His eyes are glazed over, dreary from a night of little sleep. A candle burns in the dark blue, morning haze that envelops Junya's office. He yawns, sitting slumped in his chair, waiting for the tea to finish up. It's a blend from one of the junior analysts' family in the Rukongai. As it steeps, Junya can smell the cardamom strong on the air, ginger sulking just below. He yawns again. The smell doesn't quite perk him up.
The knock on the door does. "Eighth Seat Ryoji, sir?" Junya darts his eyes toward the door, still slumped in his chair. A young unseated woman, too aware and put together to not be on the night shift, is standing in his open door-frame, with a scroll in her hands. It's sealed with wax. "Yeah, come on in." Junya puts his hand out and reaches for the paper. She carefully places it in his hand. As she walks back, he pops the seal open and starts reading, slowly mouthing the words on the piece of paper.
"He's out sick?" Junya asks.
"Yes, sir."
"Like, how sick?"
"It seems bad, sir."
"Bad enough that he can't get out of bed? This really isn't my billet."
"I don't think the Fifth Seat can talk, let alone get out of bed, sir."
Junya sighs and drags his hand across his face. "Alright. Tell the Lieutenant I'll head out shortly, please. And that I'll try to get to those density maps tonight, but no promises. That operation can wait, anyway." She nods courteously. Junya looks over at the kettle. "You want some tea, or?" She shakes her head. Night shift, right. The solider leaves.
With a groan, and a few minutes of feeling sorry for himself, he gets himself out of his chair and out the door. He carries a white tote bag on his shoulder, hanging loose over his black uniform. It's a fifteen-minute, mindless walk to the North Gate of the Seireitei, and another half-hour until he gets to the Ninth District, and meanders his way through the rolling streets and finds where he's meant to be.
It's a white plastered house, with light brown wooden paneling and a dark, green roof. Not large, but elegant. There are two sentries posted outside, posed with their hands behind their backs, and with their eyes now trained on Junya. He nods at them, and makes his way up the stone path to the front door.
"Hi, guys," he says, pulling the scroll he was given by the messenger out of his bag, before unrolling it and displaying it to them both. "Sorry I'm late. Eighth Seat Junya Ryoji, I'm from the Eighth. I have orders to observe this investigation and file a report with my commanding officers. I do so under the lawful authority of my Captain, and the explicit understandings between our division regarding investigations with, uh," he struggles to remember the line, "potential implications for matters of state security."
Junya shoots them a knowing, apologetic smile. They glare at him, silently. "Sorry. Can one of you take me to the senior officer here?" The two guards look at each other. The one on the right grunts, "Come on," and leads him through the house.
The crime scene's already being polished over by handfuls of Sixth personnel. A few soldiers are pouring over a bookshelf in the foyer. In the next room over, two empathetic, soft-faced looking shinigami talk to a man with his face buried in his hands, crying. More walk around in the distance, in the yard in the back. The guard assigned to him leads him through the web of investigators, who seem to move around and almost through each other with a telepathic, instinctual sort of manner, as if they are all really controlled by the same one person, working to get the job done.
They come to a room with two more guards posted outside, and cordoned off with red rope. As Junya's escort explains the situation, he looks off into the distance, staring at a gaggle of soldiers who are all staring at something on the ground in front of them. They're a half-circle centered around a single man, standing taller, at least in posture, than the rest of them. He knows who it is. Shit. Of course I had to get him. Probably what made that asshole sick.
Junya is let through, and his escort returns to his post. He walks up to the group of soldiers, and clears his throat.
"Excuse me, sir? Junya Ryoji, Eighth Seat, Eighth Division. I'm sorry I'm late."
The knock on the door does. "Eighth Seat Ryoji, sir?" Junya darts his eyes toward the door, still slumped in his chair. A young unseated woman, too aware and put together to not be on the night shift, is standing in his open door-frame, with a scroll in her hands. It's sealed with wax. "Yeah, come on in." Junya puts his hand out and reaches for the paper. She carefully places it in his hand. As she walks back, he pops the seal open and starts reading, slowly mouthing the words on the piece of paper.
"He's out sick?" Junya asks.
"Yes, sir."
"Like, how sick?"
"It seems bad, sir."
"Bad enough that he can't get out of bed? This really isn't my billet."
"I don't think the Fifth Seat can talk, let alone get out of bed, sir."
Junya sighs and drags his hand across his face. "Alright. Tell the Lieutenant I'll head out shortly, please. And that I'll try to get to those density maps tonight, but no promises. That operation can wait, anyway." She nods courteously. Junya looks over at the kettle. "You want some tea, or?" She shakes her head. Night shift, right. The solider leaves.
With a groan, and a few minutes of feeling sorry for himself, he gets himself out of his chair and out the door. He carries a white tote bag on his shoulder, hanging loose over his black uniform. It's a fifteen-minute, mindless walk to the North Gate of the Seireitei, and another half-hour until he gets to the Ninth District, and meanders his way through the rolling streets and finds where he's meant to be.
It's a white plastered house, with light brown wooden paneling and a dark, green roof. Not large, but elegant. There are two sentries posted outside, posed with their hands behind their backs, and with their eyes now trained on Junya. He nods at them, and makes his way up the stone path to the front door.
"Hi, guys," he says, pulling the scroll he was given by the messenger out of his bag, before unrolling it and displaying it to them both. "Sorry I'm late. Eighth Seat Junya Ryoji, I'm from the Eighth. I have orders to observe this investigation and file a report with my commanding officers. I do so under the lawful authority of my Captain, and the explicit understandings between our division regarding investigations with, uh," he struggles to remember the line, "potential implications for matters of state security."
Junya shoots them a knowing, apologetic smile. They glare at him, silently. "Sorry. Can one of you take me to the senior officer here?" The two guards look at each other. The one on the right grunts, "Come on," and leads him through the house.
The crime scene's already being polished over by handfuls of Sixth personnel. A few soldiers are pouring over a bookshelf in the foyer. In the next room over, two empathetic, soft-faced looking shinigami talk to a man with his face buried in his hands, crying. More walk around in the distance, in the yard in the back. The guard assigned to him leads him through the web of investigators, who seem to move around and almost through each other with a telepathic, instinctual sort of manner, as if they are all really controlled by the same one person, working to get the job done.
They come to a room with two more guards posted outside, and cordoned off with red rope. As Junya's escort explains the situation, he looks off into the distance, staring at a gaggle of soldiers who are all staring at something on the ground in front of them. They're a half-circle centered around a single man, standing taller, at least in posture, than the rest of them. He knows who it is. Shit. Of course I had to get him. Probably what made that asshole sick.
Junya is let through, and his escort returns to his post. He walks up to the group of soldiers, and clears his throat.
"Excuse me, sir? Junya Ryoji, Eighth Seat, Eighth Division. I'm sorry I'm late."
Last edited:
