Bleach Fan Fiction ❯ BLEACH Side Story: Chain/Gun/Gear ❯ Part 1.4: JumpCut Wakeup Call ( Chapter 5 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: SpectralTime 
In which the perspective shifts in a much more normal direction.
Anime/Manga: Bleach Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Action / Comedy / Romance | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 09.09.2009 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.1K | Visits: 144 | Status: Completed
In which the perspective shifts in a much more normal direction.
Anime/Manga: Bleach Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Action / Comedy / Romance | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 09.09.2009 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.1K | Visits: 144 | Status: Completed
And now for something completely different.
--Monty Python’s Flying Circus
*******
Let us leave the firelit waste-yard behind, and return to the moonlit town of Karakura. Striding through its streets, we soon pass from among the tall, glass-bound sky scrapers and enter the suburbs, silent and peaceful. We walk along until we find ourselves standing before a modest, two-story suburban house that was probably, here in land-deprived Japan, bought at a price higher than blood.
At its doors, we sit and wait. We wait for morning.
*******
Ichigo Kurosaki awoke with the chime of his alarm clock and brought his hand down on the stop button. He stared groggily up at his ceiling for a moment before he sat up and began to dress himself for school, pulling on one of his own tee-shirts and the grey striped pants of his uniform. The night had been quiet (for once), and he had finally managed to get in a good night’s sleep for the first time in *weeks*.
While Ichigo had long ago given up any reluctance to don the mantle of a Soul Reaper when needed, he also did not appreciate the toll that a vicious combination of sleep loss and physical exhaustion had begun to take on his body.
His studies had begun suffering too. Not much, admittedly, but some. Ichigo was much more intelligent than his fierce personality might initially suggest, and he planned to live out a long, relatively normal human life after the present craziness in which he toiled finally blew over. Education was important for that faint future he hoped to survive to see.
But, both problems were to be endured. Just as one of the many readings of his name suggested, Ichigo would never have accepted letting another die for his sake, especially over something so comparatively trivial.
Unburdened by such heavy thoughts, he continued his morning routine by brushing his teeth in order to be allowed breakfast. Soon, the young man made his way downstairs, pausing only to rap his knuckles on the door of the room Rukia shared with his sisters in an attempt to wake the often late-sleeping Soul Reaper who had managed to tearfully lie her way into his household.
He was just zipping up his jacket as he rushed through the kitchen door. Yuzu, despite her sweet and kindly demeanor, was quite tyrannical when it came to the distribution of food, and tolerated neither dirty teeth nor lateness to the table in those who sought meals.
********
Now, as Ichigo’s father drops from his four-armed split grip on the ceiling atop Ichigo and forces his son down to the floor in a fierce tangle of brawling limbs and burning rage, let us pause a moment and think.
Here is an Ichigo who has existed for only a brief sliver of time, and who will continue to exist for an even briefer one. This Ichigo has yet to suffer *twice* the pain of a torn nakama: the sundering of the bonds of comradeship by the loss of a fellow member.
This Ichigo is not the main character of this gaiden, this little side story to the greater one that is his life. *A* main character. But not *the* main character.
With that in mind, let us return our attention to Ichigo, now angrily eating his fine-smelling breakfast one-handed while pinning his father down with the other, and watch him as he, waiting for Rukia, prepares to face the coming day.
*******
“And normal fathers don’t try to pull ninja moves on their sons first thing in the morning!” continued Ichigo, before gulping down the last of his miso soup from the bowl.
“But Ichigo!” roared his father, struggling to reach behind himself and dislodge the hand planted into his back that was pressing him belly-down into the chair. “How can you grow into a strong warrior if you allow the momentary distraction of your lovely young sister’s cooking to dull the razor edge of your senses? I thought I had raised you to be a better man than this!”
Masterfully, he succeeded in angling his torso forward, causing Ichigo’s hand to slip. He was on the teenager in an instant, taking advantage of his son’s lost balance and his own position to roll off his belly and deliver a brutal headbutt to the oblique muscle of his son’s stomach.
Ichigo, momentarily winded, staggered backwards, almost spilling his bowl of rice and natto in the process. He recovered in time to catch his father about the neck and hand as the older man lunged at him, then swept his father’s legs out from under him and pinned him to the ground in a combination headlock/half-nelson submission hold.
“See you later, Ichigo!” called an annoyingly syrupy voice from the direction of the front door. Ichigo turned his head to see Rukia Kuchiki on her way out, school bag over her shoulder and thermos of soup in her hand.
“What?!” he cried, spinning his head to face his Yuzu, clad in her kitchen apron and still holding the spatula and ladle with which she cooked. Karin, his other sister, was already in her uniform and baseball cap and taking her time finishing her breakfast. “Why did you make *her* a breakfast to go?”
“Because,” Yuzu pouted, “she asked me to last night. Besides, she says that girls need to sleep more than boys once they grow up.”
“That’s a load of crap!” yelled Ichigo, planting a knee into his father’s spine to keep his opponent’s body down as he released his hold on the man’s head and neck.
“Maybe,” snickered Karin. “But she still beat you outside.”
“Dam—Dang it!” snarled Ichigo, mindful not to curse in front of his younger sisters. He stuffed the remaining wad of natto and rice into his mouth and rushed towards the front door, careful to step on his dad’s head in the process. The teenager snatched up his dropped school bag en route, jostling its contents and provoking a muffled protest from within that Ichigo really hoped no one had heard but him.
“Thanks for nothing!” he yelled one last time as he pushed on his shoes without bending over and tore out onto the street.
His father slowly walked over to the open door and stood in it, one hand on the frame, watching his son leave. “You’re welcome,” he murmured, watching Ichigo dash away. All three of you, he added mentally. Isshin Kurosaki’s usual goofy expression had become contemplative, his normally grinning mouth flat. His white physician’s coat flapped slightly in the faint wind, and for a moment, a bit of what lay beneath peeked out from behind the mask he had long ago chosen to wear.
“Daddy?” called Yuzu from the bathroom, where she was changing into her uniform. “Karin says we have a customer.”
“Customer?” he cried, a comically predatory expression plastering its way across his face as his head whipped to the side. “Whoooooo!”
*******
The wild Keigo lies crouched behind a hedge, waiting for its prey to pass by. In either hand, it grasps a pair of colorful, oblong, fluid-filled objects, each one inscribed with the characters we would translate, quite roughly, as “nerd.” Listening carefully, the creature slowly presses his ear to the hedge, seeking for the faintest trace of his quarry’s distinctive voice.
Ah-ha! His prey’s angry growl has become audable! The Keigo prepares to strike, every muscle in his body tensing for the killing blow. His physique lies frozen in the moment before the strike, its beauty as that of a Greek sculpture eternally caught the instant before the discus leaves its hand.
Ichigo nears, running very quickly.
“Stupid, immature, ambushing…” Ichigo mutters to himself angrily.
Whoops! cries the Keigo, on the inside. Bad timing! Instantly, it conceals its weapons in the hedge, careful not to position them in such a way as to leave them vulnerable to puncture. Having failed for the third straight day to strike his target, the water balloons have left natural holding places within the hedge.
Snatching up its school bag, the Keigo waits for Ichigo to pass it before rushing out into the street just behind him.
“GOOOOOOooooOOOOOD morning Ichigo!” it cries, leaving out its usual assault only because its quarry has already moved far ahead of it.
“You too Keigo!” calls Ichigo, not even breaking stride.
“How rude!” cries the Keigo, running to close the now-considerable gap between them. “Not even turning to look!” Tears automatically begin to flow from the beast’s eyes. “How can you be so heartlessly cruel to your own ancient comrade, Ichigo?”
“Ancient comrade?” mutters Ichigo in disbelief over both the exaggeration and the terrible word choice. Ignoring the wild Keigo’s continued cries and melodramatic protests by dint of long habit, he begins to close the gap between himself and Rukia.
He does not even pause when the hunting cry of the wild Keigo washes over him, as the beast senses its quarry’s intent.
“IIIIIII-CHIIIIIIIII-GOOOOO!”
*******
Yasutora had never used an alarm clock in his life. When he was but a child in Mexico, his abuelo, Oscar dela Rosa, had taught him the secret of keeping a clock in his head and using it to wake himself up, and he had never bothered with an alarm since.
At precisely 7:15, Yasutora’s eyes opened. He sat up in bed. Silently, for a good half a minute, he pondered over the events of the preceding night. Then, equally silently, he rose to his feet and began dressing himself. Silently, he cleaned his face and brushed his teeth, prepared his own breakfast, simple and bland and filled with tomatoes, gathered his books, and began walking to school.
The town was calm in the morning. The sole living thing he encountered was a cat, soft and grey. He knelt to pet it, but, frightened by his size, the small creature ran away. Yasutora watched it go, his face stoic and expressionless. He began walking again, slowly but steadily along the route that rendezvoused with Ichigo’s every morning.
As he walked, he was wholly unaware that he was being watched.
*******
Here, we witness something odd.
As Ichigo rounds a corner, chasing Rukia, he collides bodily with the giant of a man that is Yasutora Sado. He rebounds off Yasutora’s immovable bulk and is knocked on his posterior, where he remains for a moment, stunned.
Yasutora, patiently and silently standing in place, watches as the wild Keigo proceeds to trip over Ichigo’s seated form and fall on his face bodily in front of Ichigo, crying out barely-coherent declarations of friendship and love.
Ichigo, ignoring him, recovers himself. Looking up, he notices the comforting bulk of his friend. “Chad!” he calls, mispronouncing the large man’s name.
Yasutora, or Chad, as we must now call him, nods silently in greeting. Thoughts of the previous night whirl in his head: the strange man with the shotgun, the junkyard full of ghosts, the nightmarish fight with the mushroom hollow, his promise to the one called Jonkheer. He wonders, briefly, if Ichigo, as a Soul Reaper (of a sort) would need to know. Chad remembered the promise again, and decided against it.
Watch them. Watch as they peel the wild Keigo off the asphalt, just as Mizuno, hair freshly brushed and schoolbag over his shoulder, waves and walks up to join them. In this brief interval, Rukia temporarily forgotten, they seem genuinely happy and calm.
A Kodak moment.
Pity it won’t last.
-----------
_______
--Monty Python’s Flying Circus
*******
Let us leave the firelit waste-yard behind, and return to the moonlit town of Karakura. Striding through its streets, we soon pass from among the tall, glass-bound sky scrapers and enter the suburbs, silent and peaceful. We walk along until we find ourselves standing before a modest, two-story suburban house that was probably, here in land-deprived Japan, bought at a price higher than blood.
At its doors, we sit and wait. We wait for morning.
*******
Ichigo Kurosaki awoke with the chime of his alarm clock and brought his hand down on the stop button. He stared groggily up at his ceiling for a moment before he sat up and began to dress himself for school, pulling on one of his own tee-shirts and the grey striped pants of his uniform. The night had been quiet (for once), and he had finally managed to get in a good night’s sleep for the first time in *weeks*.
While Ichigo had long ago given up any reluctance to don the mantle of a Soul Reaper when needed, he also did not appreciate the toll that a vicious combination of sleep loss and physical exhaustion had begun to take on his body.
His studies had begun suffering too. Not much, admittedly, but some. Ichigo was much more intelligent than his fierce personality might initially suggest, and he planned to live out a long, relatively normal human life after the present craziness in which he toiled finally blew over. Education was important for that faint future he hoped to survive to see.
But, both problems were to be endured. Just as one of the many readings of his name suggested, Ichigo would never have accepted letting another die for his sake, especially over something so comparatively trivial.
Unburdened by such heavy thoughts, he continued his morning routine by brushing his teeth in order to be allowed breakfast. Soon, the young man made his way downstairs, pausing only to rap his knuckles on the door of the room Rukia shared with his sisters in an attempt to wake the often late-sleeping Soul Reaper who had managed to tearfully lie her way into his household.
He was just zipping up his jacket as he rushed through the kitchen door. Yuzu, despite her sweet and kindly demeanor, was quite tyrannical when it came to the distribution of food, and tolerated neither dirty teeth nor lateness to the table in those who sought meals.
********
Now, as Ichigo’s father drops from his four-armed split grip on the ceiling atop Ichigo and forces his son down to the floor in a fierce tangle of brawling limbs and burning rage, let us pause a moment and think.
Here is an Ichigo who has existed for only a brief sliver of time, and who will continue to exist for an even briefer one. This Ichigo has yet to suffer *twice* the pain of a torn nakama: the sundering of the bonds of comradeship by the loss of a fellow member.
This Ichigo is not the main character of this gaiden, this little side story to the greater one that is his life. *A* main character. But not *the* main character.
With that in mind, let us return our attention to Ichigo, now angrily eating his fine-smelling breakfast one-handed while pinning his father down with the other, and watch him as he, waiting for Rukia, prepares to face the coming day.
*******
“And normal fathers don’t try to pull ninja moves on their sons first thing in the morning!” continued Ichigo, before gulping down the last of his miso soup from the bowl.
“But Ichigo!” roared his father, struggling to reach behind himself and dislodge the hand planted into his back that was pressing him belly-down into the chair. “How can you grow into a strong warrior if you allow the momentary distraction of your lovely young sister’s cooking to dull the razor edge of your senses? I thought I had raised you to be a better man than this!”
Masterfully, he succeeded in angling his torso forward, causing Ichigo’s hand to slip. He was on the teenager in an instant, taking advantage of his son’s lost balance and his own position to roll off his belly and deliver a brutal headbutt to the oblique muscle of his son’s stomach.
Ichigo, momentarily winded, staggered backwards, almost spilling his bowl of rice and natto in the process. He recovered in time to catch his father about the neck and hand as the older man lunged at him, then swept his father’s legs out from under him and pinned him to the ground in a combination headlock/half-nelson submission hold.
“See you later, Ichigo!” called an annoyingly syrupy voice from the direction of the front door. Ichigo turned his head to see Rukia Kuchiki on her way out, school bag over her shoulder and thermos of soup in her hand.
“What?!” he cried, spinning his head to face his Yuzu, clad in her kitchen apron and still holding the spatula and ladle with which she cooked. Karin, his other sister, was already in her uniform and baseball cap and taking her time finishing her breakfast. “Why did you make *her* a breakfast to go?”
“Because,” Yuzu pouted, “she asked me to last night. Besides, she says that girls need to sleep more than boys once they grow up.”
“That’s a load of crap!” yelled Ichigo, planting a knee into his father’s spine to keep his opponent’s body down as he released his hold on the man’s head and neck.
“Maybe,” snickered Karin. “But she still beat you outside.”
“Dam—Dang it!” snarled Ichigo, mindful not to curse in front of his younger sisters. He stuffed the remaining wad of natto and rice into his mouth and rushed towards the front door, careful to step on his dad’s head in the process. The teenager snatched up his dropped school bag en route, jostling its contents and provoking a muffled protest from within that Ichigo really hoped no one had heard but him.
“Thanks for nothing!” he yelled one last time as he pushed on his shoes without bending over and tore out onto the street.
His father slowly walked over to the open door and stood in it, one hand on the frame, watching his son leave. “You’re welcome,” he murmured, watching Ichigo dash away. All three of you, he added mentally. Isshin Kurosaki’s usual goofy expression had become contemplative, his normally grinning mouth flat. His white physician’s coat flapped slightly in the faint wind, and for a moment, a bit of what lay beneath peeked out from behind the mask he had long ago chosen to wear.
“Daddy?” called Yuzu from the bathroom, where she was changing into her uniform. “Karin says we have a customer.”
“Customer?” he cried, a comically predatory expression plastering its way across his face as his head whipped to the side. “Whoooooo!”
*******
The wild Keigo lies crouched behind a hedge, waiting for its prey to pass by. In either hand, it grasps a pair of colorful, oblong, fluid-filled objects, each one inscribed with the characters we would translate, quite roughly, as “nerd.” Listening carefully, the creature slowly presses his ear to the hedge, seeking for the faintest trace of his quarry’s distinctive voice.
Ah-ha! His prey’s angry growl has become audable! The Keigo prepares to strike, every muscle in his body tensing for the killing blow. His physique lies frozen in the moment before the strike, its beauty as that of a Greek sculpture eternally caught the instant before the discus leaves its hand.
Ichigo nears, running very quickly.
“Stupid, immature, ambushing…” Ichigo mutters to himself angrily.
Whoops! cries the Keigo, on the inside. Bad timing! Instantly, it conceals its weapons in the hedge, careful not to position them in such a way as to leave them vulnerable to puncture. Having failed for the third straight day to strike his target, the water balloons have left natural holding places within the hedge.
Snatching up its school bag, the Keigo waits for Ichigo to pass it before rushing out into the street just behind him.
“GOOOOOOooooOOOOOD morning Ichigo!” it cries, leaving out its usual assault only because its quarry has already moved far ahead of it.
“You too Keigo!” calls Ichigo, not even breaking stride.
“How rude!” cries the Keigo, running to close the now-considerable gap between them. “Not even turning to look!” Tears automatically begin to flow from the beast’s eyes. “How can you be so heartlessly cruel to your own ancient comrade, Ichigo?”
“Ancient comrade?” mutters Ichigo in disbelief over both the exaggeration and the terrible word choice. Ignoring the wild Keigo’s continued cries and melodramatic protests by dint of long habit, he begins to close the gap between himself and Rukia.
He does not even pause when the hunting cry of the wild Keigo washes over him, as the beast senses its quarry’s intent.
“IIIIIII-CHIIIIIIIII-GOOOOO!”
*******
Yasutora had never used an alarm clock in his life. When he was but a child in Mexico, his abuelo, Oscar dela Rosa, had taught him the secret of keeping a clock in his head and using it to wake himself up, and he had never bothered with an alarm since.
At precisely 7:15, Yasutora’s eyes opened. He sat up in bed. Silently, for a good half a minute, he pondered over the events of the preceding night. Then, equally silently, he rose to his feet and began dressing himself. Silently, he cleaned his face and brushed his teeth, prepared his own breakfast, simple and bland and filled with tomatoes, gathered his books, and began walking to school.
The town was calm in the morning. The sole living thing he encountered was a cat, soft and grey. He knelt to pet it, but, frightened by his size, the small creature ran away. Yasutora watched it go, his face stoic and expressionless. He began walking again, slowly but steadily along the route that rendezvoused with Ichigo’s every morning.
As he walked, he was wholly unaware that he was being watched.
*******
Here, we witness something odd.
As Ichigo rounds a corner, chasing Rukia, he collides bodily with the giant of a man that is Yasutora Sado. He rebounds off Yasutora’s immovable bulk and is knocked on his posterior, where he remains for a moment, stunned.
Yasutora, patiently and silently standing in place, watches as the wild Keigo proceeds to trip over Ichigo’s seated form and fall on his face bodily in front of Ichigo, crying out barely-coherent declarations of friendship and love.
Ichigo, ignoring him, recovers himself. Looking up, he notices the comforting bulk of his friend. “Chad!” he calls, mispronouncing the large man’s name.
Yasutora, or Chad, as we must now call him, nods silently in greeting. Thoughts of the previous night whirl in his head: the strange man with the shotgun, the junkyard full of ghosts, the nightmarish fight with the mushroom hollow, his promise to the one called Jonkheer. He wonders, briefly, if Ichigo, as a Soul Reaper (of a sort) would need to know. Chad remembered the promise again, and decided against it.
Watch them. Watch as they peel the wild Keigo off the asphalt, just as Mizuno, hair freshly brushed and schoolbag over his shoulder, waves and walks up to join them. In this brief interval, Rukia temporarily forgotten, they seem genuinely happy and calm.
A Kodak moment.
Pity it won’t last.
-----------
_______