Chapter Text
Ichigo leaned on his elbow and stared out the long, narrow windows of Shinōreijutsuin, the Shinigami Academy, and tried to wrap his head around just what the living fuck he was doing here.
Okay, not living fuck. Not any more.
DEAD fuck, apparently.
Because, after dropping the bomb that after defeating Yhwach Ichigo was just too damn powerful to go home to a normal life in Karakura, Captain-Commander Kyōraku casually let slip this little nugget: turns out Ichigo had been dead for years. Dead, like as a doorknob. DEAD. Deceased. Shuffled off this mortal coil! DEAD. No longer among the living. Pushing up daisies. Gone to join the choir eternal.
DEAD.
Yeah, apparently that whole ‘let’s throw your spirit in a pit and cut your Soul chain’ as a fun power-up exercise...? That’d finished the work Byakuya started.
It was a good damn thing Ichigo was barred from returning to the Human World because the first thing he’d do was fucking murder that manipulative, smug Urahara Kisuke. Urahara fucking killed him! And then, what? Never said a fucking peep. Never found it in him to be all, ‘Say, by the way, you’re dead now! Sorry for killing you and stuffing your spirit in a gigai, I meant to tell you, but the world needed saving, tut-tut!”
Motherfucker.
The worst part was that it kind of made sense in retrospect.
Like, it always confused Ichigo how he could come back from having gone full-on Vasto Lorde in Hueco Mundo. Ulquiorra should’ve killed him. Instead, Ichigo had experienced it as this long, never-ending fall, bottomless, like there was nothing… no destination to arrive at. There were other things, too, not the least of which was having, you know, all the shinigami powers even after Rukia’s power was restored to her. And how Kon could inhabit his ‘body’....
The bell chimed. Ichigo gathered up his books and followed the stream of fresh-faced eager Academy students out of the lecture hall. He let out a sigh as he checked his schedule. God damn it. Zanjutsu.
Ichigo was extremely tempted to skip. He had no idea what kind of trouble he’d be in if he blew off class and headed to whatever passed as the roof in this gods forsaken place, but he was sorely tempted to find out. The first day had been such a disaster. He’d at least known enough to leave Zangetsu in his dorm room, but even just doing the exercises with bokken had been like moving in super-slow motion.
He was more than a little advanced for this class.
But, what was he supposed to do? He’d tried telling the instructor that he had bankai already. She’d laughed, but when he insisted he was serious, she gave him double cleaning duty for the week.
Whatever.
At least it was a hour he wasn’t stuck learning basic math. Apparently, high school Calculus had not yet been invented in the Soul Society.
At the door to the dojo, Ichigo slipped off his sandals. Following the other students, he pulled a bokken off the rack and plopped down on the floor in seiza. The instructor gave him the stink eye. “Could you not do everything with a bad attitude, Mr. Kurosaki?”
Dead gym teachers were EXACTLY as annoying as the living ones he’d left back in Karakura Town. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that, anyway? But, she was still glaring at him like she expected some response, so he said, “Sorry, I’ll be better.”
He’d been going for contrite, but the only language he seemed fluent in these days was sarcasm. Why could he never sound like he gave a fuck? Oh, right, probably because he couldn’t muster a single one.
“I think what you’ll be is my sparring partner today,” she sneered.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he hopped to his feet. His fellow students shot Ichigo pitying glances, like they were legit sorry for him that he was going to get his ass handed to him for the day. Well, maybe it’d happen. But, given the fact that he’d beaten the Kenpachi, it didn’t seem likely.
Still, he told himself as he bowed in, never underestimate the power of an irritated sword-form instructor.
Plus, it wasn’t like he was going to have Zangetsu as an ally. No bankai. It was just going to be bashing each other with sword-shaped sticks. Ichigo had been in judo, not kendo. The rules were different in a classroom.
Right, so Ichigo had to take Hitomi-sensei seriously as an opponent. She was tiny and fierce like Soi Fon. A little rounder in the hips, but that only served to make her seem more solid, more formidable. Her gray hair was cropped short and kind of sticky-uppy like Kensei’s. In fact, she kind of looked like she could be Kensei’s murderous grandma. She had that same ‘I either want to punch you or put on an apron and make you dinner’ look in her beady eyes that Kensei often did.
Without even realizing it, Ichigo had been circling Hitomi-sensei, while testing the weight of the bokken.
“I see you’ve held a weapon before,” she noted. “Are you from the Rukongai?”
“No, Hu--” He almost told her the truth, but Ichigo swallowed it back remembering how well she’d taken the whole bankai thing. The Rukongai was where he WOULD be from if he’d done things properly, right? “Yeah, basically? I mean, I guess.”
For some reason the whole class found Ichigo’s response hillarious. When he turned to give them, the ‘what’s so funny?’ glare, Hitomi-sensei went for a sucker move. Her bokken swung for his head, so fast the wood whistled.
Ichigo ducked at the same moment his sword arm went to up block it without even a thought. The wooden swords met with a hard, echoing crack.
The entire class sucked in a shocked breath. At least one dude in the back whistled, “Holy shit!”
“Mmmm, you have good instincts,” Hitomi-sensei said. “What district?”
District? What was she even asking him? Oh, right, the Rukongai was divided into sections. She was asking where he was from. Fuck. This was the problem with lying. Ichigo had no fucking clue. Did Rukongai districts have names or just numbers? Crap, Ichigo had no idea. Where was Rukia from? It was the same place as Renji. It was on the tip of his tongue. Something about a dog? “Oh...um… Inuzuri?”
Okay, that was apparently the WRONG answer because now everyone was staring at him like he’d just let out the loudest, most noxious fart. Ichigo could not figure out this reaction. Did he pronounce Inuzuri wrong? Was it a homonym for something rude?
“Indeed?” the instructor sniffed. For some reason, she motioned the class to get up off their knees. They jumped up like the floor was on fire. “Your accent is deceptive, Mr. Kurosaki.”
“O-kay,” he said cautiously, while thinking, note to self: ask Renji and Rukia about what the fuck is up with Inuzuri ASAP. Especially since accent? Sure, when he first met Rukia she sounded like she came out of some Edo period stage play, but Renji… he just sounded like all the tough guys down the street. So, what accent?
“However, I would not have expected you to be so familiar with such an… advanced weapon,” Hitomi-sensei continued.
A bokken was advanced weaponry in Inuzuri? But, so what? What was the point of this conversation. “That’s nice.”
“Sensei,” she said, “Address me Hitomi-sensei.”
“Okay. That’s nice, Hitomi-sensei. Did you have a point?”
Apparently, her point was to try to kill him for being so impudent, because up went the sword again. Ichigo had plenty of time to react this time. The trouble was going to be not going for the killing blow. He had to concentrate and only parry, block, and defend. Given how ticked off Hitomi-sensei was at his mouthing off, Ichigo did not figure a hard poke in the solar plexus would make her like him any better.
It was hard. He had to pull back several times when he could have gotten a clean shot in. She noticed it, too. Every time he hesitated, she went after him harder and with more complex attacks.
But, no offense, sensei-ma’am, you ain’t no Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez.
The class was rapt. Ichigo heard the occasional gasp and hoot from the peanut gallery. His fellow students had spread out into a semicircle on the outside of the dojo’s interior ring. Sensei kept trying to push Ichigo out of bounds, but he was not willing to bring the fight that close to anyone who could get hurt in the crossfire, so he dodged her attempts.
She was sweating hard. Her face was red. Ichigo really thought she’d have given up by now.
Finally, it dawned on Ichigo. She couldn’t quit until she’d put him down.
Winning against him was a matter of face--as a teacher, and maybe the whole Inuzuri thing that Ichigo had flubbed somehow.
Okay, okay, Ichigo thought to himself. I can do this. I can let her win. Just… just take a fall. C’mon, do it. All you have to do is hold still. Let her get a one in. This isn’t hard. It’s not like it’s gonna really hurt. It’s a piece of wood. Aizen blew half your spine off. This is not that fight. This is just a silly, stupid game. Let the teacher win. C’mon. STOP. FIGHTING.
Except, his body wouldn’t listen. Ichigo literally did not know how not to fight.
The bell rang.
Ichigo waited. He hoped the class would disperse or that the teacher would finally decide to call it a draw… nope, still coming at him, still coming hard.
Fuck it.
Ichigo filled his last swing with reiatsu. Not murderously strong, but enough to surprise her and push her back….
Then he stepped into shunpo and flew out the goddamn window like a punk.
#
He stepped down in the quad. Lots of people gave him a double-take when he slid out of flash step, especially when they saw the blue cadet stripe on his uniform. Ichigo dropped the bokken in the grass.
Up in the window of the zanjutsu class, faces filled the window trying to spot him. He could hear people shouting his name. He ducked under the canopy of a huge, gnarled oak tree. Pressing his back against the bark, he slid down the trunk. His butt hit the grass with a thump. “Well, that sucked.”
He looked at his hands, turning the palms up. There was hardly any redness there, only a little sweat. Steady, firm… already aching for the next fight.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” Resting his arms on his upraised knees, Ichigo tilted his head back. The sunlight dappled the broad oak leaves. The breeze smelled of coming rain. Peaceful.
Ichigo closed his eyes.
The Captain-Commander was right about him. He couldn’t go back to the Human World.
Not like this.
What did he tell Kyōraku he was going to do with his life--teach in a dojo? Was he insane? If he didn’t know how to stop, let go, and take a hit, how would he keep from hurting someone one day?
Just before everyone had left for the Human World, Ichigo had finally managed to ask Orihime what she was planning to do with her life. Culinary Arts School. It made perfect sense. She’d really loved working at that bakery. Her and food… well, it was definitely a passion.
Chad had already been making an okay living with his band. His plan was to finish high school and do odd jobs for as long as the band could get gigs. After that, he wasn’t sure. The drummer was some kind of mechanic. Chad thought maybe that’d suit him.
But, they all fit somewhere. Even Uryu had his plans to be a fashion designer or tailor or whatever.
Not Ichigo.
He’d never put a lick of thought into his future. All he had ever done was go from one fight to the next.
And here he was--dead and fucking beating up on old lady teachers.
Yeah, no more classes for him today. He was done. Ichigo was going to take his chances and skip out. Picking himself up off his ass, he headed to the dorm.
#
Academy dorms were pretty much exactly how Ichigo imagined college dorms would be. First years, which Ichigo technically was, had these two basic, one-story barracks buildings; boys in one building; girls in the other. Ichigo was assigned a room the size of a cheap Tokyo apartment and a roommate---some timid, skinny kid named Naoki or Orochi or fuck if Ichigo could remember.
It’d be cramped if Ichigo had anything other than Zangetsu.
Was he sad about that? Ichigo couldn’t honestly decide. It wasn’t like he had anything really precious back home. Except jeans. He’d fucking kill for a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt. He missed manga, too. Well, more he missed the weekly trek down to the train station to pick up Weekly Shounen Jump from the newsstand.
And his iPod. Life without music sucked. And all the new releases he was missing? He had no chance at being cool, anymore. Not that he ever really was. Ichigo’s taste in bands was too eclectic. Another thing he’d kill for? His phone and a decent internet connection.
But what would he do with his Twitter account? Cyberstalk his living friends? #StillDead
He plunked down on the floor, looking around at the Academy issued futon that stupid Orochi/Naoki hadn’t even bothered to roll up.
Why’d he have to get assigned a slob? Ichigo stood back up and started gathering up empty ramen bowls, wadded up tabi, and other various detritus. He set them in a tidy pile in the corner of what’s-his-name’s side of the room and then rolled up the futon. More shit fell out of that. After putting the futon in its closet, Ichigo picked up the rest. He was headed down the hall to try to find the communal broom when he was approached by another cadet. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know where the broom and dustbin might--”
“You’re Kurosaki Ichigo, right?”
“Uh, I think it depends who’s asking,” Ichigo said, still a little worried about reprisals from zanjutsu.
Kid just shrugged and jerked his thumb in the direction of the main hall. “Your mailbox is full.”
“Wait, I get mail?”
The guy shook his head. “Mid-term transfers are the worst. Yeah, you get mail. No one showed you?”
#
Ichigo brought an armful of letters back to his room. It seemed half the Gotei and most of his Human World friends had written. Dummo Dad even sent a postcard from somewhere called “Cincinnati, Ohio.” The card was otherwise pretty blank--just the one sentence: “Still above the ground. Daddy-O.”
Above the ground, great. Ichigo was so not in the mood for dead jokes, especially since Dummo Dad was still apparently shirking dad duty at home. The letter from the twins came from Karakura.
Ichigo tore that one open first and scanned Karin’s cramped handwriting. Apparently, the big lug from Urahara Shoten--Tessai?--came by to give them the news. Karin made some snarky comment about how she always knew Ichigo was a “DEADbeat older brother.” They didn’t seem too fussed that Dummo Dad had done a runner, maybe because it sounded like Urahara had taken over the financial stuff. Ichigo put down the letter for a moment, thought about that for about five seconds, and then decided he didn’t want to know why Dummo Dad had given some perverted shopkeeper financial power of attorney. But, Ichigo breathed a little easier knowing they were set. They weren’t going to end up homeless waiting for Dad to get his fucking shit together. The rest of the letter was filled with news about Japan’s sports teams and a P.S. from Yuzu reminding Ichigo “to eat.”
Orihime’s letter was less than half a page. Her looping calligraphy seemed stiff and formal, like she wasn’t sure what to say. Chad’s, meanwhile, was seven pages long and filled not only with news about his band and job hunt, but also all the gossip from all the cliques in high school and doodles of caricatures of the teachers, as well.
Yhwach had clearly body-swapped them at some point, Ichigo thought with a fond shake of his head.
Keigo wrote a little too earnestly about everything, and left Ichigo with an uncomfortable bit of information: “Did you know these letters are being sent to you by burning them at the altar Yuzu set up for you? How creepy is that?”
Pretty fucking creepy. Thanks, Keigo.
Also, according to Mizuiro, Kyōraku had given them some kind of Soul Passes so they could come and visit. Apparently, the Captain-Commander visited MONTHS ago. Like, in the middle of the damn war.
Setting that one aside, Ichigo moved onto the Gotei pile. Rukia’s letter was very hurried. She wrote stuff about the captaincy test, gushing about how happy she was that Byakuya was super-proud of her, and sadness about Ukitake’s passing. Apparently, the two Third Seats were inconsolable.
Renji’s note just said that if Ichigo beat his Academy record he’d fucking kill him.
That made Ichigo smile. Though at this point, the only record he was likely to break was the speed at which he got expelled.
There was some kind of group “Get Well” card from the Eleventh Division. On which someone with a really flowery hand--maybe Yumichika?--had written “The Captain wants you back here ASAP. Also, he calls dibs.”
Dibs? On what?
The very last piece of mail was a weird blank envelope. For some reason, maybe because of the lack of any other indication of who it might be from, Ichigo felt compelled to put it to his nose. Instantly, he smelled the oaken scent of autumn.
Aizen.
Cautiously, as if afraid of what he might find, Ichigo pried open the envelope and unfolded the letter.
Wow! No shit Aizen was a calligraphy master, his handwriting was gorgeous. Like fucking art work! Not perfect and blocky, but with so much… flourish? Emotion? Poetry? But, all of the beauty of the penmanship was in stark contrast to the very Aizen-like content:
Kurosaki Ichigo:
I thought a lot about what you said about my inability to practice calligraphy and decided that I would make a habit of writing to you in order that I might, in this small way, continue my hobby.
I would say that I trust that you are settling in well at Academy, but I highly doubt that you are. It is a monumental folly to force you to attend that wretched, hidebound institution. At best, you’ll be bored out of your mind; at worst, your prodigious and innate talent as a warrior will be hammered into the dull and useless boilerplate of a common soldier.
I highly recommend escape.
In fact, should you need a place to retreat to, I have an old bolt hole not far from the first year dorm. If it still stands, it should still be well stocked with tea. There is chocolate hidden in a natural refrigerator under the tatami--as well as reading material, though I suspect you will not find forbidden Kidō theory nearly as fascinating as I did.
I have included a detailed map. The only caveats are, of course, that you will have to find your own way over the wall and I can’t guarantee that Rukongai bandits have not, after all these intervening years, discovered it and picked it clean.
Should the bolt hole still be useful, however, I would like you to consider it yours now. Decorate it as you will. You may, of course, dispose of the old Periodic Table of Elements poster as well as the dartboard featuring the then Head Master’s face. I’m afraid I was a rather ‘nerdy’ and frustrated young cadet. My taste in decor was appalling and pedestrian.
Yours,
Aizen Sousuke
Ichigo read the letter twice. Then, he flipped it over and studied the map printed on the other side. Aizen’s map was likewise amazing. It included a key to calculate scale and latitude and longitude.
‘Rather’ nerdy? Jeez, how long did it take Aizen to make this map, anyway?
When Ichigo flipped the letter back over, he noticed something else kind of startling. Aizen had signed his name. Had it been a mistake… reflex? Or…? A sign of trust?
Ichigo folded Aizen’s letter and tucked it inside his kosode.
Right, now the only question in Ichigo’s mind was did he check out this secret hideout now or ten minutes ago.