Read Pei Yi's omake!

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Steel True, Blade Straight
by afrai

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ACT I

They were trying to drown Hinagiku at the water cooler. Shunou fluttered into Zangetsu's face, chirping with distress.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't see -- oh, Zangetsu! Stop him!"

"What is wrong with you," Baigon was saying.

"Gurgle gurgle argh," said Hinagiku. Lily was trying to tug him out of the water, but the foot in her face was proving something of a hindrance.

"Eurgh, when was the last time you even had a bath, you jerk?"

"You always have to embarrass us," said Shunou. She seemed close to tears.

"Why do you do these things?" whimpered Ayame.

"Because he's a freak," snarled Tsubaki, "and he never does his share of the paperwork and he took the biggest sixth of the sausage yesterday and he's a freak and I hate him and -- hey, leggo!"

Zangetsu picked him out of the water cooler and shook him, spraying water. The others darted out of the way. Lily put Hinagiku tenderly on the edge of a flower-pot, and the fairies clustered around him, cheeping concern.

"That's it," said Shunou. "We're going for those anger management therapy sessions again."

"I'll bite you," Tsubaki informed Zangetsu's thumb. "Don't think I won't!"

"You've had your shots?" Zangetsu said to Shunou, but she ignored him.

"You remember what the therapist said," she said. "You have got to get over this self-hatred thing. This can't go on."

Tsubaki slumped abruptly. Zangetsu placed him under the dispenser. He doubted anybody in the office would be feeling thirsty any time soon.

"I don't hate us," said Tsubaki. "I hate this -- I hate this office, I hate this dead-end job, I hate this dead-end life -- "

"What else would you have us do?"

"Anything!" Tsubaki threw out his arms, shaking drops of water from his scarf. "Anything except this! A six-fairy legal clerk, for God's sake. Do you really think that's all we were meant for? Filling out forms?"

Baigon sat down next to him, sighing. "We need to live, Tsubaki. Sausages don't grow on trees."

"I think my lung is broken," said Hinagiku plaintively.

"Thank you," said Ayame to Zangetsu. "But I think we need some alone time now."

Zangetsu wiped his fingers off on his coat sleeve.

"I'm sorry you had to see this," said one of them behind him -- Shunou?

Zangetsu didn't bother to look back to make sure. He could get a drink later.

* * *

It wasn't as bad as it looked. The Shun Shun Rikka always got a little stir-crazy this time of year. Tsubaki's way of dealing with it was just noisier than the others'.

Zangetsu didn't mind his job. Strongarm never objected, though he probably wouldn't have objected even if he had hated it. He was never chatty at the best of times. As for the Quincy-light ...

"Your performance at our last meeting with our clients was striking, I thought," said the Quincy-light, shimmering over the surface of Zangetsu's desk.

"Thanks."

"Your absence was the most striking thing about it," said the Quincy-light.

Zangetsu would've said the Quincy-light enjoyed its job. It was the only reasonable excuse for its behaviour.

"I was busy."

"So was I," said the Quincy-light. "Busy explaining why you didn't even care enough about our clients to show up. Do you have any sense of responsibility at all?"

Zangetsu was beginning to rethink walking away from the water cooler with empty hands. A cup of water would have helped in this conversation, even if it was water flavoured with half-drowned fairy.

"I'll come to the next one," said Zangetsu. The Quincy-light sputtered, blue sparks flying.

"Please, don't put yourself out on my account," it said, when it had calmed down to a low-level sizzle.

"I won't," said Zangetsu.

"I assure you I can manage perfectly well in your absence," spat the Quincy-light, and it arrowed off to the other end of the office, scorching a line across Strongarm's desk as it went.

"Hm," said Strongarm.

"Sorry."

The palm spread itself out on the desk: what can you do? "I'll walk around it."

Zangetsu looked at the blackened line scoring the wood.

"Anger management therapy," he said.

Strongarm was already flicking through the sheaf of paper in his in-box, a thumb pressed against the desk for balance.

"Doubt it'd work," he said, his voice muffled by the paper. "Can't start to fix something if you won't let go of it."

* * *

It wasn't a bad philosophy, Zangetsu thought as he walked home from work. He would've said he subscribed to it, if anyone had asked.

Not much bothered him. He didn't let it.

Nobody was a perfect philosopher, though. And he could still hear that girl's sobs, though he was out of hearing by now. Didn't even know what she looked like. He hadn't looked.

He turned on his heel, the shadows following him, winding around his ankles like a friendly cat, describing Grecian curls along the street out of pure light-heartedness. The levity was inappropriate, but Zangetsu couldn't find it in him to be annoyed. He was glad of his shadows. They were his only proof of normalcy: that he, Zangetsu the person, with his two legs and two arms and flat face on a head on a neck like a thing out of a storybook, had his quirks just like everyone else.

Seeing dreams was another of his quirks, but nobody else could see that, so it didn't help. He wasn't sure they'd believe him, anyway.

It didn't matter. Dreams were only the ghosts of dead memories. And ghosts didn't exist.

He disliked the sound of crying, that was all.

She was still at it when he got back to the lamp-post. Just a kid, kneeling beside a cracked vase on the road, her tears making dark paths in her fur. Zangetsu picked up the vase and put it on the pavement, but the flowers had been trampled, and their petals were all askew. He couldn't tell if it was supposed to be a prayer or a wish or a memorial, but it made no difference now. It wasn't much of a tribute anymore.

"Mister?" said the kid. Zangetsu gave her his handkerchief.

"Wipe your whiskers off," he said. He waited till she was finished, then said,

"The boys behind me the ones who did this?"

The kid nodded. "They were skateboarding." She sniffled. "They come by a lot. I guess I should be used to it by now, but -- "

Zangetsu wasn't a big fan of the sight of somebody crying, either.

"Keep the handkerchief," he said. He put his hands in his pockets, and turned around.

* * *

One of them had a nosebleed all over his boots. Zangetsu cleaned them, ignoring the chittering of the shadows -- they liked the boots almost as much as they liked the coat. The job took some time, so he turned in a little later than usual. It was past ten when he got into bed.

He slept without dreaming, as far as he knew. It was the draught that woke him up. He touched his face. His fingers came away silvered with frost.

The jaguar landed silently on its feet, white as moonlight and terrible as a nightmare.

"Not here," she growled. "But close. Close -- "

"Too close," said Zangetsu. "Those are expensive."

It was a miscalculation: the jaguar wheeled, tail switching, and Zangetsu watched his boots hit the window. The shadows swelled with distress, but crowded close to him, frightened by the unfamiliar cold.

"You -- " She did the usual double-take upon seeing him, but with a difference. It wasn't simple surprise on her face. It was something Zangetsu hadn't seen before.

"Whose are you?" she said.

It was recognition.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

The jaguar hissed in irritation.

"You can see me," she said. "You must be a sword. You look like a sword, but which Dream Reaper -- ?"

"I don't dream," he began to say, but that was when the windows shattered. The jaguar whirled around.

The night came in.

* * *

"A Horror," she said, but how she said it he did not know. She could not be speaking. He could not hear her. He couldn't hear anything except the howl of the oncoming storm.

He couldn't breathe. The weight on his chest was pressing down and pressing down and he could not open his eyes. Terror was sitting on his ribs. The shadows were gone, fled from him. He was naked, alone, in a stifling hot room. It was past bed-time and there was a hand on his stomach. Stay still. Be quiet.

He smothered a sob.

Can't let her know, can we?

Couldn't make any noise. He remembered now. He had been here before. He knew the rules.

Mustn't cry. Mustn't fight back.

The rumbling cough of the jaguar ripped through the dream. The winter-wind shredded it. The shadows rushed back, and Zangetsu's eyes snapped open.

The white cat crouched above him, blue eyes reflecting the light of a nightmare. Her teeth were bared. She was holding off the storm, though he didn't know how.

"You fool! Weakling! Jellyfish! Fight it!"

"What is it?" His voice was shaking, he noted distantly. He didn't know if he cared enough to be ashamed.

"A Horror," she said. "Everything bad that's ever happened you, every mischance, every grief, every calamity. It is all your nightmares personified."

She leapt off the bed. The floor juddered with the tussle, but he still did not dare look back. She was flung past him, a blur of furious white. She turned improbably in mid-air before she hit the wall, landed on all four feet, and pressed herself to the ground. The muscles under the glossy flank tensed.

"But it is only a monster," she said. "Nothing more than a monster. And monsters can be defeated!"

She pounced, snarling, on the thing behind him. He could not look. Cowardice was not simple, but he did not have the courage to be anything but complicated right now, when the stink of the past was in his nostrils. He could feel the warmth of the hand still.

He held up his own hand and saw that it trembled. The room was getting colder. He was still afraid.

A heavy body collided with the bedstead. It skittered across the floor. Zangetsu clutched the bedclothes with icy hands.

"Flee, cub," said the jaguar's voice. "Run. This is too dangerous for you."

"I've had enough of that," said Zangetsu, scarcely knowing what he said. But she was off again, back to the battle. A strange low stream of noise ran under the sounds of her fight, like a radio left switched on. There was laughter in it, and screaming, and crying.

And crying.

The jaguar yowled. He smelled blood, a sudden coppery scent on the air. The shadows gathered beneath him, resolved despite himself. They propelled him out of the bed, onto his feet, drew him around to meet the Horror --

It had a white face, on a comically ungainly black body. It swayed towards him, waving many-jointed arms, but its voice no longer held tears or memory in it, transformed into a mundane roar. It was only a monster after all.

The jaguar lay at its feet. She was not moving. There was red splashed on the white of the monster's skull-raw face.

"I've had enough of that," said Zangetsu, knowing what he meant now. But then, he'd always known what he meant. It didn't matter that nobody else had understood.

"Rukia." The jaguar's voice buzzed harsh with pain. The sword unfolded in his hand with a curious inevitability, a calm unsurprise. It was a white blade, and it would do, though it was only borrowed.

No, he didn't need understanding, but having it was more than comfort. It was joy. And Zangetsu had never known it before. That was reason enough to fight.

"Take her," whispered the jaguar. "Wield her well."

"Dream Reaper -- "

"The name is Sodeno Shirayuki." Gleam of blue eyes, still clear despite the blood that pooled on the floor. "You go for the head. Don't waste time biting the neck."

"Thank you."

The shadows cheered. Zangetsu brought up his sword.

He'd never so much as touched a knife outside the kitchen before. But it was only a monster he faced, and this. This he could do.

* * *

The cub collapsed after the fight. Shirayuki dragged herself over to where he lay, though the strength had gone out of her, and she could feel the blood matting her fur. She could not be far from the long sleep.

They say there are no dreams after death. Shirayuki did not know how she would endure it. And it would be worse to endure it alone, without her sword.

The cub was uninjured -- sleeping, Shirayuki saw. How strange. Perhaps the young did this. She had no previous experience with cubs.

She rolled him over, very gently, with a paw. The absence of any wound on the strange furless body was almost worth the emptiness of giving up her sword, and she wondered if this was how one felt with one's litter.

She had adopted the cub, perhaps, when she had passed him Rukia. Perhaps even before that, when she had struck the Horror off him. Salvation created debts on both sides. She was responsible for him now, for as long as she lived.

"For however long that is," she said, and laughed at herself, with a deep coughing not unlike the sound she made when she was angry. Zabimaru would growl, and hiss. Making promises even as she died: it was the sort of pointless exercise that angered him the most.

Even in the midst of her amusement, her promises held true. For it was warm, suddenly, as she would have expected it to be with herself so close to death, but there was a scent on the air that did not belong there.

And a sound -- the tinkle of bells, silver bells, jingle bells. It grew louder, crept in from the corners of the room, the tone of it warping and altering as shadows do when they move across the floor. But the cub's shadows were sleeping. This power was not his.

The giggle, when it came, was a shock greater than the Horror. It rang through the world like the bells had done.

Shirayuki's fur prickled, as at the advent of a thunderstorm.

She picked up the cub by the back of the neck, panting from the effort. She was too weak, too warm. She could not protect him like this. But he was her cub now, at least a little, so she pushed him against the nearest wall, dropping him and nudging him into place when her strength proved insufficient to hold him up. And she stood before him, covering him as best she could.

"Ding dong bell ... "

A fluttering noise. Paper?

"Pussy's in the well ... "

No, cards. Someone shuffling a deck of playing cards. Shirayuki had seen cards before. The 11th division was fond of them.

"Who put her in?"

"Who is there?" growled Shirayuki.

A sheaf of cards fanned out in front of her muzzle. She recoiled, and looked up into a painted face. It grinned with a blood-red mouth.

"Pick a card," said the jester. The bells on her cockscomb tinkled. "Any card."

She wore blood-red and bile-yellow. The edges of the darkness in the room were tinged with a red haze. Shirayuki was weak and dying and burdened with broken promises, but she was not blind yet.

"You're a Dream Reaper," she said. "Who are you?"

"Aha!" The jester flung out her hands. The cards shot out, describing a transitory white line in the dark. "The answer's on the cards."

The line broke; the cards fell. A shower of cards, each with the same face.

Gambling was beneath Shirayuki, but she had not been able to avoid learning some of the rules of the incessant card games. She knew what these were called, sometimes.

"The wild card," she said. She bared her teeth. She would keep her promises for as long as she could fight off sleep.

"Ah, ah! Not always," said the jester. She shook a finger at Shirayuki, her mad, mad smile never flickering. "Kitty doesn't know for sure. And when we don't know, we give the card the right name. Its true name."

The cards rose in the air, forming a circle around the jester.

"The Joker."

"Stay away," hissed Shirayuki, though her eyes were growing dim. The jester put her cold hands on Shirayuki's head. She could not shake them off.

"Aww, kitty's scared," crooned the jester. "It's okay, kitty. Don't you worry. Benihime'll make it all better."

What was she doing to Shirayuki? The jester's face blurred, the features running into each other. Shirayuki could not stay awake. Not safe, not safe --

But she could fight no longer.

"You found your trump card," whispered Benihime, as sleep claimed Shirayuki. "Now I'll show you how to use it."

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