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A breif response to Otakon:
MOOGLE BABY.
A breif, fairly non-spoilerific response to Naruto 226:
...damn. That's kind of cool, there. LOOK. THE TECHNIQUES THEY ARE MATING.
....going on the summaries and the scans up at Soul_Society.
Firstly. An obligatory you. out of my small-like-a-bean-almost-nonexistant-fandom. Or stop character-frothing over the place. You make the rest of us dumb fangirls look sane, and that's scary.
...that felt good.
Secondly. I'm not inclined to count Renji out of the game yet. Out of the fight, hell yes. But fangirl biases aside, this is Byakuya involved and Byakuya for a captain who scares the living hell out of everyone with an uber maul-you-with-flower-petals attack has proven himself...kind of lousy at finishing people off. We've seen him consistantly not kill first Ichigo, and later Ganju. And the deal with the scarf just reaffirms my belief that we still have no idea where he really falls in this whole mess. I'm leaning towards a fake-out with Renji. We've seen Ichigo go belly up...er. or down, like that before. And he tends to get hauled off and patched up and up again eventually. (Nearly cut in half? What? Oh, he can still stand after something little like that--) ...of course, Ichigo also has main character immunity, but still. We'll see how that goes.
Third. My love for Ikkaku knows no bounds. This is a fact I was already aware of but his bit this chapter just reinforced this love, along with the belief that the guy so did Kabuki in one of the red-light districts of the Alley, once upon a time. Oh, and I love Izuru too. Even if I suspect his future services to his captain at some point include 'human shield'. cough.
Finally. Yeah. Rukia. Things are kind of sucking for Rukia right now. They don't look to be getting better anytime soon. Die, Gin. Die.
That said, here. Have Bleach ficbitterness. er. or dumb alleybrat antics.
The girl’s fingers reached for the bag at the man’s belt. He saw her. She was expecting the outraged shout before she was expecting the fist. The fist came first. The girl fell onto her back, and the man grabbed her by the ankle. He hefted her up in one meaty hand as she squirmed, snarled, fell silent, and then threw a glowing ball into his face. He dropped her. She ran off, hopping a little on one leg--there would be the beginning of bruises there by evening. The girl doubled back, dipped between buildings, slumped down against a wall, where she caught her breath.
It was hot and she was hungry. That night in the cooler air she dug out the roots of an old woman’s garden. The ground was stiff and hard and dirt caught under her nails. She ate what she found right away, shoving it to her face. Withered things, tasting of grit and acute nothingness, it was disgusting but it filled her belly. She felt better after she ate. When the old woman herself, filmy-eyed and mad, emerged from the shack waving a lantern and a stick the girl fled with healthy speed, despite her ankle—which was purple and twice as big as the other the next day. She spent the morning behind a broken fence holding her leg, kneading it, murmuring, coaxing the swelling down enough so she could walk easier. It obeyed, but it brought the twinge in her stomach back. She could ignore the remaining throb in her foot when she stood, but she couldn’t ignore that.
The old bitch was keeping a watchful eye on the garden now, and there were no bird’s nests in the trees left to raid, and she saw the big man with the burned face lumber by once or twice—and that was how the girl knew this place was no good for her anymore. She would have to find another. She stole a mouthful of water out of a bucket some woman was going to use for washing, stole some of the washing for good measure, and with an armful of cloth and angry shrieks behind her (“Wretched boy!”) the girl set out. Out of the pile she found something that fit, so off went the tattered and on went the less tattered. She felt well dressed for the venture.
She found a fairly decent couple of blocks to prowl, after chasing off the gap-toothed boy who’d tried to claim it first. She lived off of it decently for about a week, sleeping on the rooftops and needing only to rely on fists and nails and good swift kicks to get by. There was a fair amount of water, she slept well, and most importantly her stomach didn’t growl at all. She stole a piece of broken mirror off of a prostitute. That was a particularly sweet victory, the girl spent several days admiring the spoils, making faces at it, smoothing her hair—except when the prostitute came to reclaim it one night, along with four others. They tossed stones at the girl where she’d been sitting on a roof. The glass had fallen and shattered; the girl had to run. The next place she found was all right, but it was rougher and she got hungry again and the soup she managed to scrounge up didn’t entirely sate it, and she suspected even if she moved on once more, her luck would be little better.
It wasn’t easy to make it good alone, unless you were big or mean-looking. The girl was neither-- though if she narrowed her eyes the right way and stuck her lip out she could hiss and spit like the boniest, nastiest looking little creature a person could meet. Still, the fact remained; the good turf went to the pack animals. Good turf, good back up, good living, and—this was important—good food, and in this way the girl came to a simple conclusion: she needed a gang.
She needed a gang, so she set out to get one. It seemed easy enough, and she figured she could afford to be picky because of it. She knew that she didn’t want anyone too big. They’d never take her seriously, at least not all the way. She didn’t want anyone too stupid—but they couldn’t be too smart either: then they wouldn’t listen to her and they’d have to do that since she would be leader, no question. She didn’t want anyone too old; they’d think they were entitled to something—or too young because then they’d be crybabies. She didn’t want any other girls. Just because.
It was all plotted out in her head. The girl would find the right bunch, she’d watch them, figure out which one was the leader, come over, challenge him, knock him out, and declare them all hers. If anyone protested, she’d beat them up too, and her first order of business would be to round up a feast. It would be a good feast, in celebration of a good new lead girl, and she would be so full her stomach would hurt. It was a nice thought. It was a good plan. She grinned over it while she searched, skirting between blocks with eyes alert.
She searched for a day, and then two, and then three. After a week, she was willing to admit it was trickier than she’d first thought-- but she was still hopeful, still determined. A week was a very long time to stay unsettled, but she’d made up her mind on the matter and besides she managed to kick over some dumb sewing ladies stand. If she didn’t feel accomplished, at least she felt pleased with herself. She was resting on a fence, eyeing some of the ugly, patchy cloth she’d taken with her, when she heard the shouts from the street. She dropped the rags and jumped down to see the commotion.
She recognized the boys: a small gang from the next block over. She’d seen them the other day. Four of them, total; fat kid, freckled kid, curly haired kid, led by the skinny kid whose shout carried like a bark down the streets. He was the most obvious of them—and the girl had ruled him out immediately, not liking his pinched rat’s face or the color of his hair. He was running her way and running fast, she’d grant him, but he’d obviously stolen more than he could handle. He needed both arms to carry that jar of water.
Still, it was another hot day, and the girl was thirsty. The boys ran past her, the old man coming after them brandished a nasty looking blade-- but the old man was slow, and she was small and under his line of sight. She had a nastier kick.
“This way…!” she shouted, “Follow me!” and she ran, faster than any of them, down and around and through a loose board in the fence she’d come through just that morning. She dove through first; hit the boy behind her in the face as he followed. They stopped in an alley, the five of them. They were panting. The girl wasted no time, marching over and setting her hands over one of the jars, pulling off the top and leaning over. She bumped heads with the leader, who yelped and pulled the jar away before she could get a good mouthful. He glared. She glared back.
“I saved your ass,” she spat. “I earned it.”
The boy’s face squinched. He passed a wrist over his filthy nose. “So? Who the hell are you.”
“Someone who wants a drink.”
“That ain’t an answer--”
She curled her lip, lifting her shoulders, making herself as big and as fierce as she could. “It’s an answer. And a nice one. ‘Cause I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.” She plunged her hand into the water. Took a palm full and against his sputtering protests shoved it messily into her mouth. “Gonna stop me?” She smirked. “Think I can’t take an idiot like you? Who the hell are /you/ anyway, Mister-Almost-Got-Caught?”
“You little bastard--”
She hefted the jar. “I could beat you with my back turned.” The girl did just that, squaring her shoulders. She could hear his feet digging into the dirt, but he didn’t attack her. Instead, she blinked as she nearly tottered right into other three. All of them staring (or she assumed they all were, she couldn’t really see the freckled kid’s eyes under his hair) down at her with large, dark, watery eyes.
“…what.” She slid her feet apart, ready to fight her way out if she had to. She weighed her odds: they had to be more worn out, and she could always….
“Um,” said the fat kid.
“Thanks,” said the curly haired kid. The girl nearly fell over. Their leader made a strangled noise behind her. “Thanks a lot.”
“...Uh,” she said. “Uh.”
They could keep the water. She set it down, and took one more handful, gulped it, passed it through her hair. They could keep the rest. They obviously needed it more, being insane and all. She stood up, elbowing her way through the bunch of them. They stepped aside for her. Their eyes followed her. For her part, she’d wasted enough time: she still had a plan to follow, and it sounded like their lead-brat had finally stopped choking on air.
“…don’t mention it,” she said shortly, and got walking. It wasn’t four steps before she heard them shuffling after her. She stopped and glanced back. Fat kid was gawking, Curly-hair was scratching his nose, and Freckles was deeply fascinated by his big toe. The girl sighed, and turned up her nose importantly. “…I’m Rukia, by the way. Take better care of yourselves, next time.” With an equally important toss of her head, she started walking again.
“…he’s so…cool.” She thought she heard one of them breathe.
“Traitors,” she /definitely/ heard their leader bite out.
Weirdos. The girl rounded the corner, brushing the dirt off her knees. That would be the last she’d see of them, she thought with a certainty that was absolute in her mind. Weirdos, all of them.
MOOGLE BABY.
A breif, fairly non-spoilerific response to Naruto 226:
...damn. That's kind of cool, there. LOOK. THE TECHNIQUES THEY ARE MATING.
....going on the summaries and the scans up at Soul_Society.
Firstly. An obligatory you. out of my small-like-a-bean-almost-nonexistant-fandom. Or stop character-frothing over the place. You make the rest of us dumb fangirls look sane, and that's scary.
...that felt good.
Secondly. I'm not inclined to count Renji out of the game yet. Out of the fight, hell yes. But fangirl biases aside, this is Byakuya involved and Byakuya for a captain who scares the living hell out of everyone with an uber maul-you-with-flower-petals attack has proven himself...kind of lousy at finishing people off. We've seen him consistantly not kill first Ichigo, and later Ganju. And the deal with the scarf just reaffirms my belief that we still have no idea where he really falls in this whole mess. I'm leaning towards a fake-out with Renji. We've seen Ichigo go belly up...er. or down, like that before. And he tends to get hauled off and patched up and up again eventually. (Nearly cut in half? What? Oh, he can still stand after something little like that--) ...of course, Ichigo also has main character immunity, but still. We'll see how that goes.
Third. My love for Ikkaku knows no bounds. This is a fact I was already aware of but his bit this chapter just reinforced this love, along with the belief that the guy so did Kabuki in one of the red-light districts of the Alley, once upon a time. Oh, and I love Izuru too. Even if I suspect his future services to his captain at some point include 'human shield'. cough.
Finally. Yeah. Rukia. Things are kind of sucking for Rukia right now. They don't look to be getting better anytime soon. Die, Gin. Die.
That said, here. Have Bleach ficbitterness. er. or dumb alleybrat antics.
The girl’s fingers reached for the bag at the man’s belt. He saw her. She was expecting the outraged shout before she was expecting the fist. The fist came first. The girl fell onto her back, and the man grabbed her by the ankle. He hefted her up in one meaty hand as she squirmed, snarled, fell silent, and then threw a glowing ball into his face. He dropped her. She ran off, hopping a little on one leg--there would be the beginning of bruises there by evening. The girl doubled back, dipped between buildings, slumped down against a wall, where she caught her breath.
It was hot and she was hungry. That night in the cooler air she dug out the roots of an old woman’s garden. The ground was stiff and hard and dirt caught under her nails. She ate what she found right away, shoving it to her face. Withered things, tasting of grit and acute nothingness, it was disgusting but it filled her belly. She felt better after she ate. When the old woman herself, filmy-eyed and mad, emerged from the shack waving a lantern and a stick the girl fled with healthy speed, despite her ankle—which was purple and twice as big as the other the next day. She spent the morning behind a broken fence holding her leg, kneading it, murmuring, coaxing the swelling down enough so she could walk easier. It obeyed, but it brought the twinge in her stomach back. She could ignore the remaining throb in her foot when she stood, but she couldn’t ignore that.
The old bitch was keeping a watchful eye on the garden now, and there were no bird’s nests in the trees left to raid, and she saw the big man with the burned face lumber by once or twice—and that was how the girl knew this place was no good for her anymore. She would have to find another. She stole a mouthful of water out of a bucket some woman was going to use for washing, stole some of the washing for good measure, and with an armful of cloth and angry shrieks behind her (“Wretched boy!”) the girl set out. Out of the pile she found something that fit, so off went the tattered and on went the less tattered. She felt well dressed for the venture.
She found a fairly decent couple of blocks to prowl, after chasing off the gap-toothed boy who’d tried to claim it first. She lived off of it decently for about a week, sleeping on the rooftops and needing only to rely on fists and nails and good swift kicks to get by. There was a fair amount of water, she slept well, and most importantly her stomach didn’t growl at all. She stole a piece of broken mirror off of a prostitute. That was a particularly sweet victory, the girl spent several days admiring the spoils, making faces at it, smoothing her hair—except when the prostitute came to reclaim it one night, along with four others. They tossed stones at the girl where she’d been sitting on a roof. The glass had fallen and shattered; the girl had to run. The next place she found was all right, but it was rougher and she got hungry again and the soup she managed to scrounge up didn’t entirely sate it, and she suspected even if she moved on once more, her luck would be little better.
It wasn’t easy to make it good alone, unless you were big or mean-looking. The girl was neither-- though if she narrowed her eyes the right way and stuck her lip out she could hiss and spit like the boniest, nastiest looking little creature a person could meet. Still, the fact remained; the good turf went to the pack animals. Good turf, good back up, good living, and—this was important—good food, and in this way the girl came to a simple conclusion: she needed a gang.
She needed a gang, so she set out to get one. It seemed easy enough, and she figured she could afford to be picky because of it. She knew that she didn’t want anyone too big. They’d never take her seriously, at least not all the way. She didn’t want anyone too stupid—but they couldn’t be too smart either: then they wouldn’t listen to her and they’d have to do that since she would be leader, no question. She didn’t want anyone too old; they’d think they were entitled to something—or too young because then they’d be crybabies. She didn’t want any other girls. Just because.
It was all plotted out in her head. The girl would find the right bunch, she’d watch them, figure out which one was the leader, come over, challenge him, knock him out, and declare them all hers. If anyone protested, she’d beat them up too, and her first order of business would be to round up a feast. It would be a good feast, in celebration of a good new lead girl, and she would be so full her stomach would hurt. It was a nice thought. It was a good plan. She grinned over it while she searched, skirting between blocks with eyes alert.
She searched for a day, and then two, and then three. After a week, she was willing to admit it was trickier than she’d first thought-- but she was still hopeful, still determined. A week was a very long time to stay unsettled, but she’d made up her mind on the matter and besides she managed to kick over some dumb sewing ladies stand. If she didn’t feel accomplished, at least she felt pleased with herself. She was resting on a fence, eyeing some of the ugly, patchy cloth she’d taken with her, when she heard the shouts from the street. She dropped the rags and jumped down to see the commotion.
She recognized the boys: a small gang from the next block over. She’d seen them the other day. Four of them, total; fat kid, freckled kid, curly haired kid, led by the skinny kid whose shout carried like a bark down the streets. He was the most obvious of them—and the girl had ruled him out immediately, not liking his pinched rat’s face or the color of his hair. He was running her way and running fast, she’d grant him, but he’d obviously stolen more than he could handle. He needed both arms to carry that jar of water.
Still, it was another hot day, and the girl was thirsty. The boys ran past her, the old man coming after them brandished a nasty looking blade-- but the old man was slow, and she was small and under his line of sight. She had a nastier kick.
“This way…!” she shouted, “Follow me!” and she ran, faster than any of them, down and around and through a loose board in the fence she’d come through just that morning. She dove through first; hit the boy behind her in the face as he followed. They stopped in an alley, the five of them. They were panting. The girl wasted no time, marching over and setting her hands over one of the jars, pulling off the top and leaning over. She bumped heads with the leader, who yelped and pulled the jar away before she could get a good mouthful. He glared. She glared back.
“I saved your ass,” she spat. “I earned it.”
The boy’s face squinched. He passed a wrist over his filthy nose. “So? Who the hell are you.”
“Someone who wants a drink.”
“That ain’t an answer--”
She curled her lip, lifting her shoulders, making herself as big and as fierce as she could. “It’s an answer. And a nice one. ‘Cause I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.” She plunged her hand into the water. Took a palm full and against his sputtering protests shoved it messily into her mouth. “Gonna stop me?” She smirked. “Think I can’t take an idiot like you? Who the hell are /you/ anyway, Mister-Almost-Got-Caught?”
“You little bastard--”
She hefted the jar. “I could beat you with my back turned.” The girl did just that, squaring her shoulders. She could hear his feet digging into the dirt, but he didn’t attack her. Instead, she blinked as she nearly tottered right into other three. All of them staring (or she assumed they all were, she couldn’t really see the freckled kid’s eyes under his hair) down at her with large, dark, watery eyes.
“…what.” She slid her feet apart, ready to fight her way out if she had to. She weighed her odds: they had to be more worn out, and she could always….
“Um,” said the fat kid.
“Thanks,” said the curly haired kid. The girl nearly fell over. Their leader made a strangled noise behind her. “Thanks a lot.”
“...Uh,” she said. “Uh.”
They could keep the water. She set it down, and took one more handful, gulped it, passed it through her hair. They could keep the rest. They obviously needed it more, being insane and all. She stood up, elbowing her way through the bunch of them. They stepped aside for her. Their eyes followed her. For her part, she’d wasted enough time: she still had a plan to follow, and it sounded like their lead-brat had finally stopped choking on air.
“…don’t mention it,” she said shortly, and got walking. It wasn’t four steps before she heard them shuffling after her. She stopped and glanced back. Fat kid was gawking, Curly-hair was scratching his nose, and Freckles was deeply fascinated by his big toe. The girl sighed, and turned up her nose importantly. “…I’m Rukia, by the way. Take better care of yourselves, next time.” With an equally important toss of her head, she started walking again.
“…he’s so…cool.” She thought she heard one of them breathe.
“Traitors,” she /definitely/ heard their leader bite out.
Weirdos. The girl rounded the corner, brushing the dirt off her knees. That would be the last she’d see of them, she thought with a certainty that was absolute in her mind. Weirdos, all of them.
no subject
I agree with your statement re: gushing. I agree quite wholeheartedly!
Ikkaku is one of the best characters in the series. <3 And yeah, Izuru is so dead.
And that ficbit was neat, hee. I liked the way you incorporated the scene with Renji's bunch stealing the water. I wish they'd given the other two kids names, though.
no subject
also, with Orihime running around with the 11th....weell. No one's guaranteed dead if there's a stray healer on the loose. and I'll admit the prospect of Renji-Ishida sniping amuses me far more than it should.
Though it's true, I'd give points for the series having balls if it DID kill the guy off. But...but...seeing Zabimaru's ban kai form again! an explanation for the tattoos! More kicking around of his random 6th Division Bitch Boy! (who I ALSO wish had a name) They're short captains! I fret!
...meanwhile Ikkaku should become Ichigo's Vice Captain one day. Just sayin'. And I think Izuru's impending doom is part of why I like him (the fact that he's clearly an obsessive compulsive twitchy little monkey is another part of it). My current bets are on Momo being the one to kill him. It's a fun game.