Old Flames [hirako5inji back in time starter]
The only thing more humiliating than defeat is watching your legacy fumble blindly onwards without any faith. To witness such an easy acceptance of death in a world where death is anything but absolute. Yet there they all were, the ones still able to move anyway; he could see each and every idiotically brave face. Even out-doing one another when it came to the rejection of grief in his death. Composed. Quiet for once. Such an anger he had never felt before, not even in the days when he was a chaotic demon roaming the wilds without any purpose other than to burn the world to the ground. They had given up. And they were blind and deaf as the day he found each one and dragged them into his custody. He had been foolish to believe that any of them had grown up beyond infancy. The hopeful ignorance of a mentor hoping that his pupils actually learned something; that his efforts meant something. If Sasikibe was still alive, he would hear me, even now. But maybe that was just wishful thinking.
For all his vengeful screams none of them heard a damn thing. Not a single syllable.
When he returned, things would be different. Weakness had creeped into his very home and it had to be exterminated. Even if he had to incinerate each disadvantage from their flesh one by one, matches to the ticks sucking away so much potential. Order had stilled the disorder of the world before, but at the cost of strength. He had been much too lenient, too soft, too patient with them all. It was high time to reject the humanity and embrace the weapon. At whatever cost to each’s soul.
He watched them leave, one by one. He never stopped screaming. Every curse he could think of, every fault and sore memory, all of their failures and sordid pasts, each phrase more fiery than the last. And he followed all of them everywhere that he could. Fire is everywhere. In candles and furnaces and kitchens, in boilers and office fireplaces and the haphazard crematoriums hastily constructed to dispose of the dead. He was everywhere.
And yet no one would listen.
The zanpakto answered his call. Resonating with the wrathful energy of Ryujin Jakka. He spoke to many of them. But they were already desperate to speak to their foolish masters, who still refused to acknowledge their limitless potential, blocked by their own consciousness from achieving powers deserving fear. Their eyes were closed to the path of immolation, and for that they would all die.
He watched as another wave came. As the handful remaining standing fell while others came and went, powered-up, powered-down, destroyed, shakily rise again, defeat one, die by another, transform, re-form, deform, death everywhere. And still no one listened to the raging fire growing steadily from the broken sword laid to rest respectfully but still out of sight and memory in some dark hole somewhere. They could not feel the rage.
As the zero squad fell, his anger rose to a new high. So close to a physical form, if only this did not take so long, each moment measured in lost life, still broken but wholly aware.
And then an unlikely person finally responded. That foolish horned fellow from the science department. The old man could not remember his name. And he chattered too much in his excitement of such an incredible feat. To live by the sword, in a literal rather than figural sense! And how he had listened to the rants and waited patiently thinking someone else would notice, and also because he was entertained and very much informed listening to such content. And he did not even appologize after the sword berated him for his hesitation. Apparently he did not care very much that many shinigami died as a result. He did not listen either. Or did not care. Either way he clearly disregarded the broken flame’s desperation for haste. And the all-consuming blaze of rage did not seem to affect him at all, and that was even more infuriating. But in the end, the man did as he was told.
Akon took the broken pieces and patched them together through kido, then slipped the sword through his own belt. Then he made off for Shinji Hirako’s location. In all fairness, the old man never specified which captain Akon should take this information to; he had assumed the oddball would understand he meant Kyoraku or Ukitake. But at least he was wise enough not to hand the sword off to his own captain...or any of the zombified ones for that matter...or the now fully quadrupedal one...or the arrogant Bakuya Kuchiki...yes his choice was not an incorrect one, just unexpected.
Akon ran along the pieces of rubble stacked high where buildings used to be, jumping most of the way. He finally landed directly behind the blond, making the other jump slightly. He was trying to save his Lieutenant. Akon was unsure why.
“Yo! Greetings Sir! I come froma on-high, or rather down-below, to bring a top secret mission from the sword that was broken, from the allfire essence, the undying flames, the infernal inferno, ye-olde-baldy-undead-san. You must travel to the past and make sure the young Yamamoto kills this Ywach-bearded fellow this time. He said somethin’ about it being on account of a lady not merciful feelings or I don’t even know, lots of sad stuff. Here!” He thrust the broken sword into Shinji’s hands and tried to wave him nonchalantly into an odd-looking senkaimon. “Off you go, don’t look back, sure I’ll take care of this...broken thing, no worries, go on, seize the adventure! Everything’s so boring when everyone’s dead anyway!” Akon cackled and attempted to push the captain through the door.
