An Irishman in Karakura [Closed/Watari]

Watari stood in the air of Karakura Town, what was it about this place that was so poignant? Hatayama had answered the question once, apparently leylines of spiritual energy that crisscrossed the globe all converged onto this point at least once. It was essentially a hot spot, a veritable cesspool of untamed energy that unnaturally drew anything and everything to this place. The walls of the Garganta were thinner here, so naturally Hollow poured from every pour, the babies born were strange and mystical and to compensate Shinigami had to come to balance the Hollow.

But Shinigami weren’t the only slayers of Hollow - Quincy. A word that previously had not only been alien but completely negligible to Watari had now risen to the top like some sort of oily film on his mind. What they were - what they’d done - had set a cold fury bubbling in Watari. It was funny, if he was to be asked three months ago “what would be the one thing that’d anger you unlike anything else?” the near death state of Yuki Kameko would not have been at the top of that list.

He’d let it simmer. He didn’t know. Watari Suzumei never acted unless he knew. Of those clues only a few things were certain, it was an unknown foe, it had a burning weapon and most definitely wasn’t truly human. Watari had weighed up tying Raphael to a chair and making him scream until he spat out every secret he knew about spiritual humans, but Watari liked Raphael and more importantly Watari doubted that Raphael even had Quincy on the radar.

So there it had sat, like a boil on his mind growing bigger and bigger, oozing frustration. Frustration at becoming better, frustration at what had happened to Yuki, Watari’s one source of “good” that he had left in this cold world and then . . . and then . . . Zenji Hatayama the meek! The cowardly! The holy man of Soul Society had had a meeting with him and tells him about these rats, these slayers of Hollow, these monks of destruction -

Quincy.

Things to be exterminated.

A declaration of war?

Heaven hath no fury like a Suzumei scorned.

So Watari had left Soul Society and walked through the skies of Karakura and there he had sat. Dead in the middle of the sky. Watching. Waiting.

BA-DUM
BA-DUM
BA-DUM

Bezaliel was quiet. Did it know? No, Bezaliel agreed, he could tell. There were many things Bezaliel and he needed to do, but this? This trumped all the others. Yuki wasn’t just a person, a lover or even his wife - she was a beacon of what he could be. He could be better. He really could. But if Yuki had died? His dream of being loved and even to an extent feeling love, was nothing.

QUINCY.

There in the distance. An unfamiliar spiritual pressure flickered - alien yet familiar. At the same time he noticed the presence, a Hollow made its way through a tear in the sky and Watari flicked his sword hand, separating the beast’s limbs.

It howled struggling in his grip as Bezaliel was resheathed at his side. The flailing corpse of the Hollow called for something to kill it, as it’s sockets bled freely into the night below. Once, Watari had found it ironic that a “Hollow Bait” had been cracked here, it seemed that this “Hollow Bait” was perfect for a particular kind of foe.

An athletic man, clearly human, came bounding through the sky, black hair and distinctly european. Foreigner? They always were these humans, weren’t they? His spiritual pressure reeked of a similar kind to the spiritual pressure he’d traced on Yuki’s battered form.

Watari’s eyes grew soft as he snapped the Hollow’s neck and chucked the torso into the town below. His posture slouched in typical Suzumei fashion, he didn't care, why would he care? This was just another human in the middle of the night and he'd just been finishing disposing of a Hollow.

"Be Bill"

“Evening Friend, beautiful night to be killing Hollow ain't it”

If a lone Shinigami meets a Quincy in the dead of night in Karakura.

Will that Quincy make a sound?

“It’s weird isn’t it - this town? You ever think that if any of those gods of fate were real they’d probably spend most of their time weaving their tapestry here? Everything happens here friend, keep that in mind because whether you want to or not, it’ll whisk you away” Bill mused as he stared into the city, somewhere down there were the real Quincy, the ones that knew what toxic blood ran through their veins. This guy? He could already tell, before he’d even asked what he was, this guy was new. This guy was just like Raphael. Fresh. Foolish. Vulnerable. You know, in a way that was Watari being nice, a solitary warning, get away friend, leave now, don’t come back before it’s too late.

Too late.

He didn’t know what a Shinigami was? There was a cruel irony in that, Watari seriously doubted Yuki knew what a Quincy was before they did what they did to her. The Shinigami needed to calm himself, to steel his resolve. He was getting too caught up in his rampant emotions over what they’d done. There was a time and a place but that place wasn’t now, because right now, he was Bill, he’d thank Reika for that much later.

“Bill” Bill smiled pulling from his robe a small silver flask filled with whiskey, he slowly unscrewed the top and took a small sip from it, letting the hot liquid run to his belly and warm his already burning veins. No poison. No toxin. No nothing. Be better. Apparently everybody respects you more when you don't use poison.

“Yeah, they call us Shinigami, we’re tasked with keeping the balance and making sure you humans don’t get caught up in the whole crossfire, but that doesn’t seem to be a problem for you friend” Bill took another swig and proffered the silver flask towards Diarmaid to take, Bill could be better than Watari after all, Bill was the sort of guy you could befriend. Nice guy that Bill really cared about humans and wanted all the best for them and this Diarmaid guy didn’t seem too bad, maybe they could become pals, find out who hurt Yuki and really create an alliance where Shinigami and Quincy could thrive.

“You’re doing me a kindness after all”

The weapon manifested in Diarmaid’s grasp, blazing blue fire, he knew? No, his body language said he was completely comfortable with everything that was transpiring. He had no idea, he was just doing it to show what he was. How ignorant was he? He knew what a Shinigami was but wasn’t afraid? So then why in the Soul King’s accursed name had Yuki been attacked if all Quincy were like this? It made no Soul King damned sense and it pulled on the corners of frustration within Watari’s brain.

Unless this Quincy was mocking him? Look what I did to your hope Watari, I struck down your hope and left her for dead in this city where the Hollow pour from every pore. Look Watari, I have the power to do it to you too but I’m not going to. Look Watari, I want to fight! So I can burn you and defile you like I defiled your hope. The Shinigami could only watch those glazed eyes as the man took the silver flask from him and drank from it.

That amber liquid.

Running down his throat.

Bill would’ve nodded and smiled, maybe teased Diarmaid like he had with Reika. Bill really was great, he was what Watari wanted to be, a good guy - wee bit of an asshole at times but good natured. The type of guy that people wanted to be around because their laughter was as infectious as their personality and they didn’t need plans because their charm was their weapon.

Watari could see Bezaliel in the distance, shifting into view, an oak door stood open in space, beyond what looked to be the barracks from the Suzumei estate. He could almost reach out and touch it - go beyond that open door and back into that room. No, he wouldn’t make the choice yet.

Bill was better.

But Watari wasn’t Bill.

“I’m sorry for what you are friend,” Bill said softly, as Watari ran Bezaliel through the man’s soul sleep. The move was simple, it happened in a few moments, to fully enjoy the experience of torturing Diarmaid above Karakura, Watari was going to remove the only thing the Quincy actually had.

Watari tsked in his head as his Zanpakuto passed through, he was inches off, just far enough that the man wouldn’t lose his powers completely but enough that he’d be like a wounded animal. It was like knicking a vital artery, the results would be immediate - maybe fatal but not as quick a death as would’ve been achieved if he was a tiny bit more accurate.

The butcher would draw the blade from Diarmaid and just stare at him as his lifeblood dripped from the tip of the Zanpakuto, there was a morbid satiety in drawing the blood from a pig. Maybe if Watari had been a bit more accurate the Quincy would’ve squealed?

“I warned you dog, I warned you about the tapestry man” Bill whined, he hadn’t wanted to do that! That was all Watari, stupid murderous Watari this was why they couldn’t have any friends. He blamed Yuki of course, but so did Watari, if she’d just married them like Watari wanted then maybe she wouldn’t have gone to the human world and if she hadn’t gone to the human world then . . .

Bill watched and Watari waited.

He was falling.

Which one of them was falling?

Not Bill that was for sure, ol’ Bill just had to watch and let Watari do his thing, great guy that Watari always knew exactly where to hit it really was a shame that he’d decided to be better. It wasn’t Bill’s fault he’d let the blade not be ‘perfect’ but that was Watari right? Shameless to a fault. Silly guy.

Watari tsked as blue lines crisscrossed the man’s chest as he fell? What the hell was this, some trick? Stuck pigs really should let themselves bleed out, it ruined the meat you know. Whatever the Quincy was doing he was distinctly less destabilized in spiritual pressure than what Watari was comfortable with, so while before he’d been content to just watch his tragic descent, he fell to.

Just as he noticed a glint in the distance as they fell, hurtling downward he knew what it was, felt what it was - it was a searing heat, an alien spiritual pressure that seemed to want to wipe everything clear, it was foreign and unnatural and it hummed through the night sky searing upwards and towards Watari.

Ah. This. This explained Yuki’s wounds. Why she’d taken such damage. Same situation. Alien weaponry, she hadn’t known - he hadn’t known, the burning was . . .

Watari roared as he slammed the tip of Bezaliel into the tip of the spear causing it to explosively detonate and yet he still pushed on, he resisted the flames as they licked up his arm burning away his sleeve and scouring his flesh. He was Watari Suzumei, the scarred! The one who suffered! The last of the Suzumei Brothers. Watari would not falter to some childish burning.

He felt.

“FEE”

His blood raced through his veins as old fairy tales he use to tell with his brothers played in his head. He in tandem felt Bezaliel falling beside him, guiding his Zanpakuto arm onwards as the pain became a dull throb somewhere in the back of his mind.

The alleyway.

“FI”

Watari’s feet touched concrete as he looked around? Where was the pig? Little pig, little pig, why are you hiding? Didn’t you know Shinigami could smell you?

“FO”

There, that dumpster, that was where he was hiding.

“FUM”

Watari rammed his Zanpakuto through the metal.

“I SMELL THE BLOOD OF THE IRISHMAN”

He could hear it, the drip drip of blood on stone. Watari hadn’t felt this alive since Yuki, this was probably why he had been so bothered by it all - to be better simply wasn’t to be a better person morally it was to live your best life and so far, he was really getting into the meat of that. It was unfortunate, he could’ve sworn the man was in the dumpster but perhaps he’d imagined that? No, that sickly sweet spiritual pressure was definitely around here somewhere.

“I hear you, I sense you, come on out Quincy so I can bleed you dry” would Yuki actually want him to do this? Well, come to think of it, she probably would, stabbing somebody in the body from the front after all was way more acceptable than downing them with poison. She’d that herself! As long as they fought, as long as they were gripped in the heat of battle - that was all Yuki cared about - violence and bloodshed.

The Quincy stood, humming with blue energy as it intertwined and interlocked around him, Soul King be damned these Monks of Destruction sure didn’t know when to sit down and let themselves be destroyed. Hypocrites! Watari spun Bezaliel in hand, well, you can bring a pig to the slaughterhouse but that didn’t mean they were going to go down easily.

The Butcher of the Suzumei channeled his own spiritual pressure against his Zanpakuto, focussing and hardening it a bright orange ember ran down his arm and blade before flashing into flames across the length of the weapon.The Burning Blade was a technique that Watari had refined over the passed few weeks and finally he could summon the flames from his weapon, the side effect was he also had licks of flame burning his arm, but since he’d already suffered damage from Diarmaid it was pretty negligible.

Watari smiled as the Quincy thrust his spear at him but the Shinigami’s flames were brighter, he parried the blow flicking the glowing spear downward as he punched Diarmaid across the jaw.

"Didn't they tell you not to play with fire Quincy?"

“Oh you're funny! You’re a really funny guy Diarmaid” Bill chuckled as Watari predicted the savage thrust that the Quincy threw at him - too slow, your weapon’s damaged, your reflexes are slowing and he was faster. The burning spear really was sickeningly beautiful but there was no way he was going to let himself be struck by it again, the Shinigami parried once more the flat of Bezaliel meeting the already fractured tip of the reishi spear, on contact the spear exploded in Diarmaid’s hands sending them both backwards.

Watari was sent flying and regained purchase mid air, landing on his two feet and sliding further back as his hand clawed into the ground grinding his fingernails and slowing his slide. The Shinigami snarled as he saw Diarmaid across the alley.

“C’mon Mate, stand up” Bill commented as Watari crossed the alleyway towards the fallen Quincy, well Yuki would probably be right about one thing - because it seemed to be the only rhetoric that ever came out of her mouth about fighting - at least it was fun. Note to self, Quincy weapons are unstable and breaking them in that state causes explosions, further note to self Quincy seem to demonstrate some form of pain reduction technique which forces the reishi threads to reduce the level of bleeding, further further note to self, they don’t fucking squeal.

“Hey” Watari whispered, standing over Diarmaid who was barely holding it together, his blood and spiritual pressure seeped out of him as the Shinigami placed a foot over the other man’s knee as he lay there barely conscious. He reached down and grabbed the man by the hair as he pulled him up so that he could look him in those big ol’ golden eyes of his.

“When they find you, can you tell them it was a mercy that I kept you alive? It’s a sign, like what they did to her - you tell them that okay? From me ? Actions have consequences kids, now you all are going to pay the price” the Head of the Suzumei slammed his foot down, shattering the man’s knee and hearing a sickening pop. He let the flames on his sword die and raised a hand letting a butterfly crawl from his sleeve and hop up onto the brickwall of the alley.

Wow,

This was cathartic.

Damn, could just put the piggy out of his misery right now, direct blow to the head he’d be out like a light - it’d be a kindness but not the kind of kindness that Watari was interested in sharing with anyone right now. Diarmaid was a sign, a sign for what was to come, a purge had happened before and it would come again and they deserved it. Watari didn’t care about the balance, he didn’t care about Zenji’s divine mandate and his matching drive to annihilate an entire race. All Watari cared about was taking one back.

You hurt one of mine.

I hurt one of yours.

Easy as pie.

The Head of the Suzumei liked to think there was an untold rule amongst the nobility now that you simply never crossed Watari Suzumei, it was a simple rule to understand. Watari was a force in amongst his own, he operated with kindness and mercy and assuming you never ever crossed him then you would probably be better off.

Condemning an entire race though? Wasn’t that an act of insanity? Bill could see the reasoning, but that simply wasn’t true. Quincy were a boil on the surface of humanity and what did you do with boils? You punctured them and let them drain out. What they were doing was a service that Shinigami had done for millions of years, it just so happened that Watari himself was the one to do it this time and it started with Diarmaid.

He was doing the right thing, for the Shinigami and for Yuki.

“Geez man, you aren’t going to die, I just need you to be a sign is all, for the rest of them”

Bill crouched down next to Diarmaid as his shallow labored breaths were a sign he was nearing the clutches of death. He’d leave him with the flask, it was a keepsake after all, a sign of their could-be friendship or course Watari had dashed that into the mud but Bill could see why it was necessary. Quincy were Quincy, they were just an unfortunate byproduct that Shinigami seemed to hate.

“It’s a shame mate, it really is, we coulda been best pals but the Soul King decided your lot and he’s a nasty old miser” Bill’s hand would glow briefly a sharp green light as he stabilized the man’s spiritual pressure, it’d give him a few more hours. Watari however deepend the pressure just a bit, so that it would radiate to any Quincy in the area, essentially turning Diarmaid into a glorified injured calling card.

The Senkaimon glowed to life over the brickwork, a brilliant door to the Soul Society.

“Here’s to you mate” Bill whispered as he vanished beyond the door.

/EXXIT

Kevin was more or less recovered after nearly two weeks of bed rest under Meridith’s watchful eye following his encounter with the wizard Shinigami he had taken to calling Lo Pan after the villainous sorcerer in Big Trouble in Little China. From what she told him, he was lucky to have been alive. On the surface, he only had his broken leg to deal with, but his internal organs had taken considerable damage from being tossed around so much. Tack on the concussion he got from getting smacked with the staff and the sheer volume of spiritual energy that collided with and shot from his hand and it did not make for a pretty picture.

Her healing hands had saved him, though, and he was going to see fit to repay that kindness now that he could walk again. It was this desire that had gotten him out of the house and, feeling like surprising her with a tasty treat from Karakura’s best rated taco shop, he had left on a mythical carryout journey. He had initially set out feeling pizza, but, upon rounding the corner away from the hotel she was holed up in, decided to throw a changeup.

It was in such a state that Kevin, equipped with a jumbo sampler bag containing various beef, chicken, and steak tacos felt his spiritual senses perk up as he smelled a coppery tinge piercing through the aroma of the taco bag. Someone had been fighting, and they were fighting way too close to Meridith’s place. He hastily pulled out his phone and started a Face Time call with her so she could ride along in case something bad happened again.

He arrived near an alleyway leading to the strange spiritual occurrence and, setting the taco bag gently on a nearby bench, slipped on his pitchers mitt. If this was a Shinigami, he wasn’t getting caught with his pants down again. No, Kevin was going to do this the way he had originally imagined just such a showdown beginning.

Using his non-gloved hand, Kevin flipped through his phone and started the theme song from Pacific Rim. His spiritual pressure surged, the sound of a crowd beginning to bleed into the alleyway as he prepped a heater behind the mitt. After shaking out his arms and fixing his tie, Kevin loudly called out in English so that whatever foe waited him in the alley would know what was coming. ”Making his way to the mound, with a seasonal ERA or 2.51, give it up for Pittsburgh’s own Kevin DuBrow!”

He slipped his voice back into his own as he stepped around the corner, ready to kick some ass. ”Okay, you son of a bitch. Let’s do t-” he started, ending his badass march as he noticed that the source of the spiritual signal was actually a severely injured man. ”Oh fuck! Are you okay, stranger?” he asked as he rushed forward, flipping to Japanese after an exclamation in his native tongue and kneeling by the injured man to see if he looked to be able to move. As he hit the ground, Kevin shifted the energy from the ball up into his hand, giving his arm a light glow.

If this was some kind of trap, he wasn't about to give himself up without a fight.

It wasn’t the sound that woke him up, at this point nothing short of an explosion could pull the dying Quincy from the abyss but the sudden rush of fear and anger he felt as Reiatsu washed over him was enough to startle him to a semi-awake status believing that the Shinigami had returned. However even through the fog of pain he soon felt the comforting flutter of Quincy Spiritual Pressure, although there seemed to be a momentary roaring as if he was dying to the cheers of a bloodthirsty colosseum.

The voice spoke English called down the alley towards him and was strangely comforting to hear the more familiar language. A man knelt next to him and the comforting sensation of a fellow Quincy became prevalent. Through half-open eyes Diarmaid couldn’t help but force a weak smile onto his face at the question.

“N… not really.” he replied softly in English, too pained to summon up his Japanese linguistic skills. “Be..careful, Shinigami stabbed me… shattered my knee..”

Instinctively Diarmaid tried to shift his weight but stopped as he let out a cry of pain as it momentarily felt like his entire leg was on fire. Fuck it hurt. He was going to drive his spear through that bastard Bill’s throat if it was the last thing he ever did. At least the pain was useful, it helped keep him awake, although he was currently balancing that fine line between staying conscious but not throwing up from the agony.

As his vision swam he blinked a few times to focus on the stranger. “He… said it was… a sign… message. Mercy.” he added trying to laugh but the sounding coming out wet and gurgling before he shuddered and hissed in pain.

He gave up speaking, feeling too exhausted, winded and sore to continue speaking for the moment, he tried to summon Blut once more hoping it could perhaps dull the pain or, at least, slow the bleeding which was still running around freely down his chest. Unfortunately although the Reishi swam around him for a moment but he failed to conjure enough to flood his bloodstream. Shit.

Once he caught his breath he ventured another attempt at speech. “Don-don’t suppose… you’ve any fancy… healing magic?” he attempted with a wry smile. He’d met a Spiritualist back home who could heal, he was something of a Druid really, but he’d never heard of a Quincy that was capable of much more than destruction, or creating tools for destruction, so it was a bit of a vain hope.

”I don’t, but I can get you to someone who does,” Kevin said in English as he let the gathered particles dissipate so he can use his phone without worrying about blasting it to pieces. After quickly punching in explanation to Meridith and asking her for a location to meet with this guy, he put it back in his pocket and waited for a buzz back.

”There’s lots of those fuckers out lately. Don’t worry, my friend’ll be able to fix you up. One of them broke my leg a while back too, but she got me up and running again.” Kevin intimately knew the kinds of pain this guy’s leg must be in, but it looked like he’d fared worse in his throwdown. Examining the wounds, Kevin supposed that the lack of scorching meant the Shinigami that had recently fled the scene hadn’t been the same wizard type he’d run into.

A vibration from his pocket pulled Kevin’s eyes down. With a smile at Meridith’s instructions, he looked back to the wincing fellow. ”Good news, champ. The doctor has an opening. C’mon, let’s get you moving. This might hurt a bit, so tell me if you need me to set you down.”

With that, Kevin took off from the scene, the stranger held in his arms. He wasn’t as lightweight as Meridith, but Kevin’s strong athlete build made it an easy task. He’d almost gotten a storefront away when he suddenly threw on the brakes, turned back around, and slid the taco bag into the lap of the injured man. A few seconds wouldn’t make or break his survival, but Meridith was sure to need something to eat after the amount of energy she’d be spending trying to patch him up.

\\EXIT