Demon and Flower

The Bitter Cup
The gray of early morning enclosed upon the Rukongai like a thick glove. Fingers of mist caressed the rooftops, wound their way into and through the streets. Everything was calm and still, and the steel gray skies hung like a blanket from the washerwoman’s line: heavy, wet, but with the scent of soap replaced with that of the rain suspended in the air. The dark clouds brooded, waiting for the most opportune moment to burst open and drown the world below.

The city slept soundly as light dawned and spread softly through the fog, diffused and muted; and still an hour later it was barely brighter than it had been at the veiled sunrise. For that reason it seemed, none were eager to stir and be about their day. The streets were deserted, silent, peaceful. And through the dense stillness the melodic lullaby of a shamisen could be heard. The melancholic twang of the strings was interrupted only by the clacking of the plectrum as it struck the body of the instrument, and the man’s rough fingers were surprisingly agile as they glided over the fret board. Despite the thick mist there was a cool, gentle breeze pushing stroking the skin on his face, and even though his feet dangled precariously over the edge of the roof, he was completely absorbed in the melody, caring nothing for the world around him. He simply sat, and played, and tried to ignore the deep, burning pain that resided deep within his core.

It was a visceral, physical pain. Like a hundred knives had been driven into his heart and lungs and liver and sternum, and with every movement they were twisted deeper into his flesh, enough to halt his breathing and, eventually he feared, his heart.

The fever had started with a sudden viciousness roughly two weeks before, and even now he was soaked with sweat and trembling with unnatural tension as his body tried to fight off the inexplicable pain that had rooted itself in his insides. It felt like he was dying, slowly, excruciatingly, and he muttered vehement curses as he cradled the long, thin neck of the shamisen, gripping it more tightly than he should have.

To the north was the Seireitei. He could still recall the sight of it, with gleaming white walls and absurd golden roofs, all of which he reviled, although the image had faded into the muted pastel of years gone by. And yet, even though he hated it, and hated himself for doing so, his thoughts continued to turn to the Gotei 13. For how long had the indecent mass of false-faced war dogs been such an eyesore to him? He could not recall the exact number of years, nor why he had begun to hate them in the first place, except that they had and always would be his bitter enemy. And it was into that tomb of worm-infested corpses that he would be wading. Against his will, despite all his mistrust and hatred. There was simply no other alternative. No, perhaps he could wait a little longer…

A driving spasm in his heart gripped him without warning, causing him to snap the top string of the shamisen. He swore, spat, stood to his feet, and was almost overcome with a wave of dizzy nausea. He lost his balance on the uneven roof tiles, and instead of falling launched himself off the roof, where he dropped to the street below, landing in a crouch with the shamisen across his back. His geta made no noise on the damp earth as he half-walked, half-stumbled back to the bakuto parlor where he knew he would find relief from the pain, even though he knew it would be brief and relatively futile.

As soon as he pushed the curtain aside and set foot inside the dim, lifeless interior of the building, he collapsed against the doorframe. Even though it was barely six in the morning, there were a few men there already, smoking and playing idly at dice as they waited for one of the gang’s “sisters” to bring them breakfast.

“O-Oniisama!” One of them exclaimed, finally spotting him. The men immediately abandoned their game and rushed to his side, and two of them wrapped his arms around their shoulders to support him.

“Bring me, Rana,” he muttered darkly. “Now.” his voice was thick and barely audible, the constraint a threat of itself.

“U-understood.” One of the men ran off, taking off down the street at a hard sprint, while the others carried him down beneath the main building, into one of the cool, dark rooms that had been set aside for storage. There he lay, stretched out and breathing weakly as the minutes dragged by. Without a word the others left him be. This had happened before, and they intimately knew what was to be done even without speaking: one of them had a missing hand as proof of how they had learned that lesson.

At last the medicine woman came, carrying her heavy cabinet on her back as always, and this time she herself was carried on the back of the runner. She entered the room alone, and he sat up on his own, sliding his arms out of his sleeves so his chest was bare.

“Hurry, woman.” he told her roughly as he crossed his legs and placed his hands, with the wrists up-turned, on his lap.

“Yes yes,” she snapped irritably as she opened the tall, narrow box and began to pull out an assortment of herbs and potions. He listened to her work, and as soon as a steaming bowl of a drug he could not name was placed in front of him, began to breathe deeply. In the meantime she scraped the ends of her long bone needles against a stone to sharpen them, and dipped them into an acrid-smelling medicine.

The first two were always the most painful. Taking one of his arms in her cold, bony hands, she pierced the skin above the wrist and, carefully, quickly, pushed the needle all the way in until it had stopped to just below his elbow. She repeated the process with the other arm, then inserted shorter needles down the length of his spine. He continued to breathe deeply the entire time, unperturbed as the pain of treatment was far less than that of the symptoms. Rana began to murmur a low chant, and he let the words swirl around him until they bled and ran together, merging into one.

And then, at that moment, he knew he could not live like this any longer.

An hour later he climbed the steps back to the main floor of the bakuto parlor, followed by Rana and her clattering medicine chest. Although he still felt weak, the pain had subsided to a somewhat bearable level, but at this rate, he knew he did not have long before it came again with certain vengeance.

“Well then,” he addressed the men who had been waiting for him to surface. “I want ya to gather every man in the district and such-and-such. Ya’re goin’ to bring them here, and we’re goin’ to have a meeting. Real exceptional meeting, in one hour. Ya get what I’m sayin’?”

They gave the affirmative in unison, and most of them left at once. He himself had his own preparations to make before then, and so left the parlor for his own quarters.

There was not much to be done, as he did not own much— After all, he did not, and had never needed much. Besides the sleeping mat and small floor heater which were the only other effects in the room, the entirety of his personal possessions were contained in one chest against the wall. With an air of finality he chose what he would bring with him: His sword, which he had not carried with him that morning, as was typical, his case of tobacco and kiseru, his shamisen, and his favorite deck of cards and dice. Weighted and marked, of course. A blind man needed every advantage he could get when gambling, after all. Although where he was going, he was not sure how many chances he would get to play, if at all. He decided to keep them anyway, for sentimental reasons.

At last, he pulled out a brilliantly embroidered, full-length yukata. The design featured dragons and phoenixes, with a thick hem and fine silk weave. It was the best piece of clothing he owned, and now it would be the only one. He had been told that it was black, with red edging and bright gold embroidery, which is why he had bought it to begin with. It would strike an imposing picture, he hoped. He tied a thick red obi around his waist so the yukata was just below his knees, and tightened the cloth bindings that kept an even pressure around his abdomen, which served to lessen the constant, burning pain. Slinging both his sword and his shamisen over his shoulder, he left for the meeting.

He arrived early, and used the time to discuss the last of the details with his “right hand man.” Kissaki had been named simply and aptly for the cutting tip of a sword, and he placed his upmost confidence in her. She was strong-willed and practical, and was more than capable of leading a small-scale gang operation such as the Takaha gang on her own. While he had never had any romantic sentiment towards her, he wondered now if he should have tried to win her for himself. Most already believed they had at least slept together, considering the close confidence they placed in each other, but now he would never get that chance. But, it could not be helped, and Kissaki was now the kumicho—the tiger of Takaha. They had discussed the possibly of him leaving at length before, of course, and now there was very little left to say except the obligatory transfer of power from one kumicho to the next. It was ironic, as it was the first peaceful turnover the Takaha gang had ever seen, and probably would ever see, and had come about at the hands of its undeniably most violent leader.

Eventually the rest of the gang gathered in front of the bakuto parlor as ordered, and they were somewhat shocked to see him in his full finery and carrying his tachi. Without pleasantries or hesitation, he turned to the crowd and began. “Kissaki is yer new kumicho. If any dumb ass wants to challenge that, I’ll clobber im’ personally.” There was no response. The rumors had been circulating through the ranks, and his abdication was therefore not a complete surprise.

“All right.” He said, drawing a line in the dirt with the front of his sandal. “I mean to go to the Seireitei,” he stated bluntly. “Any of you who want to come with me had best step over this line.” The men gaped at him in stunned silence, and for a long moment no one stirred or made a sound.

Then, at last, slow, rattling footsteps approached and slowly made their way to his side. It was Rana. He was shocked to say the least, and her appearance was both a reassurance and an insult. He would question her motives later, but for now he was glad she was one who would come. After all, she was not known as “Rana of the Salamander” for nothing, and he was certain poison would have at least some use in the Seireitei.

“Why are you going there?” one of the men asked uneasily. “Is it an invasion?”

Hein Ueda barked a rough laugh.

“Ain’t that goin’ for nothing. I ain’t plannin’ to do anything so terrible dull, or such-and-such.” and a wide grin spread across his face.

“Ya see, I intend on becomin’ a Captain.”

The Plague
Thunder rolled in the distance as the group of fourteen approached the South Gate of the Seireitei. At first, upon leaving Takaha, people had scattered at his approach, knowing all too well who he was and what he could do should he just so happen to stop and ask them the time of day. But gradually, as they neared the center of the city-mass, he noted that the residents did not recoil from him. And if they did recognize him, they were not uneasy about his presence, at least from what he could sense. Perhaps they mistakenly thought the shadow of the Gotei 13.

There were many people here, even though it was still early in the morning.

“Do you regret leaving?” Rana had, for some reason, decided to ask him as they had crested the hill that marked the end of Takaha District. He had not replied, simply brushing her aside sullenly, and yet he had allowed her to trail behind him the entire way.

Of course he regretted it. Especially now, as he stood in front of the open gate that lead to the Seireitei. The giant that had once guarded it had long ago been killed off in the war against the Quincy, or so he had been told, and now only a small retinue of Shinigami stood guard at the gatehouse. They posed no challenge whatsoever, of course, but still the twelve men who decided against their better logic to come with him drew back.

“Dumb-asses.” he muttered. He drew closer to the guardhouse with a casual swagger, and the Shinigami did not at first perceive him as a threat. But at last one of them must have realized who he was, and sounded the alarm, calling the other guards to attention. They rushed to intercept him, drawing their swords and taking up stances as they hedged him in. Of course he had made sure he was far inside the courtyard by the time they reached their positions, it would be unfortunate if they decided to close the gate, after all.

“Halt!” the squad leader ordered with impressive force.

“Those are terrible rough manners ya’ve got there,” he answered smoothly. “Is that anyway to be treatin’ a visitor?”

“We know who you are, and you’re not taking a step further.” the man answered. “Citizens are prohibited from carrying swords, also from entering the Seireitei without a permit. Furthermore, there is a warrant out for your arrest, if you are indeed Hein Ueda.” he spoke eloquently enough, but was exuding fear, and Hein’s patience was wearing thin.

“Don’t matter who I am, and leastways if I am Ueda-han or so-and-so yer goose is real cooked.” he pointed at the man who had delivered the speech. “Now then, I want ya to take me to the Head Captain. Exceptional important, ya see. And I’m feelin’ terrible rough, so I wouldn’t get in my way, if I were you.”

Hein moved his hand to the hilt of his sword, and began to pull it from the scabbard. The Shinigami, already on-edge, reacted as he had intended them to, attacking in an instant and without a word. He smiled and, in a blur had moved through the entire regiment. The first man he sent flying with a fist to the stomach, then he turned and dropped the second to the ground with a kick to the face, and slammed his elbow into the jugular of the third attacker. The fourth he sent flying backwards with a shin to the chest. The man barreled into the Shinigami behind him, and both were incapacitated in the crash. Now only the leader remained, who had managed to get behind him in the chaos and was now bringing his Zanpakuto straight towards Hein’s skull. With a deft turn he dodged the blade and for a brief moment was air-born. He brought his fought down hard on the man’s shoulder, and he dropped his sword. Before he could move further, Hein grabbed him by the front of his kosode, twisted it painfully tight, and lifted him off the ground.

“I don’t like repeatin’ myself.” he growled. “Now are ya goin’ to take me to the Head Captain, or am I goin’ to have to cut ya to pieces first?” the Shinigami was too busy struggling against his grasp to reply, and, spitting with disgust, Hein hurled him head-long into the wall. He slammed into it full-force, and his limp body thudded to the ground weakly.

“Pathetic.” He straightened up, and instead turned to the individual who had approached from outside the gate— who had been there the whole time and had borne witness to the entire altercation. “I hope yer more reasonable than these terrible rough excuses of men.”

“Who are you, and what is your purpose here?” the Shinigami asked brusquely, calmly. Hein could tell he was high ranking, possibly a Third Seat or Lieutenant, simply gauging by his level of Reiatsu alone. There was a hawk seated on his shoulder, and had obviously just finished a hunt as it was still picking blood and bits of fresh meat from its feathers. The Shinigami smelled of carnage, and while he normally would have relished this, it only served to worsen the headache that had begun ever since the effects of the hallucinogen he had taken had worn off.

“Like I said, it don’t matter who I am. I’m here to pay a visit to Kyoraku-han. Mind showin’ me the way?”

“You expect me to simply capitulate and agree to such an outrageous request?” it was not stated as a question. “I’m afraid you are mistaken—you are under arrest.” The Shinigami said bluntly.

“Is that so?” Hein was growing tired of dealing with underlings, but without warning the Shinigami had appeared in front of him with a rather impressive use of Shunpo, and his drawn sword was resting lightly on his shoulder, as if begging to cut into his neck.

“Do not try to resist,” the swordsman continued evenly, “If you do I will strike without hesitation.”

Hein hissed out through his teeth and grasped the blade with his hand, then shot his other fist into the center of the Shinigami’s chest. He was thrown backwards, but somehow managed to twist around in mid-air and land on his feet. He did not pause to consider his injury, instead leveling his sword to the side so it was parallel to the ground and rushing towards him again. He did not use Shunpo this time, and Hein grinned as he formed a fist. The next blow could very well be fatal, if left unchecked.

Both adversaries swung at the same time.