Kill a Traitor Before an Enemy [Takahiro]

[Ichiro Watanabe]

SOMEWHERE AT THE EDGE OF THE SEIREITEI, 1:45AM

When Ichiro walked these streets, they tended to be empty. Out here at the fringe of the Seireitei, furthest from the beating heart of its government, the name of the Sixth was spoken in fearful--but careful--derision. Out here, where the sprawling vista of the Rukongai merged freely with the urban crawl of the Soul Society's central hub, almost everyone had something they wanted to hide. Everyone knew someone who had stolen a sword, once; everyone knew someone who had seen the inside of the Sixth's featureless cells. Some of them were the "someone" they knew. So when Ichiro walked these streets during the day, bare-faced and stern, people tended to find excuses to duck into doorways or slip into run-down shop fronts. He had the dirty alleyways to himself. Now, they were empty due to the lateness of the hour, and the few passerby he did find didn't look too deeply into the shadow of his wrapped-cloth, hooded cloak.

The Lieutenant of the Sixth tramped quietly through the side streets, winding and wending his way as if a child were choosing random turns for him on a complicated maze in a coloring book. Ichiro didn't go in for raids, much: he liked to do his business under the light of the sun, straight-on and with no subterfuge. But if his Fourth Seat had found what he said he had, it was well worth the mud that caked the bottom of his woven-reed sandals. It was well worth skulking about like a criminal, if it meant catching one of the Sixth's Most Wanted within the walls of the Soul Society itself. Ichiro's eagerness to finally close his hands around the throat of a predominant criminal didn't cause him to walk any faster: he maintained his calm, even pace, though under the cloak his hand squeezed at the tsuka of his Zanpakutō and his eyes burned bright.

He was hardly skilled at picking out the trailing threads of Reiatsu among the myriad buildings, surely as he was unskilled in concealing his own. Even Ichiro's meager senses could pick out the way his presence bled forth like water from cupped hands. He found what he was looking for eventually, though, as surely as a blind man rummaging through hay eventually finds a needle. He knew exactly what he was looking for, and that was what made the discovery possible. A dark figure in the shadows of a ruined house's eaves: a tall, straight figure disciplined even in the way he stood.
"Where is the Way found?" he spoke, whispering into the night in his calm, even voice. Though his pulse throbbed, though his eyes glittered at the prospect of what Takahiro might have found, he kept outwardly calm. He would be quiet: he would be careful. He would intone the secret phrase that identified members of the Sixth among each other. If Takahiro was this shadowy figure, he would answer, "Death."
It was tonight's answer, one way or another.

 

[Takahiro Hidekawa]

SOMEWHERE AT THE EDGE OF THE SEIREITEI, 1:45AM

When Ichiro walked these streets, they tended to be empty. Out here at the fringe of the Seireitei, furthest from the beating heart of its government, the name of the Sixth was spoken in fearful--but careful--derision. Out here, where the sprawling vista of the Rukongai merged freely with the urban crawl of the Soul Society's central hub, almost everyone had something they wanted to hide. Everyone knew someone who had stolen a sword, once; everyone knew someone who had seen the inside of the Sixth's featureless cells. Some of them were the "someone" they knew. So when Ichiro walked these streets during the day, bare-faced and stern, people tended to find excuses to duck into doorways or slip into run-down shop fronts. He had the dirty alleyways to himself. Now, they were empty due to the lateness of the hour, and the few passerby he did find didn't look too deeply into the shadow of his wrapped-cloth, hooded cloak.

The Lieutenant of the Sixth tramped quietly through the side streets, winding and wending his way as if a child were choosing random turns for him on a complicated maze in a coloring book. Ichiro didn't go in for raids, much: he liked to do his business under the light of the sun, straight-on and with no subterfuge. But if his Fourth Seat had found what he said he had, it was well worth the mud that caked the bottom of his woven-reed sandals. It was well worth skulking about like a criminal, if it meant catching one of the Sixth's Most Wanted within the walls of the Soul Society itself. Ichiro's eagerness to finally close his hands around the throat of a predominant criminal didn't cause him to walk any faster: he maintained his calm, even pace, though under the cloak his hand squeezed at the tsuka of his Zanpakutō and his eyes burned bright.

He was hardly skilled at picking out the trailing threads of Reiatsu among the myriad buildings, surely as he was unskilled in concealing his own. Even Ichiro's meager senses could pick out the way his presence bled forth like water from cupped hands. He found what he was looking for eventually, though, as surely as a blind man rummaging through hay eventually finds a needle. He knew exactly what he was looking for, and that was what made the discovery possible. A dark figure in the shadows of a ruined house's eaves: a tall, straight figure disciplined even in the way he stood.
"Where is the Way found?" he spoke, whispering into the night in his calm, even voice. Though his pulse throbbed, though his eyes glittered at the prospect of what Takahiro might have found, he kept outwardly calm. He would be quiet: he would be careful. He would intone the secret phrase that identified members of the Sixth among each other. If Takahiro was this shadowy figure, he would answer, "Death."
It was tonight's answer, one way or another.

Even as few as a hundred years ago, well within Takahiro's own lifetime, the districts numbered from one to ten within the Rukongai were perceived as a home to wealth and opulence. Night or day, rain or shine, there was naught a time when one could expect to venture to such places and meet anybody save for the wealthiest and most successful of merchants or the most esteemed members of noble houses. Yet, tonight, there was no lively chatter, no high-brow bar filled with paying patrons. For the last two decades or so, the once grand and beautiful streets of what could have once been called the "outer Seireitei" had become confined to an immensely smaller area; the rest was too costly to maintain or patrol to keep free of miscreants. Plague had brought suffering to the world of the living and that of the dead in the past, but never as it had now.

And so, for the Fourth seat of the Sixth Division, one would expect that there was little to look forward to when he'd been told to search the first and second districts of West Rukongai. Dillapidated homes, the ocassional abandoned building, reclusive individuals wandering shutting windows when they saw him pass by, and cold, lifeless air were all that met him when he arrived, after all. Yet, during the three days Takahiro had spent stalking the labyrinthine alleys and societal wreckage that surrounded him, a dutiful dedication had not abandoned each and every step he had taken. His target was Kazuya Sasaki, former third seat of Takahiro’s own division, and a gifted and experienced warrior, one of precious few in the Sixth.

Sasaki had suddenly defected earlier in the year, apparently due to his refusal to work with academy graduates who had used an Asauchi to manifest their Zanpakuto. All of the many search attempts for him had returned only corpses and dead ends.

In truth, Takahiro had spent months fervently requesting that his Captain to make it his mission to locate Sasaki and bring him to justice. He was always eager to uphold the Sixth’s cause, and it of course carried the added benefit of pleasing his superiors. But that alone wasn’t enough motivation. Truthfully, it infuriated him knowing that disturbingly young, often very talented subordinates of his were being sent to their deaths at a time when the Gotei were so short-staffed. Honor demanded retribution for those lost souls, and Takahiro would be damned if he wasn’t doing his part.

Through rain and thunder Takahiro had searched just about every corner and hovel within the first and second districts. Common sense would dictate that a high-seated officer like himself would disguise themselves on such a search, but to hide the physical self meant nothing when dealing with individuals of Sasaki’s caliber. Furthermore, Takahiro knew that his own spiritual powers lacked the precision neccessary to do much other than supress his aura to that of a minor officer. Thus, it was surprising to him when earlier today, he had managed to find burn marks at the scorched gate of what was once a noble family's rather grand compound; burn marks that carried the residual feeling of his target's Reiatsu. Moments later, Taka had felt a flicker of that same energy, that same heat from deeper within the compound. He knew exactly what that meant. He had sent the hell butterfly off to his superior, Lieutenant Watanabe, moments after he fled the area. The message was simple.

'Meet outside the ruined home two blocks south from the abandoned Oda family compound, 1:45 AM tomorrow morning. The wolf is cornered.'

That night, as he stood against the outer wall under the crumbling eaves of the house he had specified, the shadows clung to Takahiro's black shihakusho like moths to a flame. His Zanpakuto sat firmly sheathed on his left hip, his right hand barely feathering the red cloth wrapped around the hilt so as to act if the wrong person had received his message. Ambushes like that, especially now, were not so uncommon to those who dealt face-to-face with the immense corruption within Soul Society.

For an hour, he stood there, straight back, eyes peeled, quiet as a ghost, and ready to act at a moment's notice. It was only in the seconds before the proverbial clock struck 1:45 that Taka allowed his shoulders to ease for a moment. He relaxed his face into a professional, soft smile, and wiped the single strand of hair in front of his face to the side.

I recognize that aura.

From an alley across the street from him emerged Lieutenant Watanabe, iron glare and stern tone present as he spoke the passphrase known to all officers of the Sixth. With not a lick of hesitation, Taka responded solemnly, "Death. The way is found in Death.”

There’s truth in that response, Takahiro mused, a truth that is central to upholding justice within Soul Society.

Then, as if commanded to do so wordlessly, Takahiro walked out from the night-black shade of his hiding spot into the illuminating grayish-white glow of the moonlight. As he wandered into the street, a sudden gust blew frigid air down the alley, rustling his hair and uniform, but still, his posture remained unbroken. Composure was of utmost importance in the presence of a superior, especially one so esteemed as-

“Lieutenant Watanabe. It’s good to see you, sir.” Taka subtly bowed his head as he greeted the Assistant Captain before moving briskly into the business at hand. “I’m sorry to have called you to venture out so late this evening; it was urgent."

The apology was necessary out of respect, if completely untrue; Takahiro was glad he had the Lieutenant here.

“I’ve called you here tonight because I’ve found former Third Seat Sasaki.” The words cut through the air like a knife and brought something of a conclusive end to months of toil for the Sixth. The fourth seat raised his left hand and pointed a bony finger down the street to his right. “He’s hiding out in the Oda Family compound, two blocks that way. I found scorch marks on the gate, and felt his Reiatsu; he hasn’t moved since, and I’m certain he knows I found him. In fact, not to be hasty, but we need to get moving, because I’m sure he can feel your aura as well, sir.”

Both men knew what "getting moving" meant. It was only after those words made their presence known that Takahiro felt his hairs raise and recognized the beginnings of that uncomfortable, near-pleasurable stir in his gut. That sensation spoke more than anything Takahiro could put into words.

Somebody will be bleeding tonight.

 

[Ichiro Watanabe]

The shadowed figure stepped forth from the packed-dirt alley and into the moonlight. Ichiro saw what he expected to: an only slightly distorted reflection of himself. The man who emerged was of similar height to the Lieutenant, similar build, similar hair if not its color--they could have been brothers were it not for the more angular, thin shape of Ichiro's jaw and especially the different expressions they wore. Takahiro stood easily, calmly, his face betraying little tension even at this riveting moment. His Lieutenant, on the other hand, seemed as if someone had bolted a metal rod to the back of his spine. There was no softness in the stiff way he stood, and no give in the hard expression he wore. Even his eyes were flinty.

But in both there was a gleam of excitement--for Ichiro, a chance to mete out justice and preserve order; for Takahiro, an opportunity to close tight the trap he'd been preparing for months now.

Ichiro bowed his head as his subordinate did, though he stopped a few degrees above the other's angle. A subtle reminder of their positions; both understood that especially in the Sixth, rank meant something. "I knew you wouldn't have called me for anything less than an emergency," he spoke: a voice like an ice bath, and a double-edged remark that contained a warning. As it ever was. He didn't think Takahiro would have demanded his Lieutenant's presence for nothing, but the man did have a tendency to let his excitement get the better of him. Now and then.

"The Oda compound," Ichiro repeated, a faint trace of surprise in his voice. Suddenly it made sense why he had been able to evade their capture for so long: Sasaki had friends in high places indeed. Once-high, he amended mentally. The Oda clan was a far shade from its halcyon days, but perhaps they still possessed some ability to conceal a wanted fugitive. "Tonight, the Oda clan shares in his crimes."

The two walked side by side along the street towards the compound. Beyond crumbling walls, a two-story building strained to reach for the sky, doing its best to grow up into a castle. The walls were cracked and chipped: the paint was peeling. The exterior of the Oda clan shared its interior's blemishes. At the front two men guarded the gate, their hands at their Zanpakutō, ready to draw. Ichiro couldn't help but curl his lip: they had fallen far indeed. Where were the days when the Oda had commanded a hundred Shinigami... well, no matter.

They were too close to risk conversation, now, so instead Ichiro pulled slightly ahead of his subordinate to guide him. They drew alongside the guards who were chuckling over some story--Ichiro didn't care to listen. He flashed a cold glance at Takahiro and then pulled off to the further one. He left the other for the brown-haired man to deal with.

A lazy, waving hand fumbled for the guard's face: he watched the guard squint and yank at his Tsuka--but an iron grip had clamped on the back of the guard's reaching hand. Three things happened in rapid succession: first, Ichiro savagely turned the wrist to his left, across the man's body, locking his arm and shoulder in the process; second, Ichiro stopped waving with his right hand and instead grabbed the side of the guard's head; third, he kicked out almost as an afterthought, a leg sweep from left to right.

These three things were only distantly registered by the guard, and indeed all most would have seen from behind Ichiro was a sudden spiraling twist in a clockwise direction. The first the guard knew of it, he had flipped wholly upside down, putting his head dangerously close to scraping on the ground.

He wasn't so lucky.

Ichiro took his foot and stamped down with force: the guard's neck tried to swallow his sandal. Then, like the man had fallen straight down for several stories, his head met the cobbled ground with a sickening krunk. Ichiro tossed the body to the side where the man fell like a plank. For a moment he seemed ready to fight--his arms flexed forward like a boxer's, but held a protective position instead. His legs stretched out, toes pointed, and he did not stir.

The Fourth were superb healers. Perhaps they would be able to fix the damage his careless, careful act had wrought.

Ichiro turned, ready to assist Takahiro if necessary. But he didn't think he'd need to--the man was, if nothing else, terribly skilled with a sword.

 

[Takahiro Hidekawa]

It should be known that Takahiro was generally a rather talkative man. Whether on duty or not, he generally pursued personal growth through conversation with his comrades and subordinates. With his Lieutenant, however, that ideology went out the window. The younger man couldn't help but let a soft smile grace his lips as he heard his commanding officer speak sternly in his direction. The unspoken, "this had better not be a waste of time", was about as subtle as Lieutenant Watanabe ever managed to be, and frankly, Takahiro preferred it that way. Ichiro was an honest, forthright, and straightforward individual. He only spoke what he meant.

To somebody who often willingly deceived even himself so frequently, it was a trait deserving of admiration and more. This hard, dedicated, relentlessly dutiful man was, in no small way, Takahiro's idol. Silence was tantamount to perfect comprehension in situations like these. When the Lieutenant spoke of the Oda clan and their share of the responsibility in tonight's affairs, Takahiro simply nodded affirmatively. To shelter a criminal, whether coerced or not, demanded great shame and punishment.

So, there was no issue in his mind as he fell back, dutifully following behind his Lieutenant as the pair of officers walked down the barely-lit alley. Only the pale moonlight and the warm glow of the oil lamps which jutted out from the front gate of the now not-so-distant Oda estate brought visibility to the streetscape. Ahead of them, Takahiro could see two burly men wearing shihakusho, both standing on guard with hands on the hilts of their Zanpakutō. The fourth seat quickly closed his eyes and inhaled, reaching out with his spiritual senses to feel at the presences of both Shinigami. For a moment, as his consciousness travelled down the alley, he felt the chilly, nigh-overwhelming presence of his Lieutenant, near double the intensity of his own Reiatsu. Then, he focused in on the guards. For a moment, he dwelled on their auras, then opened his eyes.

He couldn't help but suppress the beginnings of a disappointed frown.

These two won't make for much of an attempt to impress the Lieutenant, will they?

If nothing else, Takahiro was a people pleaser. Moments after his eyes opened, the younger shinigami caught his commanding officer's glance. Silence spoke once again as it had between the two men earlier, and now it said, "the one on the right is yours". Fifty years serving Ichiro Watanabe, as it turned out, did have the effect of attuning a person to nonverbal communication.

His Lieutenant's attack took only a moment to execute, nearly instinctive in its sheer mastery. Before a sound could leave the guard's mouth, Ichiro had the man upside-down with a foot jammed into his throat. The force of the blow alone spoke to the older Shinigami's mood; he was angry. Still, from the twitches and idle pumping of the guard's chest, Takahiro could tell he yet lived, at least for now.

Takahiro's style of fighting didn't lend itself to such outcomes.

Takahiro turned over his right shoulder and locked eyes with the remaining guard. The man had been shaken by his colleague's rapid defeat, but clearly seemed resolute in defending whatever lay behind the gate he guarded, as his sword left its scabbard rather quickly. With a wild overhead swing and a battle cry, the man brought down his Zanpakuto over Takahiro's head.

With his right hand still affixed to the hilt of his sword, Takahiro drew his Zanpakutō with a lethal haste as he spun ever so slightly towards his would-be opponent. The technique was called Iaidō. His arm arced upwards, carrying the sword with it in a strike he had practiced perhaps a countless times. A single slash upwards and across the guard's body, from his right hip to his left shoulder, cut through the night air with a quiet whistle and a flicker of steel. Within what felt like the same moment, Takahiro's sword returned to its sheathe, the telltale "thunk" of the tsuba meeting the top of the scabbard indicating that the attack was complete.

And so, as it turned out, was the battle. Blood sprayed out from the man's abdomen and chest, his sword still held high above his head, having been stopped mid-strike. With a sickening "hic", blood ebbed and oozed from the corner of the guard's mouth, and he tumbled backwards into the gate where he lay still, his head hung limp. Takahiro bowed his head to his adversary's body for a moment, and then moved on.

He was doubtlessly complicit in sheltering Sasaki, and for that, Takahiro could forgive himself the trespass of cutting him down. But criminal or otherwise, a man's death in battle demanded respect.

On the matter of Sasaki, Takahiro quickly looked over to his Lieutenant, who stood straight-backed and prepared for the night's main event. In that moment, a wave of heat accompanied by a Reiatsu that sat somewhere in size between his own and the Lieutenant's washed over the Fourth Seat's senses. For a second, he paused, his eyes still glued to his superior.

Then, after a moment of careful consideration, he opened his mouth. Takahiro spoke briskly, a smile no longer anywhere to be found on his face.

"I can feel him inside. He's not hiding."

 

[Ichiro Watanabe]

There were two reasons Ichiro turned to watch his underling's work; first, he of course considered himself responsible for Takahiro's safety in operations he led, and if the man were to be hurt Ichiro was sure he'd hear no end of it from their Captain. But though the Lieutenant of the Sixth had no great skill in perceiving spiritual pressure, he was at least confident in his ability to take an enemy's measure: if the guard Takahiro faced was anything like his own, they were small fry.
No, the second objective was much more compelling: ever since Takahiro had joined the Sixth Ichiro had kept a close eye on the man's sword arm. He watched it now, loosely resting on the tsuka, and then gripping tight.
Ichiro was careful not to blink.
The thin silver line glinted in the night: out, across, back. He was getting better at following that draw-strike. Still, even the act of watching it had so absorbed Ichiro's focus that all he caught of the guard's reaction was a muted twitch, a slight flinch, and then it was over. The sword was back in its saya: the hand rested loosely once more, ready to act. When had the scabbard turned? When had Takahiro leaned forward? The cold glint of Ichiro's eyes was as much an indictment of the man's casual skill as it was a mark of his own frustration.

Ichiro gave Takahiro his moment of quiet reflection. While the man paid his respects the Lieutenant pushed open the gated doors and stepped into the compound. It showed just how far the Oda had fallen: here, a dried pond contained not even the spirits of Koi. There, a rock garden lay uncombed and unkempt. Weeds grew between the loose white rocks and cast long thin shadows along the ground opposite the direction of the bright moon. Inside the small, two-story fort candles flickered through the shoji walls, lending a warm glow to the rice latticework. No one had rushed out screaming yet, but... ah.
He felt it dimly as surely as his underling felt it strongly: the dull, acrid wash of their target's spiritual pressure. Ichiro might have imagined it left a bad taste on his tongue if he hadn't known it was more likely his own distaste for the man--before, and certainly now.

"Not hiding at all!" a voice crowed from the second floor. Ichiro craned his neck up, ponytail swaying, as he locked eyes on the couple of pinpricks punched into the rice paper. Their ex-ally slid the door wide and clambered out onto the slender balcony: he looked down at the two of them with an ugly smile. Sasaki was much as Ichiro remembered him, although his hair was tousled now and he looked like he hadn't taken a bath in several days. The shock of bright reddish-orange hair stuck up in odd patterns from his head, like the needles of a balding hedgehog. He still wore his Sixth Division robes--Ichiro bit the inside of his cheek so hard he drew blood--but they were askew and awry, and seemed to have gathered several wounds over the course of his escape.

"Come down," Ichiro said simply. "Judgment grows crueler as it ages." He made no move to draw his sword but subtly his fingers flexed into fists and back again. Sasaki just laughed and drew his Zanpakutō. The disgraced Third Seat spoke a short phrase too quietly to be heard, and as they watched the sword transformed: it thickened and broadened, bulging with metal studs as it formed into a large, heavy club. He jeered and called down to the two Shinigami. Ichiro merely turned his head slightly to regard his companion: a brief raise of the eyebrow was enough to say, "you first?"
Takahiro had done all of the detective work. It seemed only fair.

 

[Takahiro Hidekawa]

Takahiro wasn't so unobservant that he couldn't feel the eyes trained to his right hand as he re-sheathed his Zanpakutō. The lieutenant's stare burned into his skin harsher than any flame possibly could. Ichiro had always had a tendency to observe his Iaidō, whether during training sessions or their rare missions alongside one another. Swordplay held no mystery in and of itself to Shinigami as experienced as both men, but the nature and casual ease with which the Fourth Seat cut down his opponent remained puzzling to most, and near-impossible to replicate. As he finished relaying his findings regarding Sasaki to the man in question, the younger Shinigami allowed himself a brief smile.

To warrant such attention from the Vice-Captain was nothing short of the praise Takahiro so eagerly sought. With a quick adjustment of his scabbard and a straightening of his shihakusho, the Fourth Seat made himself out as best as he could to appear unfazed by his superior's quiet appreciation. Had it not been dark, Ichiro might have berated him for getting red in the face. In moments like these, the younger Shinigami was prone to forget that rage so crucial to a warrior.

Those who are wise keep their fury silent, he'd once been taught, although this time, he couldn't remember who'd said it.

And then, with a sobering creak, the Lieutenant shoved the gates open, and suddenly the atmosphere had changed entirely. The self-satisfaction at his own performance vanished into the breeze, and in came a certain unspoken dread that came with a coming fight.

This is apprehension, not fear, Takahiro silently repeated in his head.

Through the doors they went, and into the courtyard they walked. Even during his pass by the gate earlier on in the day, Takahiro couldn't have expected such a dilapidated sight as that laid out in front him. What had once surely been an opulent and verdant garden now resembled little but a pile of overgrown weeds and a poorly maintained pond. Candles and the moon alone cast smatterings of shadow and light across the courtyard, and in spite of the completely un-ignorable scent of must and aged dirt that permeated the area, the cool night's breeze set the mood nicely enough for a bloodbath.

Careening from the top was Sasaki himself, out in the open as he could have only expected. The man was boisterous, lacked subtlety, and detested subterfuge. Ironic, considering his status as traitor. The man stood taller than either of the two officers set to apprehend, and, for lack of a better word, end him. His shoulders were broad, and his hair stood spiked in a red as fiery and defiant as the man himself. Takahiro didn't down that he could have brought down the balcony upon which he stood with a single swing of his sword.

I don't doubt I'll be leaving with a broken bone or two tonight.

The disgraced Third Seat's reiatsu radiated from Sasaki with a passionate, violent heat as he called out to his Zanpakutō. Kazuya stood far enough away that to Takahiro's ears, the release command was inaudible. Even so, Takahiro knew exactly which name his once-superior officer was calling out. Giza-Giza no Hono, the Jagged Flame, was a spiked, barbaric-looking club that had a slightly greater reach than a katana, and none of its nuance. It spanned four, no, five times the width and breadth of Takahiro's own sword.

At the sight of the gnarled, brutish weapon, Takahiro bit the inside of his lip. This is apprehension, not fear, he told himself once more. Lying to oneself was an art key to deceiving the enemy, but could turn into a nigh-on suicidal behavior when left to rot and fester inside the mind. From the balcony, Sasaski called out to the two Shinigami, as fearless as a dead man could possibly be.

"Captain Yasashī must not think I'm worth his time, because you two will make ten of Central 46's yes-men I've battered six feet into the dirt!"

At those words, Takahiro's eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened. The seed of fear shrank into the recesses of his mind, and just as he needed it, he remembered his rage. A glance over to his Lieutenant met with hard, subtly encouraging eyes. This time, the brown-haired officer didn't even give the courtesy of a false smile as he spoke.

"In all honesty, I wouldn't have let you go first if you'd asked, sir."

(COMBAT BEGINS)

Sasaki leaped both stories straight down to the ground, and with a weighted thud, his feet sank into the soft ground as he bent his knees down to effortlessly absorb the impact. Takahiro, for his part, didn't waste any time and stepped forwards, which clearly identified himself as the killer's first opponent for the night. At this sight, the giant man gave a mad grin ear to ear, and raised his club with a single arm, pointing it straight at the younger Shinigami much like a steel bat.

"Hidekawa, always so eager to please! Tell me-"

With a flicker of speed unbefitting of a man of his stature, Sasaki darted in towards Takahiro and closed the distance between them in a fraction of a moment. With his right arm, he brought his club up from underneath the younger Shinigami with a vicious swing that likely could have knocked the Fourth Seat's head clean off. Takahiro snapped his head back and felt the corner of a spike cut a line up the bridge of his nose as the club itself missed his chin by a literal hair's breadth.

"-are you just as enthusiastic to rush to your own death?!"

Sasaki was too close for Takahiro to make a full draw-to-cut motion, so, he settled for the next best thing. Tightly gripping the handle of his Zanpakutō with his right hand, he pulled the blade from its scabbard with lightning-like speed and thrust his arm towards the enormous man's chest, aiming to drive the tsuka of his sword into Sasaki's chest. With a similar swiftness, however, the murderous Shinigami surged forwards with his left palm, which captured Takahiro's partially extended elbow in an iron grip, stopping his strike an inch before it made contact.

For a moment, the pair stood locked in this position, as if contemplating the best way to maim the other without risking their own life. Takahiro glared up at the man he had once admired with eyes glazed over with fury, and through grit teeth, he spewed venom.

"I'm not going to cut you down for the acclaim, Kazuya, I'm going to cut you down because I feel like it."

Takahiro wrenched his elbow free from his adversary's palm and angled the flat of his sword parallel to the grassy floor. Then, with what space he had, he swung to cut a thin line across Sasaki's upper chest, only managing to draw the center of his blade's edge across it due to the overly close range. Blood sprayed from the wound, as Sasaki cried out, but he wasted no time wallowing in the pain. With Takahiro's sword arm now fully extended to the larger man's left, he brought down his still-raised club onto the smaller warrior with tremendous force from the right.

Without time to guard with his own blade, Takahiro cursed and managed to raise his left arm to shield himself what little he could from the blow. The club made contact and immediately, the younger Shinigami felt the sharp sting of its spikes piercing his skin and the force of the brutish weapon cracking his forearm. Beneath him, he could feel the sheer force of the strike bending his knees just to keep himself standing as Sasaki urged the weapon further downwards, pushing Takahiro even closer to the dirt. Then, with an angry shout, Sasaki called out a phrase that until now, the Fourth Seat had never heard.

"Tsubureru!"

Takahiro only had a second to kick himself away as, with a snap and the sound of ignition, an explosion ripped outwards from Sasaki's club and launched the brown-haired Shinigami across the courtyard. The grass around where he had been standing was now blackened, flattened, and coated with a layer of ash. Takahiro landed on his tailbone and felt a searing heat raging along the length of his left arm. A glance down revealed the entirety of the left arm of his shihakusho up to his shoulder to have practically vanished into the flames, and a bright-red burn that ran along his whole forearm.

Through the pain, Takahiro bit deeply his cheek and felt the salty taste of blood rush over his tongue.

This is what you love. This is what you need.

Murderous intent radiated from his very being as Takahiro brought himself back to his feet. Like daggers, he glared at his opponent. In the fourth seat’s eyes, there was naught but brutal determination. Then, breaking eye contact, he snapped his view to his Lieutenant and called out urgently.

"Lieutenant! Fill in for me! I need fifteen, no twenty seconds, and I’ll have him."

His honor demanded a one-on-one duel, but that didn’t mean Takahiro was opposed to tagging out.
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Kazuya Sasaki - N/A -> Moderate
Takahiro Hidekawa - N/A -> Moderate + Moderate//Major

 

[Ichiro Watanabe]

A harsh phrase sprang to Ichiro's mouth, sharp on his tongue--a quick rebuke for the young man's impropriety: wouldn't have let him go first? He would do so, and do so gladly--

Ichiro let it go. He set down that affront and stepped back enough to put him outside the rush of loamy dust that exploded forth from the dent in the earth left by Sasaki's meteoric descent. There could be no doubt of their erstwhile ally's strength: he lifted the giant club his zanpakutō had become in one hand and held it level. Not so much as a twitch or a tremor, despite how much the thing must have weighed. A long time ago, Sasaki had delighted in demonstrating his musculature in the training grounds of the Sixth. Ichiro had wondered, and not idly, what the best way to defeat that brute strength might have been. It was necessary to consider your allies in a traitorous light, for what the future might bring.

Takahiro was no exception to this policy.

Ichiro made good use of the insight the fight afforded him. He walked almost silently around the two, stepping carefully, twisting his feet slightly and pressing, toe-first, into the dirt. The light creak of his sandals betrayed his position, as did the subtle creaking of his hands as he opened his fingers and closed them into a fist. Opened, then closed. His hands were never as patient.

The Lieutenant of the Sixth saw many things in that fight he considered important. He saw the way Sasaki protected himself from the tsuka-strike by surging in to fill the momentary void created by Takahiro's move to grip his hilt. He saw the slight spray of blood flick out from Sasaki's chest, and the way he bit down against the pain. And most of all, he saw--with a widening of his sharp, thin eyes--the explosion of fire conjured by the club's shikai.

Takahiro crouched, wounded but not down, tips of his brown hair smoldering still like tiny fireflies dancing in the moonlight. Sasaki stood between the two of his attackers. He was larger than both, seemingly confident: the only wound he'd been subjected to yet was what seemed like a relatively superficial cut across his chest. It still bled: a good sign. The traitor laughed. "You should have brought an assassin, Hidekawa! The Lieutenant is an honorable man, he won't step into a man's fight."

He stalked closer, club tapping on the back of his shoulders like it was some kind of toy and not the deadly, steel-heavy weapon of death it was. The gulf between Sasaki and Takahiro gradually closed--until it was filled by the slender figure of the Lieutenant, his cold eyes, and those clenching, unclenching fists.

"Captain Yasashi doesn't think you're worth his time," he said simply. He didn't look at Takahiro when he said it. "He told me to give you a stern-talking to, and to let you run away."

Sasaki stopped three feet from his ex-Lieutenant. He shifted weight onto his left foot and then his right. "The Captain is a forgiving man," he said slowly.
"A forgiving man," Ichiro agreed.

The clenched fist met the hastily-raised club in a thunderous crack that shuddered the both of them and blew a small burst of a dust behind where Sasaki stood. A small, spiderwebbing crack emerged from the place where Ichiro's fist was stopped by the metal weapon: a single spike chipped free and thudded heavily to the ground.

"There won't be a stern-talking to," Ichiro said. "You will not run." Sasaki winced as if he himself felt the crack spreading in his zanpakutō. "This is an execution." Sasaki grunted in exertion as he shoved back, separating the two of them. He grinned: a feral snarl slipped from his lips as he stamped the ground. The club had cracked, but the damage was only superficial. A swat with it could still kill. "It's an execution, alright," he roared: "for the both of you!"

Fury fueled Sasaki's swipes: the heavy hunk of steel whistled as it parted the air. One arc stirred Ichiro's hair: another tore a small piece from the sleeve of his kimono. They were testing strikes: he wasn't so angry or so out-of-control as he seemed. He waited for the right moment: when his ex-Lieutenant stepped to the side and his hands began to move, a fierce grin spread Sasaki's lips. He arrested the downward swing he'd begun--a feint--and wrenched it whistling to the side. It bore straight for Ichiro's unprotected flank, spikes reaching for the flesh beneath his robes.

It wasn't the kind of swing you could stop, not with the momentum and the viciousness it bore--and indeed, Ichiro didn't try. He continued his path around Sasaki's side, always staying a few degrees ahead of the swinging club. Sasaki could only turn so far, especially when Ichiro placed a hand on the traitor's shoulder and pushed: a fulcrum was what he became, falling as he swung. His fingers dug into that shoulder. His other hand found and captured Sasaki's right wrist. A minor adjustment, and then a savage wrench: with a sickening pop the club hung in a suddenly limp grip, and his right arm seemed longer than it had been seconds previously. Sasaki's agonized yell filled the courtyard.

Tsubureru!

The fiery explosion pushed Ichiro back. Smoke trailed from the edges of his kimono as he skidded to a halt, sandals grinding in the dirt. "Better hurry if you want a piece," he remarked mildly to Takahiro.

Sasaki glowered out from beneath a sweating brow as he painfully raised himself. He switched his club to his left hand and gritted his teeth.

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+1 Moderate