Disclaimer: Bleach is the creative property of Kubo Tite. House, M.D is owned by the Fox Broadcasting Company. I am only borrowing these concepts and make no profit whatsoever from this work of fiction.
Sick Days
Chapter One: The Substitute
In this day and age, he supposed that he should have been thankful that his workload wasn't as heavy as his Lieutenant's. With all the chaos and animosity going on between Soul Society and Hueco Mundo's monstrous inhabitants, he supposed that being in his position was a bit of a blessing. All he had to do was keep a section of the paperwork neat and organised, aside from the usual duties demanded of his person. A little filing check in one of the cabinets and there, that was his job. Simple, unrewarding... but on the whole satisfactory.
However, Thirteenth Seated Officer Hiroshi Keima couldn't help but feel the least bit disgruntled at his current situation: reduced to being a gofer of all things! A gofer! For the last year, the Fourth Division had used him of all people. Him! It was an indignant thought in itself. He hadn't enrolled in the Shinigami Academy to be a delivery boy for his own Division. Healing Shinigami, saving lives... that's what he wanted from this. His healing Kidou were among the best-applied in the Shinigami among the fresh batch; he wasn't as surprised as the others when, after only a year and a half, the Fourth Division had prompted to elect him to the Thirteenth Seat. It was an achievement capable of praise.
Running through the corridors with a file underneath both his arms, past several of the unseated Shinigami and some of the Division's patients. Some wrapped in bandages, some with casts; all attended to by the Fourth Division's medical personnel. He even saw one of his fellow Officers (Blonde with horn-rimmed glasses; the Third Seat, he supposed) giving a tour to prospective Division inductees to the Academy, walking through the hallways and earnestly talking. Running a hand through his curly blonde locks, the short man slipped between a pair of his comrades (Who had called out a disgruntled exclamation to watch where he was going) and took a dart left to the East Wing. He passed a garden and koi pond, where he saw one of the Division's slackers taking a little (likely unauthorized) nap.
The Division's headquarters was small in any case. Four wings as all the other Divisions had, save for the First, but considerably small. If one had to measure, they were around the same sized as the Twelfth's Headquarters. Koi ponds, gardens and all, but ultimately one of the smaller buildings in Seireitei. For that, he was thankful. That meant that he didn't have to go so great a distance to get from one point to another (He itched to learn Shunpo, but it seemed lessons were hard to come by lately, with the upper level Shinigami who knew the technique being very busy the past couple of years, invasion and all). He swung past another corner, almost knocking over someone else (Who said the same thing as the people before) before leaping from wood to grass, balcony to ground. He was here: the Captain's Office.
Simple traditional Japanese architecture from the feudal period, as always, with a kanji of ôFourö painted in black ink upon the Division Captain's Office as all the others. Generic, plain. He wondered if the people who built this place had ever heard of variety? White, grey, brown, white, grey, brown it was almost repetitive in nature. Panting slightly, the Thirteenth Seated Officer checked the files in his hands, making sure he didn't leave any minor details behind. He flicked through the file quickly. Everything was in order; he hadn't forgotten anything. Hiroshi breathed out one last time, walking the path on the grass towards the small building and knocked once.
ôUnohana-taichou, I have the inventory list with me!ö he called out, one thin hand hitting the hard wood of the sturdy door lightly. Hearing no answer, he tried again with a knock. He gave it two more gentle raps, calling out a bit louder, ôUnohana-taichou, are you in there?ö Still no answer. He tucked the papers properly beneath his left arm, knocking much louder than before, ôCaptain, you in?ö
No reply was heard. Hiroshi shook his head. He wasn't going to carry these papers back just because she wouldn't answer the door, so he took another initiative: he opened the door himself. Thankfully, it wasn't locked. Not that his Captain kept it locked anyway. Seated Officers came and went here often enough to pick up paperwork and their assignments; not to mention the Thirteenth Division's Officers. He didn't exactly know them, but they were unusually loud; barging in here whenever they pleased (Especially that hairy one and the short girl).
He gave one last knock when he opened the door, eyes scanning the slightly dark interior. The Captain's Offices were big rooms, some with two large desks, some equipped with couches and several personal items. Captain Unohana's was as plain as they came, save for the paintings hanging on the wall and the violin stand on one side. Wall-to-wall bookshelves adorned the office, made up of hundreds of years of Seireitei and Rukongai medical history. He studied the title on the nearest bookshelf and snorted slightly. Typical. Just typical.
Even after a couple of years on the job, he still got a laugh when he saw the byline on each and every single one of the books that were set upon the shelves. All of them, and he meant all of them, were written by his Captain. Each book kept medical records, theses' and essays of past cases, injuries and the like. Captain Unohana had kept herself busy all these years, he supposed. Volume after volume of green sorted neatly sits on the shelves... save for the one behind the Captain's desk, which seems to be empty, even in the dim light. He took step after step, papers in hand, ready to dump the file and dart back to his own cramped cubicle, when his eyes widened, growing as large as saucers. His papers drop at the sight.
ôH û Hello there,ö the familiar voice came, gentle and weak. It was barely a voice, more of a squeak. His brain shifted to overdrive: Unohana Retsu was void of her haori but still in Shihakushou, lying in what looked like half an avalanche of books, some open, some closed, some torn. Her face was red. Her eyes puffy; fever? Something was going on, he had never seen the Captain like this, ôAh...ö
She passed out as he leapt over the table.
ôCAPTAIN!ö
***
The Examination Hall of the Tokyo School of Medicine was only half-filled. One-hundred and sixty-five students in all, gently scribbling on their answer sheets. The clock continued to tick: ten minutes to go. Ten more minutes and the students would have to leave their fates to the hands of the education system: pass or fail. One of the examiners lifted her wrist, observing her watch with weary eyes, then to the students, all of which had began to scribble faster with their pencils or rubbing even more rigorously with their erasers.
All except for a strange young man twirling a cane two rows from her, resting his head to the back of his chair without a care in the world.
Fifty-nine year-old Fujioka Tae had seen many things in her academic life: she had seen students break down and cry seconds before she ordered them to begin the paper; she had personally karate-chopped several students who demanded to barge into exams after being more than an hour late; she had even endured a hostage situation in Osaka decades ago with her students. A young man twirling a cane? No.
The most surprising aspect of him, really, was probably that shock of short strawberry-orange hair on his head. He didn't look like he belonged with the students, either: he looked more like a grizzled soldier than he did a member of Tokyo Medical. Lazy and set brown eyes were set upon his uninterested visage, not even looking at the black item he was twirling in his left hand, rough-set nose and frowning lips completed the look, further enhanced by the stubble he had probably opted to grow instead of shave. He had one leg resting upon the other as his eyes only gazed to the ceiling, then back to his paper before looking to the front once more. Fujioka observed that the University's black blazer was clad upon him, sans pockets and collar flaps. She narrowed her eyes slightly: how undisciplined!
To do that to your code of dress was such an insult! The blazer was a symbol of pride, dignity and discipline. And he had turned it into a twenty-first century fashion statement! It was unsightly. Back in her day, she wore her uniform with integrity; not like some local punk.
The young man stopped twirling his cane, which prompted her to take another look at her watch. One minute was all that remained.
ôOne minute remains,ö she voices, causing an increase in the sound of pages flipping and voices cursing. She continues, ôPlease ensure that you have your first and last name written on the examination cover sheet as well as your student ID numbers. I repeat: if you are in Professor Ikari's class, please do not forget to pencil in Professor Shinsumi's name instead. It is Shin-sumi Mut-sumi.ö
She chanced a glance to the orange-haired young man, who had started tapping his black (and flame vinyl-adorned, she just noticed) cane against the hard cement floor, as if he was growing impatient for the examination to end. She counted backwards from twenty, not letting the repetitive tap of wood against stone annoy her as the boy's mere presence did. At the end of the count... it was all over.
There were groans, moans sighs, exasperated grunts all-round. She even saw an examination candidate snap one of his pencils in half, letting the pieces roll to thr ground. On another side of the room, a girl began weeping into her hands. Weaklings, all of them.
ôPlease raise yourself from your seats slowly and quietly.ö They did so. Only as quick as lightning and as loud as an elephant's mating call. Fujioka almost shook her head, exasperated at such lack of respect for authority. ôLeave your papers on the table; the assistant examiners will come around to pick them up. Ensure any sheets of extra paper you requested from us to be attached properly.ö
None did so, and she was met with the sound of grumbling candidates, eager to leave the Hall and into the next step of their lives.
The orange-haired young man went right past her, bag slung on one side, lips caught in a scrunched frown and stubble prominent.
ôFinally,ö came the not-so-subtle mutter, ôI thought it'd be New Years' before you'd let us out of this dungeon.ö
She didn't have time to retort. He had hobbled with his cane faster than she could turn into the exiting crowd, gone from her sight.
***
ôSo, Kurosaki, what'd you think of the exam?ö
ôTerrible. The guy next to me had all the wrong answers.ö
Ishida Uryuu, aged twenty-two, rolled his eyes behind his half-moon glasses as he walked beside his companion down Tokyo Medical's stairs. Long black hair, blue eyes, prominent chin and sharp nose, he would have been mistaken for a businessman by the way he was dressed: striped shirt, grey tie, pants that looked like they were straight out of the disco era. In his left hand he held a small blue semi-transparent carry file, reigning supreme with cat stickers and glitter all over. His companion adopted a look, mocking thought.
ôHm, I wonder. What's the difference between a red blood cell and a white blood cell? Saying you don't know means you're either stupid or colour blind.ö the orange-haired youth shot, adopting a higher pitch of voice, adopting a mocking tone. ôOr even both.ö
The stubbled visage of Kurosaki Ichigo struck another thoughtful pose, then relaxed, satisfied by his train of thought,
ôNot all of us are as bitterly analytical as you are, Kurosaki.ö Ishida remarked, he gave the uncaring orange-haired young man a look, ôNor do any of us look at another person's test paper during an exam and pay comments to how they mix up their blood cell types.ö
ôOh really? Sorry Dad, I thought it was all the rage these days.ö he sarcastically, his brown eyes dryly looking into Ishida's own orbs, ôLookit me, this is how stupid I am; have a look for yourself. You just paid big bucks to get me here. No effort at all. Seriously,ö he took a small water bottle out from his bag with a free hand, chugging down some of the drink, ôthat idiot Omar doesn't deserve to be here.ö
ôOmar?ö Ishida adopted a puzzle look, standing rooted in spot as Ichigo pushed his way through a door. Ishida swiftly followed, running right up to his cane-wielding companion, who looked fervently ahead, ôThat guy from Arabia? As in, Gold Tooth Omar?ö
ôWho else would make such a stupid mistake?ö they had arrived outside now, in the parking lot. Ichigo turned to Ishida, slinging his back over his shoulder, ôGuy's as dumb as a pile of bricks. No, wait; that's too much credit. Make that one brick. One brick of cheap stone.ö
Ishida looked to his orange-haired friend before shaking his head and uttering a word that he would repeat for years to come.
ôYou're unbelievable.ö came the exasperated call.
Ichigo looked thoughtful.
ôThank you. I'll add that to my What Ishida Says and What It Means dictionary.ö he continued, changing his voice to fit the over-dramatic persona of television announcer about to deliver the week's mystery, ôIs it praise? Is it an insult? Nobody knows!ö
Ishida only rolled his eyes some more.
Ichigo walked on forward at the end of his comment to a silver motorcycle. It was the only way to get around these days; he had worked part-time enough in the past to get a ride of his own, if one that was not as impressive as he had hoped for. Still, it was an improvement for him; after all, it was a good bike. It helped him with transportation; he didn't have to take the bus or train anymore unless he absolutely needed to. Ichigo adored his motorcycle; from the red flames to the black seat.
ôNeed a ride?ö he patted the seat of his vehicle, donning the black helmet and turning the key on the motorbike.
The engine purred like a crouched tiger.
He was regarded with a tired azure.
ôSure,ö Ishida began nodding lazily, looking at the motorcycle, ôand you can mail my limbs to my father for experimentation.ö
ôOh so harsh.ö
ôNot as much as you, Kurosaki.ö
He revved the bike, a prominent smirk hidden underneath his helmet.
ôI know. I set a good standard, don't I?ö
***
Ichigo rubbed the back of his neck as he opened the door to the Kurosaki Clinic, working out the uncomfortable kinks with a small scrunch of his eyes, cocking his head from one side to the other to be rid of the discomfort. It always happened whenever he leaned too much on his ride.
ô - The Old Man's lackey again.ö came his father's voice.
He undid his shoes, taking one step from cement to the wooden floor.
ôI like my job here, Kisuke; and there is no way you're gonna haul my ass up there.ö Kisuke? Was Urahara visiting again? Looked like they were having a conversation of sorts, ôBesides, I don't think that things are gonna fall apart just 'cause Retsu-chan's got Spirit Chaos. What does it take for that thing to pass again? A month? Two months?ö his father paused slightly, ôIt's not going to fall to tatters just 'cause a Captain's not there.ö
Ichigo found the urge to snort at the validity of his father's statement.
ôIsshin, you do realize we're talking about Seireitei?ö Urahara had chosen to bring his own points out. He listened more closely; Urahara sounded as though he was exasperated by whatever it is that they were talking about,ôWithout Unohana, Fourth Division is a zoo!ö
He heard the dull sound of glass hitting wood. Someone had set down their glass.
ôI'm not heading back there, Urahara.ö if he had been the type to wince, he would have. Whenever his father used someone's last name... well, the more he thought about it the less comfortable he felt, ôI have my responsibilities here. Yuzu, Karin; even Ichigo. And this clinic; the living need my power more than the dead. My priority as a doctor is to this place, not to one I left so long ago.ö
There was a moment of silence. Ichigo set down the tip of his cane onto the wooden floor, still listening intently.
ôI'm sorry, Kisuke.ö
It seemed they were done. He heard a small sigh (Which was probably Urahara).
ôThen we're going to be headed into quite a bit of trouble, then.ö there was a small pause in speech, then he continued, ôWell then, I suppose I'll be on my way, Isshin. Sorry for interrupting your dinner.ö
He heard footsteps heading upstairs. It was probably his father.
Rounding the corner, he bumped right into his old teacher. Same dusty blonde, same lazy eyes and the same slight wrinkles lodged along the bridge of his nose. Urahara Kisuke was a man of medium build; all-in-all he only managed to come up to Ichigo's nose, even with the slight hunch in the orange-haired Shinigami's stature.
It was time for him to have a little fun.
ôIchigo?ö
ôUrahara-san.ö
They were quiet for a while.
ôSo, I take it whatever aggressive negotiation that took place with my father just crashed and burned?ö he took a look with his fingernails in a displeased frown,ôOr did my eavesdropping capabilities drop considerably since I turned twenty?ö
ôFourth Division needs a Substitute Captain.ö Kisuke took off his hat, ôUnohana-san's become sick with Spirit Chaos... Old Man Genryuusai requested I take over the duties for the next couple of months or so; but really, I'm not that cut out for it. I'm not going to be able to do this alone.ö he shook his head. Ichigo frowned; he had never seen Kisuke this distressed. It was a welcome change, ôThe bureaucracy's a killer; mounds and mounds of paperwork! Clinic hours; board meetings, budget management.ö he began ticking off his fingers thoughtfully, one after the other, ôI don't think I can handle all that on top of the job's hands-on portion.ö
Ichigo only played with his cane.
He looked thoughtful for a while.
ôIsn't Spirit Chaos only an occurance whenever the Shinigami seals too big a portion of their Reiryoku?ö he finally voiced his thoughts.
ôIt also only occurs when you keep your Zanpakutou's power sealed for too long in two different spiritual cores,ö Kisuke pinched the bridge of his nose, ôsuch is Unohana's case. Her power's moving in all of her Reiryoku pathways. It'll be some time before her bodily functions return to - !ö
He blinked, turning to Ichigo, who only continued to twirl his black cane.
Bingo.
ôIchigo, how much do you know about Spirit Maladies?ö he questioned.
ôHm...ö he adopted a sarcastic look; even Urahara could tell, him talking in that smug tone of his,ôYou're dead and you still get sick. I think that's all I need to know. That; and there is such a thing as AIDS for Shinigami.ö Urahara opened his mouth to talk, but, ôAs beings that require nourishment to continue survival, Shinigami are still, ironically, subsecptible to disease.ö his eyes darted to his cane, ôFunny, isn't it?ö
Double bingo.
ôIchigo-san,ö there it was. That damned fan again, ôunless I am truly, truly mistaken, it must be summer vacation now, yeeeeeesss?ö
Ichigo gave him no reply.
ôAaaaand, I suppose you wouldn't be looking for a job that pays well?ö the fan waved again. His eyes to observe Urahara's lidded azure gaze. The man only gave a huge grin, ôA summer job that pays insanely, obscenely and exquisitely well?ö
Ichigo blew through his lips, a small whistle sounding his unconvinced person.
He'd say yes, of course (As much as he loathed to admit, he found it hard to say no, even with all his bravado)... but not until he pried just a bit more out of his old mentor.
ôYou gotta do better than that.ö
ôI'll give you a free pass to the Rukongai Legends football tournament.ö
ôNot interested.ö
ôTickets to the annual SWA bikini contest?ö
ôHave 'em.ö
ôAn upgrade for your motorcycle?ö
ôNo one touches her but me.ö
ôNaked photos of Matsumoto-san?ö
ôTry again.ö
Urahara Kisuke wracked his brain. He knew Ichigo well; not that well, but well enough. He was his most brilliant student; an artisan of the Shinigami techniques; Shunpo, Hakuda, Zanjutsu, Kidou. Name it, he was good at it. Not exactly a Master, but the cocky orange-haired snot pulled enough crap out of his ass in applying it to prove a formidable opponent. He enjoyed good rap, Shakespeare (Urahara hated Shakespeare), his motorcycle... just what could he use? Just what could he...
He got it.
ôShihouin Yoruichi's diary.ö
Perfect.
ôDeal.ö
***
Yamada Hanatarou rushed with a stack of unsigned forms in hand, darting through the corridor with exceptional speed, a blur amongst many other blurs darting back and forth. The messy-haired young Medic was having a hell of a time keeping up with the new change in regime! Captain Unohana had been shipped to the Long-Term Ward for the next two to three months, leaving his Vice-Captain in charge. Frankly, while he admired her work ethic, the woman had no clue how to run a hospital administration made up of more than two thousand employees. There had been mix-ups, unfinished quarterly reports, unsigned leave documents; not to mention a confusion over the Twelfth Division's supplies (ôI said sodium! Not salt!ö Captain Kurotsuchi had shouted to the clerk).
He charged right into Captain Unohana's Hospital Office.
Where someone was perched upon his Captain's chair, legs popped up on the desk.
ôFinally, someone with a pulse.ö
Wh û What?
He blinked.
It was Kurosaki Ichigo.
With a stubble.
And a cane.
ôHuh?ö
ôGet me a latte, will you? No sugar, extra cream. No cup; a mug. This mug.ö He placed the mug on top of the stack of paper with a lazy toss, ôI wanted it four-fifths full. Warm; not hot.ö
ôI û Ichigo?ö
ôGo now or I'm firing you.ö
He didn't know why. He just dropped the papers, grabbed the mug and went to the nearest coffee machine as fast as he could.
Ichigo threw a tic-tac into the air and let it fly down into his mouth.
ôLousy room service.ö
He picked up a stray piece of paper that had drifted onto his desk, scanning through it... before tossing the item right over his shoulder.
ôIt's lupus. Duh.ö
And went back to his sports magazine without a care in the world.
THE END (For now...)
Sick Days
Chapter One: The Substitute
In this day and age, he supposed that he should have been thankful that his workload wasn't as heavy as his Lieutenant's. With all the chaos and animosity going on between Soul Society and Hueco Mundo's monstrous inhabitants, he supposed that being in his position was a bit of a blessing. All he had to do was keep a section of the paperwork neat and organised, aside from the usual duties demanded of his person. A little filing check in one of the cabinets and there, that was his job. Simple, unrewarding... but on the whole satisfactory.
However, Thirteenth Seated Officer Hiroshi Keima couldn't help but feel the least bit disgruntled at his current situation: reduced to being a gofer of all things! A gofer! For the last year, the Fourth Division had used him of all people. Him! It was an indignant thought in itself. He hadn't enrolled in the Shinigami Academy to be a delivery boy for his own Division. Healing Shinigami, saving lives... that's what he wanted from this. His healing Kidou were among the best-applied in the Shinigami among the fresh batch; he wasn't as surprised as the others when, after only a year and a half, the Fourth Division had prompted to elect him to the Thirteenth Seat. It was an achievement capable of praise.
Running through the corridors with a file underneath both his arms, past several of the unseated Shinigami and some of the Division's patients. Some wrapped in bandages, some with casts; all attended to by the Fourth Division's medical personnel. He even saw one of his fellow Officers (Blonde with horn-rimmed glasses; the Third Seat, he supposed) giving a tour to prospective Division inductees to the Academy, walking through the hallways and earnestly talking. Running a hand through his curly blonde locks, the short man slipped between a pair of his comrades (Who had called out a disgruntled exclamation to watch where he was going) and took a dart left to the East Wing. He passed a garden and koi pond, where he saw one of the Division's slackers taking a little (likely unauthorized) nap.
The Division's headquarters was small in any case. Four wings as all the other Divisions had, save for the First, but considerably small. If one had to measure, they were around the same sized as the Twelfth's Headquarters. Koi ponds, gardens and all, but ultimately one of the smaller buildings in Seireitei. For that, he was thankful. That meant that he didn't have to go so great a distance to get from one point to another (He itched to learn Shunpo, but it seemed lessons were hard to come by lately, with the upper level Shinigami who knew the technique being very busy the past couple of years, invasion and all). He swung past another corner, almost knocking over someone else (Who said the same thing as the people before) before leaping from wood to grass, balcony to ground. He was here: the Captain's Office.
Simple traditional Japanese architecture from the feudal period, as always, with a kanji of ôFourö painted in black ink upon the Division Captain's Office as all the others. Generic, plain. He wondered if the people who built this place had ever heard of variety? White, grey, brown, white, grey, brown it was almost repetitive in nature. Panting slightly, the Thirteenth Seated Officer checked the files in his hands, making sure he didn't leave any minor details behind. He flicked through the file quickly. Everything was in order; he hadn't forgotten anything. Hiroshi breathed out one last time, walking the path on the grass towards the small building and knocked once.
ôUnohana-taichou, I have the inventory list with me!ö he called out, one thin hand hitting the hard wood of the sturdy door lightly. Hearing no answer, he tried again with a knock. He gave it two more gentle raps, calling out a bit louder, ôUnohana-taichou, are you in there?ö Still no answer. He tucked the papers properly beneath his left arm, knocking much louder than before, ôCaptain, you in?ö
No reply was heard. Hiroshi shook his head. He wasn't going to carry these papers back just because she wouldn't answer the door, so he took another initiative: he opened the door himself. Thankfully, it wasn't locked. Not that his Captain kept it locked anyway. Seated Officers came and went here often enough to pick up paperwork and their assignments; not to mention the Thirteenth Division's Officers. He didn't exactly know them, but they were unusually loud; barging in here whenever they pleased (Especially that hairy one and the short girl).
He gave one last knock when he opened the door, eyes scanning the slightly dark interior. The Captain's Offices were big rooms, some with two large desks, some equipped with couches and several personal items. Captain Unohana's was as plain as they came, save for the paintings hanging on the wall and the violin stand on one side. Wall-to-wall bookshelves adorned the office, made up of hundreds of years of Seireitei and Rukongai medical history. He studied the title on the nearest bookshelf and snorted slightly. Typical. Just typical.
Even after a couple of years on the job, he still got a laugh when he saw the byline on each and every single one of the books that were set upon the shelves. All of them, and he meant all of them, were written by his Captain. Each book kept medical records, theses' and essays of past cases, injuries and the like. Captain Unohana had kept herself busy all these years, he supposed. Volume after volume of green sorted neatly sits on the shelves... save for the one behind the Captain's desk, which seems to be empty, even in the dim light. He took step after step, papers in hand, ready to dump the file and dart back to his own cramped cubicle, when his eyes widened, growing as large as saucers. His papers drop at the sight.
ôH û Hello there,ö the familiar voice came, gentle and weak. It was barely a voice, more of a squeak. His brain shifted to overdrive: Unohana Retsu was void of her haori but still in Shihakushou, lying in what looked like half an avalanche of books, some open, some closed, some torn. Her face was red. Her eyes puffy; fever? Something was going on, he had never seen the Captain like this, ôAh...ö
She passed out as he leapt over the table.
ôCAPTAIN!ö
***
The Examination Hall of the Tokyo School of Medicine was only half-filled. One-hundred and sixty-five students in all, gently scribbling on their answer sheets. The clock continued to tick: ten minutes to go. Ten more minutes and the students would have to leave their fates to the hands of the education system: pass or fail. One of the examiners lifted her wrist, observing her watch with weary eyes, then to the students, all of which had began to scribble faster with their pencils or rubbing even more rigorously with their erasers.
All except for a strange young man twirling a cane two rows from her, resting his head to the back of his chair without a care in the world.
Fifty-nine year-old Fujioka Tae had seen many things in her academic life: she had seen students break down and cry seconds before she ordered them to begin the paper; she had personally karate-chopped several students who demanded to barge into exams after being more than an hour late; she had even endured a hostage situation in Osaka decades ago with her students. A young man twirling a cane? No.
The most surprising aspect of him, really, was probably that shock of short strawberry-orange hair on his head. He didn't look like he belonged with the students, either: he looked more like a grizzled soldier than he did a member of Tokyo Medical. Lazy and set brown eyes were set upon his uninterested visage, not even looking at the black item he was twirling in his left hand, rough-set nose and frowning lips completed the look, further enhanced by the stubble he had probably opted to grow instead of shave. He had one leg resting upon the other as his eyes only gazed to the ceiling, then back to his paper before looking to the front once more. Fujioka observed that the University's black blazer was clad upon him, sans pockets and collar flaps. She narrowed her eyes slightly: how undisciplined!
To do that to your code of dress was such an insult! The blazer was a symbol of pride, dignity and discipline. And he had turned it into a twenty-first century fashion statement! It was unsightly. Back in her day, she wore her uniform with integrity; not like some local punk.
The young man stopped twirling his cane, which prompted her to take another look at her watch. One minute was all that remained.
ôOne minute remains,ö she voices, causing an increase in the sound of pages flipping and voices cursing. She continues, ôPlease ensure that you have your first and last name written on the examination cover sheet as well as your student ID numbers. I repeat: if you are in Professor Ikari's class, please do not forget to pencil in Professor Shinsumi's name instead. It is Shin-sumi Mut-sumi.ö
She chanced a glance to the orange-haired young man, who had started tapping his black (and flame vinyl-adorned, she just noticed) cane against the hard cement floor, as if he was growing impatient for the examination to end. She counted backwards from twenty, not letting the repetitive tap of wood against stone annoy her as the boy's mere presence did. At the end of the count... it was all over.
There were groans, moans sighs, exasperated grunts all-round. She even saw an examination candidate snap one of his pencils in half, letting the pieces roll to thr ground. On another side of the room, a girl began weeping into her hands. Weaklings, all of them.
ôPlease raise yourself from your seats slowly and quietly.ö They did so. Only as quick as lightning and as loud as an elephant's mating call. Fujioka almost shook her head, exasperated at such lack of respect for authority. ôLeave your papers on the table; the assistant examiners will come around to pick them up. Ensure any sheets of extra paper you requested from us to be attached properly.ö
None did so, and she was met with the sound of grumbling candidates, eager to leave the Hall and into the next step of their lives.
The orange-haired young man went right past her, bag slung on one side, lips caught in a scrunched frown and stubble prominent.
ôFinally,ö came the not-so-subtle mutter, ôI thought it'd be New Years' before you'd let us out of this dungeon.ö
She didn't have time to retort. He had hobbled with his cane faster than she could turn into the exiting crowd, gone from her sight.
***
ôSo, Kurosaki, what'd you think of the exam?ö
ôTerrible. The guy next to me had all the wrong answers.ö
Ishida Uryuu, aged twenty-two, rolled his eyes behind his half-moon glasses as he walked beside his companion down Tokyo Medical's stairs. Long black hair, blue eyes, prominent chin and sharp nose, he would have been mistaken for a businessman by the way he was dressed: striped shirt, grey tie, pants that looked like they were straight out of the disco era. In his left hand he held a small blue semi-transparent carry file, reigning supreme with cat stickers and glitter all over. His companion adopted a look, mocking thought.
ôHm, I wonder. What's the difference between a red blood cell and a white blood cell? Saying you don't know means you're either stupid or colour blind.ö the orange-haired youth shot, adopting a higher pitch of voice, adopting a mocking tone. ôOr even both.ö
The stubbled visage of Kurosaki Ichigo struck another thoughtful pose, then relaxed, satisfied by his train of thought,
ôNot all of us are as bitterly analytical as you are, Kurosaki.ö Ishida remarked, he gave the uncaring orange-haired young man a look, ôNor do any of us look at another person's test paper during an exam and pay comments to how they mix up their blood cell types.ö
ôOh really? Sorry Dad, I thought it was all the rage these days.ö he sarcastically, his brown eyes dryly looking into Ishida's own orbs, ôLookit me, this is how stupid I am; have a look for yourself. You just paid big bucks to get me here. No effort at all. Seriously,ö he took a small water bottle out from his bag with a free hand, chugging down some of the drink, ôthat idiot Omar doesn't deserve to be here.ö
ôOmar?ö Ishida adopted a puzzle look, standing rooted in spot as Ichigo pushed his way through a door. Ishida swiftly followed, running right up to his cane-wielding companion, who looked fervently ahead, ôThat guy from Arabia? As in, Gold Tooth Omar?ö
ôWho else would make such a stupid mistake?ö they had arrived outside now, in the parking lot. Ichigo turned to Ishida, slinging his back over his shoulder, ôGuy's as dumb as a pile of bricks. No, wait; that's too much credit. Make that one brick. One brick of cheap stone.ö
Ishida looked to his orange-haired friend before shaking his head and uttering a word that he would repeat for years to come.
ôYou're unbelievable.ö came the exasperated call.
Ichigo looked thoughtful.
ôThank you. I'll add that to my What Ishida Says and What It Means dictionary.ö he continued, changing his voice to fit the over-dramatic persona of television announcer about to deliver the week's mystery, ôIs it praise? Is it an insult? Nobody knows!ö
Ishida only rolled his eyes some more.
Ichigo walked on forward at the end of his comment to a silver motorcycle. It was the only way to get around these days; he had worked part-time enough in the past to get a ride of his own, if one that was not as impressive as he had hoped for. Still, it was an improvement for him; after all, it was a good bike. It helped him with transportation; he didn't have to take the bus or train anymore unless he absolutely needed to. Ichigo adored his motorcycle; from the red flames to the black seat.
ôNeed a ride?ö he patted the seat of his vehicle, donning the black helmet and turning the key on the motorbike.
The engine purred like a crouched tiger.
He was regarded with a tired azure.
ôSure,ö Ishida began nodding lazily, looking at the motorcycle, ôand you can mail my limbs to my father for experimentation.ö
ôOh so harsh.ö
ôNot as much as you, Kurosaki.ö
He revved the bike, a prominent smirk hidden underneath his helmet.
ôI know. I set a good standard, don't I?ö
***
Ichigo rubbed the back of his neck as he opened the door to the Kurosaki Clinic, working out the uncomfortable kinks with a small scrunch of his eyes, cocking his head from one side to the other to be rid of the discomfort. It always happened whenever he leaned too much on his ride.
ô - The Old Man's lackey again.ö came his father's voice.
He undid his shoes, taking one step from cement to the wooden floor.
ôI like my job here, Kisuke; and there is no way you're gonna haul my ass up there.ö Kisuke? Was Urahara visiting again? Looked like they were having a conversation of sorts, ôBesides, I don't think that things are gonna fall apart just 'cause Retsu-chan's got Spirit Chaos. What does it take for that thing to pass again? A month? Two months?ö his father paused slightly, ôIt's not going to fall to tatters just 'cause a Captain's not there.ö
Ichigo found the urge to snort at the validity of his father's statement.
ôIsshin, you do realize we're talking about Seireitei?ö Urahara had chosen to bring his own points out. He listened more closely; Urahara sounded as though he was exasperated by whatever it is that they were talking about,ôWithout Unohana, Fourth Division is a zoo!ö
He heard the dull sound of glass hitting wood. Someone had set down their glass.
ôI'm not heading back there, Urahara.ö if he had been the type to wince, he would have. Whenever his father used someone's last name... well, the more he thought about it the less comfortable he felt, ôI have my responsibilities here. Yuzu, Karin; even Ichigo. And this clinic; the living need my power more than the dead. My priority as a doctor is to this place, not to one I left so long ago.ö
There was a moment of silence. Ichigo set down the tip of his cane onto the wooden floor, still listening intently.
ôI'm sorry, Kisuke.ö
It seemed they were done. He heard a small sigh (Which was probably Urahara).
ôThen we're going to be headed into quite a bit of trouble, then.ö there was a small pause in speech, then he continued, ôWell then, I suppose I'll be on my way, Isshin. Sorry for interrupting your dinner.ö
He heard footsteps heading upstairs. It was probably his father.
Rounding the corner, he bumped right into his old teacher. Same dusty blonde, same lazy eyes and the same slight wrinkles lodged along the bridge of his nose. Urahara Kisuke was a man of medium build; all-in-all he only managed to come up to Ichigo's nose, even with the slight hunch in the orange-haired Shinigami's stature.
It was time for him to have a little fun.
ôIchigo?ö
ôUrahara-san.ö
They were quiet for a while.
ôSo, I take it whatever aggressive negotiation that took place with my father just crashed and burned?ö he took a look with his fingernails in a displeased frown,ôOr did my eavesdropping capabilities drop considerably since I turned twenty?ö
ôFourth Division needs a Substitute Captain.ö Kisuke took off his hat, ôUnohana-san's become sick with Spirit Chaos... Old Man Genryuusai requested I take over the duties for the next couple of months or so; but really, I'm not that cut out for it. I'm not going to be able to do this alone.ö he shook his head. Ichigo frowned; he had never seen Kisuke this distressed. It was a welcome change, ôThe bureaucracy's a killer; mounds and mounds of paperwork! Clinic hours; board meetings, budget management.ö he began ticking off his fingers thoughtfully, one after the other, ôI don't think I can handle all that on top of the job's hands-on portion.ö
Ichigo only played with his cane.
He looked thoughtful for a while.
ôIsn't Spirit Chaos only an occurance whenever the Shinigami seals too big a portion of their Reiryoku?ö he finally voiced his thoughts.
ôIt also only occurs when you keep your Zanpakutou's power sealed for too long in two different spiritual cores,ö Kisuke pinched the bridge of his nose, ôsuch is Unohana's case. Her power's moving in all of her Reiryoku pathways. It'll be some time before her bodily functions return to - !ö
He blinked, turning to Ichigo, who only continued to twirl his black cane.
Bingo.
ôIchigo, how much do you know about Spirit Maladies?ö he questioned.
ôHm...ö he adopted a sarcastic look; even Urahara could tell, him talking in that smug tone of his,ôYou're dead and you still get sick. I think that's all I need to know. That; and there is such a thing as AIDS for Shinigami.ö Urahara opened his mouth to talk, but, ôAs beings that require nourishment to continue survival, Shinigami are still, ironically, subsecptible to disease.ö his eyes darted to his cane, ôFunny, isn't it?ö
Double bingo.
ôIchigo-san,ö there it was. That damned fan again, ôunless I am truly, truly mistaken, it must be summer vacation now, yeeeeeesss?ö
Ichigo gave him no reply.
ôAaaaand, I suppose you wouldn't be looking for a job that pays well?ö the fan waved again. His eyes to observe Urahara's lidded azure gaze. The man only gave a huge grin, ôA summer job that pays insanely, obscenely and exquisitely well?ö
Ichigo blew through his lips, a small whistle sounding his unconvinced person.
He'd say yes, of course (As much as he loathed to admit, he found it hard to say no, even with all his bravado)... but not until he pried just a bit more out of his old mentor.
ôYou gotta do better than that.ö
ôI'll give you a free pass to the Rukongai Legends football tournament.ö
ôNot interested.ö
ôTickets to the annual SWA bikini contest?ö
ôHave 'em.ö
ôAn upgrade for your motorcycle?ö
ôNo one touches her but me.ö
ôNaked photos of Matsumoto-san?ö
ôTry again.ö
Urahara Kisuke wracked his brain. He knew Ichigo well; not that well, but well enough. He was his most brilliant student; an artisan of the Shinigami techniques; Shunpo, Hakuda, Zanjutsu, Kidou. Name it, he was good at it. Not exactly a Master, but the cocky orange-haired snot pulled enough crap out of his ass in applying it to prove a formidable opponent. He enjoyed good rap, Shakespeare (Urahara hated Shakespeare), his motorcycle... just what could he use? Just what could he...
He got it.
ôShihouin Yoruichi's diary.ö
Perfect.
ôDeal.ö
***
Yamada Hanatarou rushed with a stack of unsigned forms in hand, darting through the corridor with exceptional speed, a blur amongst many other blurs darting back and forth. The messy-haired young Medic was having a hell of a time keeping up with the new change in regime! Captain Unohana had been shipped to the Long-Term Ward for the next two to three months, leaving his Vice-Captain in charge. Frankly, while he admired her work ethic, the woman had no clue how to run a hospital administration made up of more than two thousand employees. There had been mix-ups, unfinished quarterly reports, unsigned leave documents; not to mention a confusion over the Twelfth Division's supplies (ôI said sodium! Not salt!ö Captain Kurotsuchi had shouted to the clerk).
He charged right into Captain Unohana's Hospital Office.
Where someone was perched upon his Captain's chair, legs popped up on the desk.
ôFinally, someone with a pulse.ö
Wh û What?
He blinked.
It was Kurosaki Ichigo.
With a stubble.
And a cane.
ôHuh?ö
ôGet me a latte, will you? No sugar, extra cream. No cup; a mug. This mug.ö He placed the mug on top of the stack of paper with a lazy toss, ôI wanted it four-fifths full. Warm; not hot.ö
ôI û Ichigo?ö
ôGo now or I'm firing you.ö
He didn't know why. He just dropped the papers, grabbed the mug and went to the nearest coffee machine as fast as he could.
Ichigo threw a tic-tac into the air and let it fly down into his mouth.
ôLousy room service.ö
He picked up a stray piece of paper that had drifted onto his desk, scanning through it... before tossing the item right over his shoulder.
ôIt's lupus. Duh.ö
And went back to his sports magazine without a care in the world.
THE END (For now...)