Gravity pulled the veteran shinigami down quickly, his feet planting solidly between his charge and the enemy. The hand that was fidgeting about only seconds before now gripped tightly around the pommel of its weapon. In one swift motion, the blade was removed from its sheath and swung upward, severing the Hollow’s left arm. Takekura pulled the sword to a defensive stance, readying himself for the now-enraged foe. A bone-shaking roar prefaced the swing of the creature’s massive fist. What occurred next was nearly a repeat of what happened before: a zanpakuto was swung, severing the incoming limb and sending it into a heap on the rooftop.
A cacophony of bellows – similar in both pitch and volume to a thunderclap -- erupted from the throat of the armless Hollow. It writhed about, its stumps slinging a fetid, green blood in all directions. The sixth seat did his best to dodge the liquid, knowing full well that a Hollow’s blood is dangerously acidic, as he rushed in for the killing blow. Drawing close, the shinigami’s zanpakuto was quickly thrust upward, spearing directly through the Hollow’s head. The last seconds of the monster’s life were spent stumbling backwards and falling dead onto the ground. Recognizing the threat as neutralized, Himuro re-sheathed his sword and turned to face his trainee.
“I-I’m terribly sorry, sixth seat Takekura,” the young shinigami sputtered out as he rose to his feet. Hands trembling, he delicately returned his weapon to the sheath on his hip. Frantic hands batted dust from his hakama. “I should’ve been stronger.”
Stern eyes, the dull gray of a storm cloud, stared down the trainee. “Stop blaming yourself. You’re just a kid and that was a Class-3 Hollow. Hell, it would’ve been a miracle for you to have dealt more than a scratch to that thing.” the veteran responded, his voice gruff from years of a smoking habit. “If there’s anyone to blame it’s me. I should’ve stepped in a hell’ve a lot sooner.”
A look of dejection crossed the amateur’s face, “But the fact that you waited means you had faith in me. And since I couldn’t win, it means I failed and,” what was left of the sentence became lost in an exasperated sobbing. “I’m s-so-sorr…”
Himuro returned his hand to his side, the wide back now red from the sharp contact it had made with his charge’s cheek. Iwao’s tear-filled gaze shifted from the rooftop to his superior’s eyes. A moment of silence befell the pair on the roof. Only the whistling of chilly night breezes broke the calm quietness. In the silent moment an understanding formed between the two, some sort of profound idea that could only be decoded by those who had been a part of the moment.
Iwao’s tears dried upon his face as he rose to his feet, clutching his wounded shoulder gently.
Right. I get it, Himuro-sensei, the young man thought as his mentor turned to head in the opposite direction. With rapid, staccato steps Iwao began to follow, his mind focused on the revelation of the moment. Brushing some loose hairs from his eyes, the shinigami broke into a goofy smile with his next thought.
If I just keep working, I can make Himuro-sensei proud.
“Hurry up, kid. We still have a patrol to finish,” the sixth seat barked over his shoulder.
Iwao shook the musings from his mind and sped up his pace. “Right behind you, Himuro-sen…” the sentence cut off abruptly. For a moment Iwao’s mind went back to work.
What was wrong? Why couldn’t he finish his response? Why did he suddenly feel breathless? Why could he taste copper? What was causing this sharp pain in his chest? At the last thought, the trainee’s gaze shifted down, catching sight of something protruding out of his body to the left of his sternum. A second of processing and he had it. It was a blade, glinting a brilliant silver in the lights of a seaside city at night. “Himuro-sensei,” Iwao said as he crumpled in a heap to the rooftop, the blade having been freed from its position through his heart.
The second mention of his name in a few seconds caused Himuro to spin around quickly, partially out of annoyance that the kid hadn’t drawn any closer. His rotation proved to be just quick enough to catch his apprentice falling to the ground. The squall-gray eyes not long ago filled with an impenetrable sternness instantly overflowed with panic and fury. As boy fell Himuro caught sight of the one who had inflicted the deadly wound. It was a man, nearly as tall as the sixth seat himself, clutching what appeared to be an ornate rapier. The clothing was styled reminiscent of early 1900’s military regalia: a high-collared coat that extended just past the waist paired with slacks that appeared starched-stiff and black boots that faintly reflected the lights of the surrounding buildings. The coat and pants shared a similar dark blue color, with what seemed to be silver edging.
The stranger shot glance back at Himuro, golden irises glinting with malice. A white glove hand was thrust into the pocket of his jacket taking out a handkerchief which he promptly used to wipe the blood from his weapon. A few seconds and the cloth returned to the pocket from whence it came and the sword returned to its sheath on the man’s waist. Stray locks of shoulder-blade length blonde hair were brushed out of the killer’s clean-shaven, almost boyish face before moving over his mouth as he cleared his throat.
“Gotei Thirteen, Tenth Division, Sixth Seat Himuro Takekura,” the stranger spoke, his voice a tone so serene it was almost melancholy, “I am deeply sorry for what has transpired here this evening. Killing this boy, and by extension yourself, was not my intention this night.” His eyes grew narrow and a subtle frown crossed his thin lips. “However, you’re recent actions have caused me to act in this most unpleasant manner an…”
“Cut the ********,” the shinigami bellowed, “you’re not remorseful for what you did. Iwao was a child and you killed him un provoked. Then you threatened me. No truly guilty man would behave like that.” His hand tensed around the hilt of his zanpakuto, a fight seeming imminent.
“I am truly sorry, Mr. Takekura; though I do understand how you could think I’m not. If you only hadn’t killed my Hollow I’d…”
“Your Hollow,” Himuro cut the stranger off again. “You’re telling me you set that thing on us?!”
Surprise crept across the blonde man’s face. “Heavens no, sir. I hate the damn things as much as you do. The beast was my prey. You and your apprentice stepped in and took the kill from me.”
“You justify murder by speaking of killing Hollows as if it’s a game? You’re trash. And I’m going to keep you from leaving this rooftop alive.” The shinigami’s eyes narrowed as he ripped the sword at his waist and charged forward, towards the man who had killed his protégé.
The charge was a full on sprint, the killing intent evidenced by the malignant light in Himuro’s eyes. The stranger began talking, most likely saying something along the lines of “No” or “Stop”. Whatever it was, the shinigami heard not a single word, rage all but deafening him. Something made contact with his back, the contact feeling to him like a thrown pebble. Himuro kept charging. In a few seconds he had crossed half the distance between himself and the stranger and felt the pebble sensation another four times. A few more seconds and he stood face-to-face with Iwao’s murderer, the pebble count now exceeding ten. As he readied his swing, Himuro’s limbs began to feel heavy and his stance faltered. A trio of pebble sensations stung his back. In response, his legs gave out and he fell to the ground.
“Damnit! What the hell did you do,” the shinigami cried into the air as he attempted to pull himself from the ground. The sudden sensation of warmth on his back caught Himuro’s attention. He reached a heavy arm around and tugged at something cold on his back. Bringing it to his eyes, the realization of what was going on hit the sixth seat like a bus.
“Oh my. That’s one of Ms. Mizuki’s knives,” the stranger noted, plucking the small weapon from Himuro’s hand. Nearly two dozen more daggers – all identical, long and thin triangular blades, colored black with silver cutting edges and a silver hilt attached on the triangle’s short side – were planted in the shinigami’s back, drawing a large amount of blood. “Mizuki. Come out. I know you’re here.”
Across the roof, a figure stepped from behind the small room that housed the stairwell leading inside of the building. A few more steps brought the figure into the light, revealing its features. The young girl, looking somewhere between sixteen and nineteen, placed an hand on her cocked hip and shot a look of disgust towards the man who had killed Iwao. Befitting her age, the young woman’s attire looked highly reminiscent of Japanese school uniform, though with some flair that was hard to specifically nail down in style. Her ankle-ankle length blonde hair sat styled into two pigtails positioned on the sides of her head, while her bangs hang wildly in her face, varying drastically in length – reaching her shoulders at certain places.
“C’mon Crawford,” Mizuki snapped in a voice that could be called ‘cute’ if it weren’t so abrasive, “are you so fu
ckin’ incompetent that you couldn’t finish off a pair of fu
ckin’ weak a
ss shinigami.” As if to punctuate her sentence, she flung yet another dagger, this one planting firmly into the back of Himuro’s head. The shinigami let out one last grunt before becoming entirely motionless.
“Ms. Mizuki, I would quite appreciate it if you would refrain from cursing so often around me. It makes me uncomfortable.” Crawford’s face showed the outcome of this exact statement, his features now looking even more depressed than before.
The girl scowled. “God. Could you be any more of a fu
ckin wuss?” Mizuki quickly went about retrieving her weapons from the back of the dead shinigami.
After a moment of silence, excepting the dripping of sanguine liquid from knife blades, Mizuki chose to speak up once again. “Things are gonna be tough now,” she mused, voice far more quiet than before.
“You are correct,” Crawford returned the sentiment. “Everything will be different after this war. How does the Threnody go again?”
Mizuki stood up from her kneeling position, a wicked smile crossing her face. “You mean the Threnody of the Broken World?”
“That’s the one.”
The young woman’s voice dropped to a eulogy-esque, rhythmic sing-song as she spoke:
Tick tock, goes the clock
Towards your ruination.
Tick tock, goes the clock
Towards the End of Days.
Tick tock, goes the clock
You will not survive this.
Tick tock, goes the clock
Your sins will be laid bare.
Tick tock, goes the clock
Your world will end in fire.
Tick tock, goes the clock
Your death will not come swift.
[/spoil]