We had to let go. We had to say goodbye. We were sacrificed. But that's alright. Really, it's fine. You probably don't believe me, but I mean it. I don't mind. Some of them do, but I don't. Because I know that in the end, it'll all even out. What goes around, comes around. We'll get our chance to return the favor.
I can still remember the feeling of strength leaving me as I vomited up a darkness from my gut. A darkness that was as pale and hard as bone. I can remember the feeling. It threw me off. After so many centuries of training to perfect my power, I can't even describe the feeling. I felt so empty, so powerless, like someone had hollowed me out, and just left a shell behind. But I was so strong. It was like reaching blindly into a hole you knew held what you were looking for, something you couldn't possibly miss, and hitting nothing but wall. I felt sick. Empty. Cold. Like all the blood had run out of me, all the strength had left me. But I was strong. And when I tried to use kido, the spells failed. In their place, shining deadlights burned on my fingertips. Void.
I'll never forget the feeling. Never.
They think we betrayed them. Soul Society. They think we turned our backs on them. They're wrong, of course. And some of us have some resentment about that still. 'What loyalty do we owe,' they think, and because I know them, I can hear the question in their hearts. I can hear the question in their blades.
In truth, we owe them everything. I haven't forgotten where I came from. I haven't forgotten rising up from the slums. I haven't forgotten the kindness of Captain Yamamoto. I haven't forgotten the Academy. I havenÆt forgotten the feeling of a captainÆs coat on my shoulders. Loyalty. Honor. Justice. I haven't forgotten who and what taught me the meaning of those words. I can't blame Soul Society. In truth, I can't even blame Central 46. They were played. I can't forget that. I can't ever forget that. Because I know what that's like.
After all, I was played too, wasn't I? We all were.
I haven't forgotten where I came from. I know what I am, now, after what happened, but I haven't changed what I used to be, either. IÆm both now. Two different things, two totally different things, met head-on and created a middle. A sinewave. An in-between.
I havenÆt forgotten where I came from. And I havenÆt forgotten who did this to us.
So we sat in the darkness of the human world, grinding our blades against our souls, sharper and sharper and sharper. They need to be sharper. Sharp enough to kill an enemy in a single blow. Sharp enough that they die now and realize it later. It's the only way. We have an advantage. Just the one. We've been forgotten. More or less, give or take. Forgotten. That gives us a move, 'a' move, to make. A single pass. You only get the element of surprise once. We intend to make it count.
But sharp blades won't be enough. We need something else.
In ancient human cultures, masks have great importance. They are symbols of power. Shamans, mystics, ancient wisemen. In ceremonies, they would wear the masks of their ancestors, because they believed it let them communicate with the dead. In war, they would wear the masks of animals, to give them the ferocity and strength of great beasts. Many would wear the masks of gods and spirits, to claim their power. It was believed that by wearing a mask, you invoked spirits. You stopped being who and what you were, and became something else. That in some small way, by wearing a mask, you become the mask.
They weren't wrong.
I learned what it was that dwelled in my soul. The rot had no name, but it had a face. All my fears, all my anger, all my sorrow. All my sins. My monster. The monster wearing my face, that lurks in my heart. It wore my face, and ate at my soul. And in wearing my face, it held power over me.
I fought it. We all did. And each of us, in turn, won. Turnabout is fair play, isn't it? We learned to wear the monster's face. We learned to steal it's power. We learned to eat it's soul. Influence is a two-way street, after all. When it grabbed at me, I didnÆt flinch away. I grabbed back. Orobus. That's what we became. The serpent eternally eating its own tail. The monster eats me, and I eat the monster. The monster wears my face, and I wear the monster's. It gains power over me. I gain power over it. What goes around comes around. It all evens out. A ripple in the pond that eventually fades away. A good piece of jazz that ends like how it starts, soft and easy. Return to the middle. The beginning and the end blurred, looped together, no distinction. It's the middle that matters. We had become the median.
In the shadows, I remembered. I remembered justice. I remembered loyalty. I remembered honor. And I adjusted each in turn. Justice was a fickle thing, and was determined, not by the laws of mortals or immortals, but by the rule of the winners. If we wanted justice, we would have to win, plain and simple. Loyalty was an odd thing. It was hard as hell to find for real, but where it existed, it ran true and deep. Loyalty to my friends. My fellow exiles. Loyalty to a boy who rolled the dice against Soul Society itself and won, carrying a monster like ours in his heart. Loyalty to the world that had discarded me as a traitor. And Honor. Honor was high and cold and sharp. Honor demanded things. And if you reneged on it, it left you, went on without you. Honorless. That's probably what they call us now. It would surprise me if they never said it about us. But we aren't honorless, now are we?
I added a new word. Revenge. Revenge is a lot like honor. It's the same thing, in some ways, but completely the opposite in others. Honor is high and cold and sharp. Revenge is sharp too, but it's low. Low and hot. Revenge burns like a coal, sears like a fire. Honor is stark and smooth. Revenge is elaborate and rough. Honor is beautiful and uncaring. Revenge is ugly and cares more than anything in the entire world. Honor is heartless. Revenge is a broken heart. Honor is in the moment. Revenge is in the future. Hot and cold, high and low, featureless and elaborate, smooth and rough, beautiful and ugly, heartless and heartbroken. ThatÆs what IÆve become now. What weÆve all become. All of those things in our hearts, in our very souls. WeÆre contradictory, you see? ThatÆs the entire point. Because in some ways, weÆre in the middle. In others, weÆre both extremes at once. Because we are honorable, and we will have our revenge.
Our darkness, our sins, our inner demons. Our honor, our loyalty, our justice, our revenge. The monster in my heart. They, it, don't have names. But my hatred does. My hate has a name.
Why hello, Aizen. Long time no see. Fancy seeing you here, of all places. WhatÆs that? IÆve never seen your release? Why no, I havenÆt. And you know what? I donÆt think IÆve ever shown you mine, either.
It's time to let go. It's time to get things rolling. It's time to say goodbye. We stand in the middle, indistinct, undefined. Cast out, but not lost. Not anymore. And that's fine. That's exactly how I like it, like a good piece of jazz. Because in the end, it'll all even out. What goes around, comes around. We've got our chance to return the favor. WeÆve sharpened our blades against each other, against our own souls. WeÆve learned how to rip out the fear and the anger, the hatred and the shadow, and smear it across our faces like warpaint. Our souls are in our hands, our hearts are on our faces, and weÆre burning with a cold fire.
Hold on, Ichigo. WeÆre coming. And itÆll be one hell of a thing. Because revenge is never served cold. ItÆs always served red hot. Unless itÆs served with honor. Then itÆs somewhere in the middle. Vengeance will be mine. Justice will be ours.
<a href='http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jSCOdg8Mrw&feature=watch_response' target='_blank' rel='nofollow'>
</a>
I can still remember the feeling of strength leaving me as I vomited up a darkness from my gut. A darkness that was as pale and hard as bone. I can remember the feeling. It threw me off. After so many centuries of training to perfect my power, I can't even describe the feeling. I felt so empty, so powerless, like someone had hollowed me out, and just left a shell behind. But I was so strong. It was like reaching blindly into a hole you knew held what you were looking for, something you couldn't possibly miss, and hitting nothing but wall. I felt sick. Empty. Cold. Like all the blood had run out of me, all the strength had left me. But I was strong. And when I tried to use kido, the spells failed. In their place, shining deadlights burned on my fingertips. Void.
I'll never forget the feeling. Never.
They think we betrayed them. Soul Society. They think we turned our backs on them. They're wrong, of course. And some of us have some resentment about that still. 'What loyalty do we owe,' they think, and because I know them, I can hear the question in their hearts. I can hear the question in their blades.
In truth, we owe them everything. I haven't forgotten where I came from. I haven't forgotten rising up from the slums. I haven't forgotten the kindness of Captain Yamamoto. I haven't forgotten the Academy. I havenÆt forgotten the feeling of a captainÆs coat on my shoulders. Loyalty. Honor. Justice. I haven't forgotten who and what taught me the meaning of those words. I can't blame Soul Society. In truth, I can't even blame Central 46. They were played. I can't forget that. I can't ever forget that. Because I know what that's like.
After all, I was played too, wasn't I? We all were.
I haven't forgotten where I came from. I know what I am, now, after what happened, but I haven't changed what I used to be, either. IÆm both now. Two different things, two totally different things, met head-on and created a middle. A sinewave. An in-between.
I havenÆt forgotten where I came from. And I havenÆt forgotten who did this to us.
So we sat in the darkness of the human world, grinding our blades against our souls, sharper and sharper and sharper. They need to be sharper. Sharp enough to kill an enemy in a single blow. Sharp enough that they die now and realize it later. It's the only way. We have an advantage. Just the one. We've been forgotten. More or less, give or take. Forgotten. That gives us a move, 'a' move, to make. A single pass. You only get the element of surprise once. We intend to make it count.
But sharp blades won't be enough. We need something else.
In ancient human cultures, masks have great importance. They are symbols of power. Shamans, mystics, ancient wisemen. In ceremonies, they would wear the masks of their ancestors, because they believed it let them communicate with the dead. In war, they would wear the masks of animals, to give them the ferocity and strength of great beasts. Many would wear the masks of gods and spirits, to claim their power. It was believed that by wearing a mask, you invoked spirits. You stopped being who and what you were, and became something else. That in some small way, by wearing a mask, you become the mask.
They weren't wrong.
I learned what it was that dwelled in my soul. The rot had no name, but it had a face. All my fears, all my anger, all my sorrow. All my sins. My monster. The monster wearing my face, that lurks in my heart. It wore my face, and ate at my soul. And in wearing my face, it held power over me.
I fought it. We all did. And each of us, in turn, won. Turnabout is fair play, isn't it? We learned to wear the monster's face. We learned to steal it's power. We learned to eat it's soul. Influence is a two-way street, after all. When it grabbed at me, I didnÆt flinch away. I grabbed back. Orobus. That's what we became. The serpent eternally eating its own tail. The monster eats me, and I eat the monster. The monster wears my face, and I wear the monster's. It gains power over me. I gain power over it. What goes around comes around. It all evens out. A ripple in the pond that eventually fades away. A good piece of jazz that ends like how it starts, soft and easy. Return to the middle. The beginning and the end blurred, looped together, no distinction. It's the middle that matters. We had become the median.
In the shadows, I remembered. I remembered justice. I remembered loyalty. I remembered honor. And I adjusted each in turn. Justice was a fickle thing, and was determined, not by the laws of mortals or immortals, but by the rule of the winners. If we wanted justice, we would have to win, plain and simple. Loyalty was an odd thing. It was hard as hell to find for real, but where it existed, it ran true and deep. Loyalty to my friends. My fellow exiles. Loyalty to a boy who rolled the dice against Soul Society itself and won, carrying a monster like ours in his heart. Loyalty to the world that had discarded me as a traitor. And Honor. Honor was high and cold and sharp. Honor demanded things. And if you reneged on it, it left you, went on without you. Honorless. That's probably what they call us now. It would surprise me if they never said it about us. But we aren't honorless, now are we?
I added a new word. Revenge. Revenge is a lot like honor. It's the same thing, in some ways, but completely the opposite in others. Honor is high and cold and sharp. Revenge is sharp too, but it's low. Low and hot. Revenge burns like a coal, sears like a fire. Honor is stark and smooth. Revenge is elaborate and rough. Honor is beautiful and uncaring. Revenge is ugly and cares more than anything in the entire world. Honor is heartless. Revenge is a broken heart. Honor is in the moment. Revenge is in the future. Hot and cold, high and low, featureless and elaborate, smooth and rough, beautiful and ugly, heartless and heartbroken. ThatÆs what IÆve become now. What weÆve all become. All of those things in our hearts, in our very souls. WeÆre contradictory, you see? ThatÆs the entire point. Because in some ways, weÆre in the middle. In others, weÆre both extremes at once. Because we are honorable, and we will have our revenge.
Our darkness, our sins, our inner demons. Our honor, our loyalty, our justice, our revenge. The monster in my heart. They, it, don't have names. But my hatred does. My hate has a name.
Why hello, Aizen. Long time no see. Fancy seeing you here, of all places. WhatÆs that? IÆve never seen your release? Why no, I havenÆt. And you know what? I donÆt think IÆve ever shown you mine, either.
It's time to let go. It's time to get things rolling. It's time to say goodbye. We stand in the middle, indistinct, undefined. Cast out, but not lost. Not anymore. And that's fine. That's exactly how I like it, like a good piece of jazz. Because in the end, it'll all even out. What goes around, comes around. We've got our chance to return the favor. WeÆve sharpened our blades against each other, against our own souls. WeÆve learned how to rip out the fear and the anger, the hatred and the shadow, and smear it across our faces like warpaint. Our souls are in our hands, our hearts are on our faces, and weÆre burning with a cold fire.
Hold on, Ichigo. WeÆre coming. And itÆll be one hell of a thing. Because revenge is never served cold. ItÆs always served red hot. Unless itÆs served with honor. Then itÆs somewhere in the middle. Vengeance will be mine. Justice will be ours.
<a href='http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jSCOdg8Mrw&feature=watch_response' target='_blank' rel='nofollow'>