[BitP:R] Soul Society 2

[Dorizzit]

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[Hachirou's Inner World]
Jin's Prison

As it hears Allan's words, Jin bursts into hearty laughter. "Opposite? Really now? My my, you must have a short memory."

This time, it's Hachirou who changes - his Shinigami attire vanishes as he redons the outfit he had in the outside world - that of a mime in striped shirt, black vest and a baret. He crosses his legs and pretends to lean on thin air.

"Suppress would be the correct answer. We aren't that different - unlike someone, I just grew up and learned to behave myself." Jin sticks its tongue towards Hachirou - he responds to the gesture by steadfastly ignoring it.

"We used to be pretty close, actually", Jin picks up where he stops, turning to look at Allan. There's a hint of... sadness?... on its pretty face. "We worked together, and when he was in doubt, I whispered advice to him. But then he stopped trusting me! Can you imagine?"

The mime outfit flickers away like a mirage of heat, and Hachirou stands straight again. He draws a simple tachi and holds it between his hands, one hand grasping hilt and the other, covered in cloth, supporting the blade. He offers it towards Allan... when did he get it?

"Initially, nearly every spirit takes on the form of a sword", he says. "One might take this as a sign that Shinigami are, first and foremost, warriors. What else could we be, with our internal power taking on such a shape?"

"However, we also call this state of Zanpakuto 'sealed'. In most cases, the spirit of a Shinigami first inhabits an Asauchi, a mock Zanpakuto, handed to them in academy. This is a sign that they've completed their training, that they are indeed warriors - but in such a case, does the sword really reflect inherent quality of the wielder? Or is it just a sign of acquired skills? One could say we force, out of tradition, our spirits to take on such a shape."

"This is why Shikai is sometimes referred to as a 'true from' of a Zanpakuto - it reflects the ability and nature of the wielder much better than the sealed form. This is why many Shinigami have much easier time learning to fight with their Shikai, than they have learning basics of Zanjutsu."

"But, as you might have noticed, not every Shikai is really suited for combat. You have been to the 4th, right? You must have seen some medics with Zanpakutos other than weapons." It's Jin speaking now - it has sneaked behind Hachirou and is now hanging from his neck like an overly affectionate newlywed. "They aren't very warlike, are they? You must have thought of it once - they'd be as much at home healing the sick in Rukon, as tending those wounded on the battlefield."

"For a long while now", Hachirou continues, and his impassive exterior is starting to crack as well, "my goal has been to be as good a soldier as I just can. I've studied ways of spirits and mortals alike to find ways to improve our age-old organization. I've examined qualities people find desirable in military leaders and tried to assume. I've heard it said that a leader should should be neither too distant or too close to his underlings - he should listen to their desires and know them inside-out, but it's not his place to be their 'friend'. He should not grow attached to them, as to avoid favoritism and letting love and grief cloud his vision." There's a definite hint of conflict and disappointment in his voice - but towards what?

"If you can't guess, letting you in to this place is a direct violation to that principle, and the kind of a leader I've been striving to become."

"There was once a time", Jin continues, looking mournfully at Allan, "when not every God of Death was a warrior. Before there was Gotei, before there even was Seireitei. It might be just a legend now, but it's worth remembering nonetheless." There's strange longing in its posture, as if it's reluctant to let go of Hachirou - and based on its prior behaviour, it'd be easy for Allan to imagine himself in Hachirou's place. Maybe the sword spirit doesn't want them to leave?

"Jin is not a combat type Zanpakuto", Hachirou says dryly. "We've grown so distant in the past few years because the Way of the Warrior, and the way she represents, take into different directions. But useless as she might be, I can't just deny the part of me she represents, which is why I can still hear her, no matter how much I'd rather not."

Hachirou is still offering the sword towards Allan, but now, starting from the tip, it starts crumbling to dust. If he doesn't take it, it'll soon be gone completely! "I hope this insight will be useful to you, Crossdale-kun. Who are you? What does your heart yearn for? What is your way forth as a Shinigami?"

Hachirou's Inner World
Jin's Prison

Allan cocks his head to the side when Jin laughs, but otherwise he listens to Hachirou with the same studiousness as before. He is surprised by Hachirou's candid statement of his similarities with Jin, but avoids showing it, trying to keep himself respectful without ever having really thought about what that entailed and finding himself unhappy with that fact.

This continues until Hachirou explains the violation of his own goals that bringing Allan into his own Inner World had entailed. Allan's expression slips a bit, and he feels guilty for it. It was Allan's own fault that things had turned out as they did, but Hachirou was still sacrificing much to help him. The thought doesn't sit well with Allan.

As Hachirou explains about the sealed forms of Zanpakuto, the new information he shares releases a torrent of Allan's own thoughts. What he said was true; most of the healers of the fourth division didn't seem particularly warlike, but they still had swords as sealed weapons. How could that be natural? Was it really just that way, or was it tradition? He knew that some Shinigami had unusual sealed forms for their Zanpakuto; how did that happen?

And then Hachirou presses Allan to come up with his own identity.

To find answers about himself, Allan first looks to his past. His thoughts return to a time long distant, nearly a century ago. To Hachirou's sight, Allan bends his head down, and then freezes in place, his mind elsewhere.

Who was he?

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<"Hey! Hey Allan!">

Allan halted and turned at the insistent voice yelling at him from behind. It was Marcus, a childhood friend of his. They were both fifteen; sophomore year of high school had just started, and Allan was on his way there. Marcus caught up with him and stopped, panting lightly. Allan smirked at him. Marcus mock glared at him.

<"What are you trying to do, leave me behind? You know you can't shake me that easy.">

Allan's smirk broke into a full grin.

<"Yeah, this easy would be much harder than I'd need.">

Marcus gently smacked him on the shoulder, then lightly shoved him towards the school, his own smile growing.

<"Well, aren't you the cocky one? Why don't you get to class, it starts in five minutes.">

Marcus jogged past him, apparently trying to avoid being late. Allan paused for a moment. For a second after Marcus had pushed him, Allan had had a familiar and unpleasant feeling; an overwhelming urge of blood lust. For a split second, he had known exactly what it would have felt like to tear Marcus' throat out with his teeth, and he had wanted to, to punish him for his audacity. These feelings were totally against Allan's temperament, but they had plagued him from a young age. Shaking his head to clear it, Allan dashed after Marcus.

* * *

Allan staggered forward, grasping his shoulder in pain. He tripped on a root, the thick layer of plant life on the ground and his own exhaustion preventing him from seeing it or recovering in time. Twisting in the air, Allan managed to land shoulder first on a tree trunk, giving a short utterance of pain as the wound was aggravated. Putting his back to the tree, Allan slunk down to the ground, desperate eyes searching the forest. His pursuers could be anywhere. Rain feel heavily, seeping through the thick canopy above, but Allan's eyes pierced through the veil of falling water without difficulty. After a few seconds, he was satisfied.

Sighing and letting his guard down for a moment, Allan turned to examine his shoulder wound. A large hole had been burned into the flesh, although it luckily hadn't quite reached bone. Normally, Allan would have regenerated the wound in a flash, but the Reaper's Purifier had possessed acidic qualities, and the foul smelling orange liquid still clung stubbornly to the wound. Allan hissed in annoyance and bent down to look at the injury more closely. A shot echoed through the woods, and a bullet exploded into the tree trunk next to him, where his head had been a second ago.

Allan dived to the side instinctively, taking cover behind a different tree as two more shots rang out. Growling in frustration, he pulled a fragment of his mask down over his eye, feeling the hatred and anger he felt magnify from Soultaker's malign influence. He flipped around the tree, moving inhumanly fast as he leapt to the treetops in search of his assailant. Turning to the right, he saw it; a sniper perched in a tree. He hadn't seen Allan yet.

<"That's correct, I've lost sight of Beast. Repeat, lost sight of-">

Allan landed near to him, on a different branch. The Reaper looked up in surprise, and couldn't react fast enough.

<"Leave...">

Allan raised one hand past his head, setting up a backhanded strike.

<"...ME...">

Lightning fast, the hand arced out towards the Reaper. It crashed through the tree trunk, barely even slowed by the impact.

<"ALONE!">

The Reaper managed to raise an arm to try and defend himself. Allan felt bones shatter under the force of the blow, and the Reaper was hurled away from him, although he would survive. Malign laughter filled his head as Allan fled.

* * *

Allan rocketed through a wall, chunks of metal and concrete falling all around him as he crashed to the earth. He staggered to his feet, his enhanced abilities protecting him but still not dulling the pain entirely. He felt a fractured rib mend, and, smiling, he launched himself into the air. When he was high enough, he formed a platform of reishi and crouched like a dog, grinning savagely.

"Come on, is that the best you've got?"

His enemy, a rogue Arrancar, growled in annoyance. The evolved hollow had just activated his Resurrección, revealing a form remarkably similar to a European dragon. He had retained his speed, however, and a powerful blow had sent Allan out of the sky. Not enough to do permanent injury, but it was an impressive display none the less. Not that it was going full out, yet. This would be fun.

"Why won't you die!?"

Allan chuckled malevolently.

"Bug bites and love taps won't do <s***>. Why don't you try fighting, for a change? Or was that the best you've got?"

With an enraged roar, the Arrancar stretched its jaws open and released a scorching blast of fire from its throat. The white hot flames enveloped Allan entirely, but when the inferno dissipated, he still stood, covered in the thick bone armor of his Resurrección. The Arrancar recoiled.

"What are you?"

Allan grinned and dropped to all fours, a crimson glow beginning to form in his mouth.

"Haven't ya heard? The name's Allan Crossdale, the Living Arrancar! What’s a Living Arrancar, you might ask? Your worst nightmare! Let me demonstrate! Cero...Marmotreto!"

An enormous Cero launched from Allan's mouth, flashing forward into the Arrancar.

What was he?

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<"Ouch, hey, what’s your problem?">

Allan started.

<"Huh?">

Allan slowly came out of his trance.

<"Seriously, man, I just tapped you! What gives?">

Allan had been less and less focused, recently. He had been zoning out with…weird daydreams and fantasies, flashes of what felt almost like memories. His head was filled with visions of an endless, featureless desert trapped in an eternal night. But there was more. Strange masked creatures that consumed others of their kind, all of different shapes, sizes, and powers. The desert was a place of unending war, where the strong thrived and the weak perished. He saw great battles and enormous struggles, titanic clashes that tore rifts in the earth and sent lesser beings fleeing for the safety of distant dunes.

Worse, the strange flashes of bloodlust that Allan had always experienced had been growing more and more frequent, and Allan was having more trouble forcing them down. He had become more withdrawn from his family and friends, because he never knew what would set him off. Marcus had just bumped into him, but he had reflexively lashed back and struck his friend. It had only hit the shoulder, and it hadn’t been full strength, but it hadn’t been a friendly strike, either. Allan blinked.

<"Oh, s-sorry.">

Marcus tilted his head.

<"What's been with you, man? You've been acting strange, lately.">

Allan shook his head.

<”I just…haven't been feeling like myself.”>

Marcus snorted.

<"Well, you still look the same. Don't worry, you'll shake this.">

Allan nodded quietly.

<He's right. I'm just feeling a bit off. It's still me, same Allan Crossdale, ordinary school kid.>

* * *

<Ugh…w-what? What's going on?>

The last thing Allan remembered was being attacked by a creature like the ones from his hallucinations. He was lying on the ground, his vision spinning. Groaning, Allan pushed himself up and stood. More memories that weren’t his flashed through his mind, but this time, they passed too quickly for him to get anything useful. He stood, shakily, and looked around. Rubble was everywhere, shattered blocks of concrete and steel littering the ground. Allan took a few unsteady steps forward, then paused and grabbed his throbbing head.

<Where am I?>

<"There it is!">
<"Are you sure? It looks human…">
<"Use your head! You can feel it, can't you?">
<"I…yeah.">

Allan turned to the voices, revealing two men dressed in military garb. One of them raised the firearm he carried, and pointed it at Allan.

<What's he doing…with…oh no.>

Allan backpedaled, tripped, scrambled to his feet, and ran, a gun shot shattering the concrete where he had been a second ago. He turned a corner and sprinted full out, just trying to get away. His unusually keen ears picked up the continued conversation between the men.

<"Don’t let that monster get away!">

* * *

Allan was concluding his meeting with the Shinigami, the psychopomps of Japan. He was across from two of the Shinigami, standing on a rooftop in the middle of the city Allan had settled in. The Shinigami had detected his presence and had been understandably concerned, dispatching a group to scope him out and dispatch him. Allan had managed to talk them out of immediately trying to kill him, leading to a tense conversation. Allan was pretty sure that he had talked them out of killing him.

About seventy five percent sure.

Maybe sixty.

It was still a bit dicey.

"Alright. So, can you define for us exactly what you are? Human or hollow?"

Allan shrugged.

"Yes? Not a good enough answer. That's part of the problem. My circumstances are kind of…unique."

The Shinigami regarded him coolly for a moment before finally relenting.

"Very well, I'll report this back to my superiors. This isn't over."

"Thanks."

Allan dropped over the side of the roof, but before he left, his ears detected a snippet of the Shinigami's conversation.

"He is a threat."
"Yes, but he could be powerful ally. We'll see what the higher ups say."

The torrent of memories flash by in an instant, carrying with them brief surges of the assorted emotions that Allan had long since forgotten. And yet…something was wrong. For several seconds, Allan tries without success to determine what it was that he was perturbed by, until it finally hits him. Every single one of the memories, the events in his life that he had chosen to identify himself by, were ancient. Not just ancient, but all in a span of a few years, the tiniest fraction of his existence. They were also all from the time before his death. Allan has been a Shinigami for nearly a century, and yet he can barely remember anything from this time. It is all a blur of apathy, and avoiding work. How could that have happened? He was always planning to get off his back and do something…tomorrow. Next week. Next month. And so he had wasted decades without progress.

Well, look who woke up.

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In a rush, Allan is sucked into his own Inner World, appearing in the middle of the gentle desert that he knew so well. Before he can react, he is lifted off his feet by an invisible force and pulled through the air at enormous speed. His destination quickly becomes obvious; the large monolith that was always visible on the horizon of his mindscape. He had never been able to reach it before, but now it looms closer and closer until Allan is at the base. He pauses in mid air for a second, then rockets skyward, before finally being hurled none too gently onto the top of the rectangular structure. Allan rolls and lands gracefully, then looks around.

He is immediately confronted by a large, bestial creature, nearly ten feet tall at the shoulder, towering above Allan. It splits its mouth, revealing long fangs almost like a smile, then hops back from the Shinigami, clearing fifteen feet in a single bound.

"Welcome back, Allan."

Allan cocks his head and squints.

"You're my…"

It cuts him off.

"Sword spirit? Yes. I've been waiting a long time for this moment, Allan."

"Then why didn’t you respond to any of my searching?"

"You weren't looking for me, you were looking for a way to fix your sword. You haven't done a damn thing since you died. I wasn't about to help someone like that. You needed a wake up call, but it couldn't be from me."

"So now that I'm ready to stop screwing around…?"

It pulls its mouth into the unsettling grin once more.

"I'm all yours. Together, we shall make your name one to be respected and feared, boasted of by your friends and spoken in hushed whispers by your enemies. Let me drink the corrupted blood of a thousand times a thousand hollows, drawn from their bodies until Hueco Mundo floods and they have been scoured from its sands. We shall show everyone our power, what we can really do when we have cause. Together, we shall make everyone who has ever doubted you hang their heads with shame and everyone who has ever put their faith in you know that their trust was not misplaced. Let's change the world. Let's make you a legend. Where others falter, we shall stand tall. Where others give up, we shall keep fighting. Where others collapse from their wounds, we shall spit our blood into the eyes of our enemies. Where others break off the hunt, their quarry lost, we shall pursue until we have driven our prey to the edge of death. For too long, you have sat, complacent. Now that that is ended, we shall rise. There is nothing you cannot do, with me by your side."

As the beastly spirit spoke, it and Allan slowly drew closer together, one step at a time. They finally meet in the center of the monolith's roof, face to face. Allan reaches one hand out and touches the spirit's snout.

"Now speak my name, and seal our pact!"

"But what is your…" Allan pauses, then laughs once, quietly, harshly. "I suppose I already know. Alright. Let's do it."

Back in Hachirou's Inner World, Allan looks up from his contemplations, eyes burning with a new light as he meets Hachirou's gaze.

"Hachirou-san…thank you. I needed a wake up call, and I needed to know what you have told me. For almost longer than I can remember, I have defined myself by what I was, so I forgot who I am. So, just…thank you."

Slowly, he reaches out and takes the sword from Hachirou.

"I have made my choice. I am a warrior."

He kneels and plants the sword in the ground, then stands.

"But I already have a sword."

With a slow, deliberate motion, Allan lowers his hand to the hilt of his Zanpakuto, then draws it from its sheath. The short sword slowly comes free, until Allan holds the blade, now repaired and whole once more, before him. He spins it around his finger in a display of dexterity, before stopping it cold with a firm grip.

"Resurrect. Soultaker."

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Boabone vs. Damara

Boabone's 'next move' turns out to be one that she's already done to the citizens of the Rukon but hadn't yet attempted to attack Damara with yet. She's quick to dodge out of the way of the kido blast, garganta-windstorm turned the wrong way for the moment, even as a veritable horde of black threads are sent coursing out from the stitches in her arms and legs. They slither and wave through the air towards the street below, seemingly without purpose or path even as the arrancar calls over the roar of the wind.

"Damara Shishihara? Are you still alive?" The eyeless arrancar woman calls out uncertainly as her spear reconnects to itself with a mechanical clank. However, as a few stray threads come closer to the Vice Captain's position, they pause for a moment before questing towards his position more earnestly though Boabone herself doesn't turn to face him fully yet either to bring him back within grip of her garganta once more.

Rukongai
Middle Districts

Damara shrinks back from the threads, still pressing at his wound. After a few seconds, the blood flowing from the injury adheres to his Shihakusho, partially blocking the flow. Having temporarily attended to that problem, Damara turns his attention back on his Arrancar adversary. Lifting his left hand back in a throwing pose, he conjures a Hyapporankan rod in his hand without chanting or even speaking. From his crouch, he launches high into the air, then hurls the Bakudo down at Boabone, hoping to trap her.

Forming a platform of Reishi, Damara stands on the air and readies himself. He then releases the platform and dives down, towards the other side of the street. Mid-flight, he points one palm at Boabone, then releases a concentrated blast of Sōkatsui. Spinning, he lands on the rooftop opposite of his starting point. Reaching his hand down to his side, Damara draws his Zanpakuto, then holds it out in front of him.

"Shine. Shiro Hoshi."

In a blinding flash, Damara's Zanpakuto unseals itself, a brilliant glow suffusing the blade. Damara flares his own Reiatsu in response, demonstrating an impressive burst of power. He moves his sword to the side, leaving a bright trail, then slices it across in an arc at Boabone.

"White Wave."

A shining projectile detaches from the blade and launches towards Boabone.