There’s a bird outside his window today. His eyes are closed and the window is narrow and high, but he can hear it. The birdsong is color.
He shifts slightly. His buttocks and shoulders are going numb from the hardness and cold of the floor. Still, he disdains the lumpy, dusty pallet by the wall.
A slight displacement of air signals the arrival of his guard. The architecture and maintenance of the Seireitei buildings are so superb that doors and windows don’t squeak. Nonetheless, Hanatarou feels the puff of air on the tip of his nose, senses the change in light through his eyelids.
“Hey, get up.”
Hanatarou opens his eyes. He considers lying still on the floor, curled loosely on his side like a rag doll. He considers pressing his cheek against the cool concrete to relieve the hot, itchy bug bite on his face. He’s resisted authority enough in the last few days. He’d like to continue living this death–life, Samsara or not.
“Hai.”
He levers himself off the ground. His body aches as sensation rushes back into his limbs. Hanatarou bows with appropriate meekness to his guard. He can’t remember the man’s name.
“Let’s go.”
The guard pulls a key ring from his waistband and unlocks the door. Iron bars rattle on steel tracks, an entire barred wall slides open. Hanatarou blinks.
“Come on. You’re done. Get out.”
Done.
Fourteen days of incarceration fly by. Light punishment for a traitor. Hanatarou reminds himself to thank Captain Ukitake when he has the chance.
“Out.”
Hanatarou does as he’s told this time, quickly. He can’t shuffle out of the building fast enough, his legs and buttocks stiff. The sun on his face is amazing. Hanatarou stands on the wooden walkway, fifteen stories up, soaking the sun into his cotton yukata. It’s a halo of warmth.
# # #
“Hanatarou.”
“Captain Unohana.”
She is serene and he is detached.
“As per the sentence for your involvement in the drifter incident, you are suspended from active duty for a probationary period of sixty days, which begins today at sundown.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“For that period, you will not perform or participate in field procedures. You will be restricted to Seireitei for the duration and any departure from the premises will be construed as high treason and punished accordingly.”
“I understand.”
“Personnel of the Fourth Division will check on you from time to time. You will make yourself available for weekly counseling sessions with appointed officers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If at the end of the sixty day period you are deemed fit, you will return to active duty.”
“Thank you for your time, Captain. I will do my best to make up for my lapse in judgment.”
“Go with Vice–Captain Kotetsu. She will assign you to your duties for the coming months.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Hanatarou likes his captain—really he does. Unohana Retsu is kindly, law–abiding, and fair–minded. Hanatarou thinks he should like her as much as everyone else in Division Four. Kindly, however, is not the same as compassionate. Law–abiding is not the same as just. These distinctions don’t matter in Soul Society though, not until someone is reckless enough to make an issue.
# # #
In the fading color of evening, the vice–captain waits for Hanatarou outside the captain’s office. The conversation is brief. Since he cannot serve as a medic, he will make himself useful by attending to the janitorial services of the division. The entire government is dead, but at least the streets will be clean. The appearance of order must be kept.
The meeting adjourns and Hanatarou goes back to the officer’s dormitory. Each division has its own housing and offices. The accommodations in this division, unknown to the other divisions, are slightly superior in quality and design as they were built last. Hanatarou is glad that he is an officer. The dormitories are nicer than the division barracks. His quarters are a posh one–room suite, with kitchen and bathroom. Sure, the rooms are inevitably riddled with surveillance spells, but so long as he does not trigger them by blowing anything up, the intelligence division will remain uninterested. Hanatarou, in turn, is left in peace to keep his masturbatory practices and his penchant for nude calisthenics.
# # #
“Hanatarou, what on earth were you thinking?” Kyoko asks, her brow furrowing. Two wrinkles appear between her eyes. She perches on the edge of a desk, not bothering to wipe off the dust first. It clings to her black uniform and on her cheeks where she touched her face.
“He wasn’t,” Daisuke replies for him, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “He never thinks about anything. You know Hanatarou. He doesn’t have reasons for doing stuff.”
Hanatarou keeps sweeping the unoccupied office, dust billowing up in gold clouds under the windows. He likes these two. They talk and talk, drawing circles of sound in the air.
“Daisuke.”
“It’s true. Remember the Academy?”
“I wasn’t in your class.”
“Oh, right. You were—what – three classes behind?”
“Four.”
Their casual bickering is familiar. There are no insects in Seireitei. It is shinigami voices that drone in casual undulations under roof eaves and along walkways in the evening.
“How many times did you have to take the entrance exam?”
“No one passes the first time.”
“That’s not true.”
“Well, I’ve never met anyone who’s passed the first time. That’s for people who are potential captains and stuff.”
“No it’s not,” Daisuke says dismissively.
“Yes, it is” Kyoko insists, her cheeks flaming red. She never likes Daisuke’s needling.
“Oh yeah? If passing the first time shows your potential to be captain, then that means Hanatarou could be captain one day too.” Hanatarou can hear Kyoko’s eyes grow wide, ripples of sound slightly above the normal frequency.
“Are you kidding? Hanatarou, is he kidding? Did you really?” Hanatarou keeps sweeping. He makes neat piles of dust in the corners of the room.
“Yes, I did.”
“See?” Daisuke gloats, “Can you seriously imagine anyone letting him become captain? He doesn’t have any ambition.”
Hanatarou murmurs his agreement. Captain. He wonders if he has to care about anything to be a captain. Maybe you just need to fight well.
# # #
He scrubs the grout in the men’s restroom with a small stiff brush. The scritching and scratching is the only sound. The acrid scent of bleach and soap tickle his nose, but Hanatarou perseveres. He never thought that he would spend his days as a shinigami on his hands and knees doing menial labor.
It was Sumiko who first suggested it. They were sitting on a bridge, legs dangling over the dirty, swirling stream, arms draped over the faded, gray wood railing.
“You should go take the shinigami exam.”
Her pale, wrinkled skin is nearly translucent in the afternoon sun. Short, frizzy, white hairs form a light–catching halo around her head. She doesn’t look at him, merely gazes at the stream. It is more mud than water.
“I guess.”
There’s a bright yellow, plastic bag stuck in the middle of the stream, pinned down by a rock. It ripples flag–like and hypnotic.
“A boy needs to eat. You’ll need to be eating for a long time.”
Sumiko’s body is bent, her spine curves like a sickle. She is near the end of her death–life. Sumiko doesn’t eat.
Hanatarou is always hungry.
“Ummm,” he replies, noncommittal.
They’ve been together since they both arrived in Rukongai. Sumiko has gotten old in that time; ready to spin the wheel of Samsara again. Hanatarou’s skin is still taut, soft, and tan.
“You’ll go tomorrow.”
The next day, early before the mist dissipates, they walk to a low, ramshackle building near the border of Seireitei. The roof sags and the porch planking looks like warped, gray chopsticks nailed to an equally warped frame. It is the largest building in this area. Candidates form a queue that winds out the door and snakes into the street. Hanatarou wanders into line behind a tall, skinny man with patched pants and cracked geta.
The test itself was long, more tedious than the waiting. An impatient shinigami takes his name and shuffles him into a seat. The bench is hard and cool. His tablemate wuffles like a bloodhound on a trail, sniffing and snorting. There are questions on crisp, white sheets of paper, black ants swarming over sugar. Hanatarou tumbles the answers out, like tipping his head and shaking until black text falls out his ear and clatters onto the desk.
When he finishes, others are in tears. Hanatarou’s hands curl claw–like, cramped from writing. Sumiko asks how it went as they walk home. He shrugs. Sumiko pulls a peach out of her pocket. Juice runs down his chin and the taste is plump and ripe on his tongue.
The next day, they return to the same building, mist clinging to damp hair and damp skin. The shinigimi shift impatiently from foot to foot on the porch, restless and annoyed. When the appointed hour arrives, they announce the names of those who passed. There is only one.
“Yamada Hanatarou.”
A set of red–and–white clothes are shoved into his arms and he is instructed to return the next day to begin training at the academy. Detailed directions are given and Sumiko is at his side while the wild crowd throngs about them.
Sumiko dies a week after he enters the academy.
Hanatarou does not get leave from school, as there is no real need.
# # #
He hates concrete, inasmuch as he hates anything at all. It’s porous and rough, scratching up his hands and knees. The blood sets stubbornly into the numerous cracks no matter how much he scrubs. No one bothered to hose the alley down when the blood was still wet. Now Hanatarou’s wooden brush picks up tiny, gummy pieces of re–hydrated muscle and fat. He stops to pick them out and toss them into a wooden bucket. The soap foams red on the gray street.
“I want the detailed reports by tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also, transfer Subject 3–Beta into surgery. I want him prepped for the morning’s rounds. Set up recording equipment and remember not to give him anesthesia. We don’t know how his physiology will interact with sedatives, so we can’t take the chance.”
“Understood, sir.”
It is Kurotsuchi Mayuri. Hanatarou hears his voice approaching before he sees him. The man walks towards the alley, not caring who hears him. The majority of his division is dead anyway.
“Subject 7–Null–Delta expired last week. Locate me another, a woman this time. I need to study the differential effects of the chemical on strong cyclical hormone shifts . . .”
The voice trails off when it reaches the mouth of the alley. Hanatarou looks up from his scrubbing. Kurotsuchi Mayuri stands still, Vice–Captain Kurotsuchi Nemu with him, looking over the blast radius of a giant crater. The huge hole in the street is from a drifter battle. They say Ishida Uryuu, the last Quincy, fought a captain here. The captain and the medic, their eyes meet briefly across the expanse of the crater between them. Kurotsuchi sneers and hurries away, his cloak flapping at his ankles. The Vice–Captain follows.
Hanatarou stares after them. After a moment, he returns to scrubbing the remains of Division 12 off the sidewalk. Some of this is Kurotsuchi Mayuri as well.
# # #
“Tell me a little about the drifters. Were you scared when they threatened you?”
“. . . Yeah. I was scared.”
“Do you resent them for what they did?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“Why is that?”
“You wouldn’t understand, ma’am. They were good people.”
“How?”
“Ichigo only wanted to save Rukia. Rukia—her sentence was unfair. By our laws, death is a punishment disproportionate to her crimes.”
“Do you feel that the actions they took were justified?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Even if those actions hurt our people, your friends and colleagues.”
“. . . perhaps. Our government should have more oversight.”
“And this was why you helped. Because you felt their reasons were just.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No matter the cost and destruction to Seireitei.”
“. . .”
“Did they hurt you ever? Threaten or abuse you?”
“No! No, they were kind to me.”
“Hanatarou, they threatened to kill you in front of a whole squad of shinigami.”
“They were willing to let me go when I proved a useless hostage. They wouldn’t have hurt me. They—Ichigo and Ganjyuu—they’re honorable people.”
“You watched the drifter near–fatally wound Vice–Captain Abarai, yes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who else did you see him fight?”
“Only the Vice–Captain. We—Ganjyuu and I—ran from the fight with Captain Zaraki. That’s it.”
“It looks like our time is up for this week. Thank you for your honesty and cooperation. We will work through this together, Hanatarou.”
“Thank you for having me, ma’am.”
He knows how it sounds. It’s ridiculous when he hears it out loud. Everything seems ridiculous now, especially when he’s with other people, other shinigami.
Positive feelings by the victim towards the abuser. Negative feelings towards rescuing authority. Supportive behavior towards the abuser as well as commiseration with the abuser’s reasons and actions. Perceiving positive feelings from the abuser towards the victim.
Hanatarou glances out the clear window of the white, square office. The staff psychiatrist is speaking to Captain Unohana outside, undoubtedly discussing his session. Her small, delicate hands gesture expressively. The Captain nods with sage satisfaction. It is exactly as they expected.
He untwists his hands from the black fabric of his uniform. It leaves a spider web of crinkled, black fabric. He’s not crazy.
There’s a difference between justice and Stockholm Syndrome.
# # #
He is mopping in the Division Four offices when it comes back to him. Someone found it on the ground, kicked up against a wall. It took a few weeks, but it was finally identified and returned. Daisuke hands it to him a few days later.
The wood scabbard is cool on his palm, smooth and varnished and unadorned like its owner. There are a few new scratches from being dropped. Hanatarou runs his fingertips over them, shallow grooves in the wood. He’s acquired a few scratches too.
He doesn’t draw the blade to check for damage. He doesn’t immediately tuck it into his obi. He doesn’t even thank Daisuke for remembering to return it. Instead he leans it up against a desk in the corner and goes back to his mopping.
Later that night, after the calisthenics and a few onigiri for dinner, Hanatarou almost trips over the damn thing. It is tucked against the wall, gleaming in the lamplight. He ignores it and slides the closet door open. A waft of cedar chips and dust drift past his nose. Hanatarou pulls out the futon and the blankets, deep blue and yellow. He putters around his quarters and gets ready for his evening bath. He goes back to the closet and reaches for a faded green towel and stops. Hanatarou wishes that there were cicadas outside his window or crickets in the garden. There is only silence. He turns and picks the soul cutter off the tatami mat and shoves it under his spare towels. The door slides shut with a click.
# # #
They tell him—later – that Rukia came into the offices alone. When they talk about her, their voices become a little hushed. A little awed. Hanatarou understands completely.
She inquired after his current location. No one spoke. No one knew. Daisuke stood up. “The tunnels” he said, “down by the sanitation plant. I can take you.” When he exited the office with Rukia, Captain Ukitake was waiting for them outside.
“Do you know where he is?” the Captain asked a tad impatient. She replied that she’d found a guide and pointed to Daisuke. He swallowed hard.
“Follow me. He’s doing maintenance work today.” The captain nodded and Daisuke took off, leaping onto the roof. They followed easily.
He is elbow deep in electrical wires when they find him. A light short–circuited and Hanatarou is fixing the damage. He removes the section of damaged wire with sure, swift movements. His latex–covered fingers are nimble. They expertly splice a new wire into place, wind and bandage the wound with electrical tape. The wires reconnect to the socket and light pools around his head. The electrical intestines are shoved back into the wall and the brass fixture is screwed back into crumbling brick. When he stands up, Hanatarou nearly dies as his heart leaps out of his chest.
“Hanatarou! We didn’t mean to scare you.” Rukia rushes over and grabs his elbow in a vise–like grip. Hanatarou sags against the wall, brick digging into his hip. His heart beats an unsteady cadence.
“Uh—I’m—I’m alright.”
“That’s a poor way to be showing your gratitude, Rukia. Kill the guy before you can talk to him.” Captain Ukitake’s face is a halo of pale eyes, pale skin, pale hair.
“Captain!” There is a reprimand in her exclamation. His laugh is deep and sincere. Hanatarou doesn’t think he’s heard anything so good.
“Um—what can I do for you, Captain Ukitake? Rukia?” Rukia whirls around, embarrassed, distracted.
“Oh, I came to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“For what you did. Trying to save my life.” Her face is so earnest. Like Ichigo.
“It was no–“ he begins, discomfited.
“Nothing?” she interrupts, annoyance reddening the edges of her vowels.
“Well . . .” Hanatarou stutters.
“So my life is worth nothing now?” This is Kuchiki Rukia with her hands on her hips.
“I didn’t–“
“Didn’t mean it? No, maybe you didn’t, because you don’t think about what you say like another idiot I know.”
“Um –“
“You may be right, you know” Rukia plows right through the useless words he hasn’t spoken, “My life is not worth much in the big picture, but the principle is worth defending isn’t it? The idiot taught me that. If it wasn’t for the principle, then what were you fighting for?”
Her eyes drill holes into his cortex, into his nerve bundles, into the circuit of electric synapses. His mouth is dry, his chest so tight it’s gone numb. His hands tremble and he has no answer.
“You were going to throw yourself in front of my brother to buy a few seconds. For the principle or not, it doesn’t matter. The result is that I’m alive, so I’m going to thank you and you had damn well deal with it.” Rukia glares at him, daring him to deny it.
Hanatarou opens and shuts his mouth a few times. The tunnel is dark and in this tiny pool of light, glowing from a lamp that he rescued from disuse, the world is three people.
No answer is needed.
“You’re welcome?” Hanatarou replies.
She smiles. It’s a good smile.
The moment might have stretched until the bubble of warmth in Hanatarou’s chest burst from his flesh, but Captain Ukitake coughs politely. The world collapses again. Rukia steps back and Captain Ukitake meanders forward into the golden pool of light.
He is both more and less intimidating in person.
“I wanted to thank you too, Hanatarou,” the captain begins, “I really appreciate what you did.”
“I – I should be the one thanking you, sir.” It sounds hopelessly inadequate now that he is standing in front of the man. He bows nervously, jerkily.
“For what?”
“For interceding with Captain Unohana on my behalf. Your influence lightened my sentence a great deal.” It would have been death otherwise.
“You shouldn’t be punished for doing what’s right. I take the safety of my people very seriously.”
“But, sir —“ The captain stops him with an upraised hand.
“It’s a small gesture compared to yours.”
The captain’s smile is more real than the brick under his feet. Hanatarou stares. Rukia took his answers, but Captain Ukitake has taken the air he breathes.
A nod and a wave – Rukia and Captain Ukitake turn and leave. Their steps make smaller and smaller echoes. He watches them recede. When they are about to leave the circle of light, spilling shallow and wide over his shoulder, he calls out.
“Wait, sir.”
They both stop, turning slowly. They are right on the edge of his light.
“Why did you become a captain?”
Ukitake inclines his head, pale, pale hair shifting in curtains. He looks into the distance of a thousand years and smiles again, bigger and broader.
“Would you rather leave people like Zaraki and Kurotsuchi to run Soul Society all by themselves?” he replies. Ukitake laughs and Hanatarou waits. The captain finally looks at Hanatarou and he is pinned by that gaze.
“People with the perception to understand justice and the compassion to desire it have a responsibility to act.”
Pinned and flayed and set loose.
Hanatarou listens to their fading footsteps long after the beating of his heart has drowned out all other sound.
# # #
It’s cold in his hands, the heat of his body flowing into the metal. The edge is dull, the balance off. Hanatarou sets the soul cutter across his knees. The blade is cool on the skin and bone. He settles himself and the tatami mat digs strangely into his bare buttocks and ankles. Discomfort passes from his mind. For the first time, he is glad of the silence of Seireitei. A warm breeze carries only stillness across his naked back. He lets his eyes fall close and imagines that he pulls that stillness into himself. He waits and he listens for the first time.
He listens for the voice of his soul cutter.
# # #
The End.
Back to Fiction