tampered | COMPLETE!

COMPLETE!

When: Sun. May 6th, evening
Rating: G<—>PG.
Characters: Uryuu (

sciencedaughter)
Summary: Uryuu may think he’s got this “avoid the shinigami” think under control, but Nemu doesn’t plan to give him much of a choice.
Log;

It was easy to tell himself he didn’t regret it; after all, Ishida Uryuu hated shinigami. That simple fact had been the central focus of his character ever since the day his sensei died. He hated the shinigami, always had, and in the face of such facts it would be ridiculous to regret his promise. Kurotsuchi-san and all the rest were not his problem.

So, of course Ishida did not cast solemn looks at the small, notebook computer that had come (strangely) with the room. The seventeenth room, in the third building, on the third floor. Not as he stirred rice on his stove, his wrist unconsciously jerking round to the beat provided by the ticking. Not as he sat with a glass bowl and chopsticks at the table, and not as he threaded a needle with white and began to stitch a tear in his Quincy cape. Purchasing a standard pair of black slacks and an appropriate blue shirt had not been a problem; removing the buttons in favor of a better fastener for it had been slightly more annoying. He couldn’t go around in his Quincy garments all day, every day.

The tear was quickly enough mended, and Ishida stood so to fold up his cape and put it with the rest of his Quincy clothing. “They’ll need a little bleach,” he muttered, eying the dried, brown bloody patch on his shirt, soon covered as he patted down his cape. Sliding the drawer closed, Ishida remained standing, looking around the empty room. His head ached in a quiet, not completely adjusted way, the tick-tock-ticking not a little maddening.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Nemu started to answer his question, but snapped her mouth shut sharply when he cut himself off, not wanting to answer a question he had apparantly not meant to ask. She didn't mind terribly, memories of being cut open on an autopsy table, while not foreign to her in the least considering her creator, were not pleasant.

"We are lucky, yes, dissensions within the Arrancar ranks make it seem as if they will not collectively do such." It suddenly came to mind, as she realize whose file he was now viewing, that Ishida may be rather startled at what he saw there. She supposed she should have warned him, but she instead lowered her gaze and prepared for what she anticipated would be a rather strong reaction.

Kurotsuchi-san might have been speaking. She might have formed words, consonants and vowels stringing into cohesion, something about dissension. Ishida had been listening, but abruptly, everything stopped.

Grimmjow Jaggerjack. Among the extensive details of his attacks, one report in particular stood out to Ishida, burning away at his retinas as the skin pushed back from around his eyes. 'Forced sexual intercourse with Inoue Orihime'. Because he was not holding the pages, they were not summarily crushed by the convulsive movement of his hands. His teeth clamped and it was all he could do not to push out his chair and charge out onto the streets, searching for arrancar blood. His fingers flexed, wanting the pull of spiri energy arrows, everything surrounding him became distant and grey and unimportant. For a moment, Ishida literally saw red.

After a minute of his heart beating, heavily and painfully in his ears, of Ishida striving to compose himself as his eyes narrowed into slits at the words, he spoke, quietly: "This is true? There is no error?"

Ishida had been uninterested in the arrancar, uninterested in that whole feud, so long as Inoue-san was safe. Her boyfriend claimed he kept her away from them. It was the duty of a Quincy to protect humans from hollows, so unless the arrancar chose to attack defenseless citizens, Ishida had no reason to be concerned. Now, however. Now. He would--

"I will kill this one," he said, his voice still quiet, his fingers shaking as he turned the pages to Noitora. "Kurosaki will just have to--he'll just have to accept it. I'll kill him. Or make him wish I had."

Nemu's gaze met his steadily, no hint of any emotion, completely blank, all feeling or sympathy schooled from her features, hands hidden in her lap so he wouldn't see them wringing somewhat nervously.

"I do not record anything erroneous. Should I have doubts in the validity of the information, I note such." She noted his discomfort, his anger, visible in the little signs she had always learned to watch, the almost indiscernable twitch of muscles, the near palpable increase in pulse, blood pressure, tightening of joints and grip.

"..." As for his declaration towards that end... Nemu did not know what to say.

"I see." She finally spoke, a lull in her voice. Having experienced the Sexta's violence firsthand, felt his hand punch through her gut, his blade slice her skin, and, the only discernable sign left, the crushed and shattered wrist reknit only as much as was able... she was afraid the Quincy could not win.

No, of course there would be no error. When it came to those things, nothing was too low. Any pity Ishida had harbored for the Thunderwitch, unacknowledged but no less present, began to curl up and shrivel.

"He--" His throat, clenching up, as if he were choking or soon to vomit. He could taste bile in his mouth, and with the blood roaring in his ears it was almost impossible for him to realize the hold in her voice. He couldn't concentrate on the words regarding Noitora. The words were all the same, those same six.

"I don't care how strong he is," Ishida shook his head, a tremor in his voice. "I'll--" Shook his head again. Fisted and released his hands. "I won't... bother you with my resolve."

Keep it to himself, his duty, he alone. Ishida would see it through, and now, he tried again to focus on this new arrancar.

You could not bother me.

It is fine.

Please, I would like to listen.

She thought these things, but she had no- she did not dare say them. And so she shifted in her seat, let her shoulders raise a bit, and wrung her hands in her lap, hidden by the table. He... was very upset. She could see this, and only hoped he realized... she did not wish to point out that she did not think he would be able to best the Sexta Espada.

There wasn't a great deal on Noitora, and Ishida had soon enough skimmed them without reaction, without change in the tension along his neck and back, rigid down his arms.

"He hurt you as well," he spoke, suddenly into the thick silence he had created, and even as his fingers twitched back the pages to Ulquiorra, it was obvious that he spoke of the Sixth. Adding to the list of offenses for which the arrancar deserved to be a target for his bow, not that more than the one was needed.

His eyes were narrowed and black with suppressed rage. People like that-- he couldn't stomach, not for an instant.

"... Yes." Nemu's gaze rose in something almost like surprise, though it quickly lowered again, stilling her hands in her lap with an effort.

"It was nothing." She tried to write it off, not wishing to add to his rage. Unfortunatly, it was rarely that she understood the concept of lying or omitting information unless told by her creator. "A wound in the lower abdomen from his hand, sword wound from collarbone to sternum, neatly broken left wrist, crushed right hand." Her voice was level, not at all concerned nor worried for injuries she had sustained.

"I was seen to by the 4th division vice captain, so, I am mostly recovered, without incident."

"That doesn't--" He began fierce, hard, but regarding her quiet figure with her lowered eyes, softened. He tried again, his shoulders dropping a little, offering softly, "That isn't nothing."

Mostly recovered? He wondered, looking over what of her that he could see, where the damage might still show that he could stew over as inappropriate. It hardly occurred to Ishida that he worried for a shinigami. "Why?" Ishida asked, forcing himself to change pace. Injuries happened in battle, of course. If it was an unwarranted violation of the truce, however...

"Why?" Her gaze rose again, shock even more apparant. Why? Because... well, obviously because any injury she sustained was inconsequential, not to be worried over, her own fault, exaggerated, or not worth paying attention to, that was why.

Or maybe that was just... what Mayuri-sama said. But it was all ingrained in her, the desire she be overlooked unless needed. However, she noted him inspecting, and assuming he looked for the lack of "mostly" recovered, raised her right wrist.

"... Because-" She frowned slightly, as if she were having difficulty. "... Because I should not be worried over or a cause of concern. I would not wish to be an annoyance."

Ishida closed his eyes, shutting them tight against the pressure building behind them. He had no obligation to feel worried about her, he should hate her, she was a shinigami. But that answer. That answer.

It connected, illogically, to Inoue-san and his inability to protect her. She had been hurt, disgraced, and he hadn't even known. He hadn't rescued her, been on time, been there. Nerves jittered, throbbing in his jaw and twitching on his arms; he tried to fight a dizzy, sick feeling. Her wrist. Had the arrancar held Inoue-san down by her wrist--Ishida was forced to swallow down another rise of stomach bile.

"You shouldn't talk like that," he managed, his head bowed toward the pages, black hair hanging in his face. The strain was evident in his voice. "I wish you wouldn't think that."

Once again, Ishida shook his head. Stupid, he berated himself. Stupid, getting like this. ...Inoue-san, had been hurt, Ishida could only trail after in the wake of his failure to protect. How Kurotsuchi-san's dismissal of her own worth connected, he couldn't say, but it mixed with the intensity of his frustration.

"I-" Nemu looked unsure of what to do, lowering her wrist and hiding it once more, unsure if that sight had cause him more anger or if he was thinking something, or perhaps if it were her words, she didn't know. She knew he was upset, that much was clear, but... now she did not know why.

"I am sorry." She finally whispered. "I will not speak such thoughts in your presense." The shinigami knew, logically, she could not honestly say she would not think them. While she had been able to shake some of her master's teachings, philosophies, opinions on her self in his absence, most still clung to her like the poison he himself emitted, would possibly always be a part of her, for she was made of his will, without him, she would not have come into being.

Breathing. By focusing on his breathing, by focusing on inhaling, exhaling, and not tossing up the meager rice dinner he had fixed for himself, Ishida could regain his composure. Slowly but surely, he could even relax. To a degree.

He lifted his chin, then his hand, to brush back his hair and lift his glasses, which had slid rather far down his nose during his upset. Ishida regarded his unwanted guest with soft, sad eyes, eyes he would strive to harden in the next minute. No doubt years--centuries?--of conditioning could not be undone by some idealistic boy protesting it. "You won't have to worry about that, really," he said, looking away from her, at a farther wall, "as after this, I won't be seeing you. Remember?"

He didn't mean for it to sound ominous--as if Grimmjow would be killing him, because after all, the dead walked (and Ishida would never think of himself as losing). "Right," Ishida muttered, glancing down at the face of his watch to tsk over how late it had gotten. He shouldn't keep her much longer. Back to Ulquiorra.

She watched in silence as he composed himself, gaze wavering at... what was that look? She had recieved looks, before. From her creator, looks of anger, of disappointment or dissatisfaction. From others, looks of pity, looks of annoyance, of condescention. ... What was this?

"Of course." She murmured immediately after his statement, though that saddened her, and while she hoped it wasn't so, she knew she should have more respect for him, more than she already did seemed impossible, but... she was being rude enought as it was, so she fell silent again to allow him to continue reading.

He felt heat rush to his cheeks, again, as he skimmed details of Kurotsuchi-san's four sexual encounters with Ulquiorra. All due to curse days--and, because a curse day had apparently prompted his stabbing her, Ishida managed to reign in any futher fury. His estimation, and respect, for the arrancar went up immeasurable notches when he read that he had injured Grimmjow after the attack on Kurotsuchi-san. Reading of the slap took a notch, and Ishida turned to Zaera-Polo's file with mixed feelings on Ulquiorra.

This one pressed his mouth thin and stirred the sick, restless feeling in his stomach, if only for how reminiscent he was of what he knew of Mayuri. The little there was on his experiments was quite stomach turning, and he narrowed his eyes to see that evidently, most arrancar had little regard for females, even of their own kind, if the way in which he treated Cirucci.

He shifted files to Aizen, then, exhausted by what he had learned--a single devastating fact--but unwilling to stop until he had finished with all she had offered, to be thorough, and also prevent the temptation of seeing her again for this purpose.

That... was an interesting gamut of emotions. Nemu couldn't help but watch curiously. Embarassment? Respect? Disappointment? Disgust? She could not be definitive, but...

Ah, Aizen's file. She knew she had to say something to that.

"His is missing some points." She admitted with a certain amount of shame. "When I was killed by one of his allies, my data was compromised, so there are... gaps. But they are mostly intact."

"Hn," Ishida grunted, and opened his mouth to reassure her, to say that he was sure that her notes couldn't possibly be less perfect. But, having for the most part regained control, Ishida thought better of it. No need to reassure a shinigami with whom he would not again associate, to build some block of relationship. No need.

No need for anger to curl, again, in his gut at the mention of her being killed.

"His ally?" He asked, keeping his tone neutral, and scanned the altogether unsurprising file for mentions of such. There were names he did not recognize, some he assumed to be from other worlds, but for the most part they were pitted as opposition to the once-Shinigami.

"Yes." She spoke of it as neutrally as she could, though... she did not like what it made her recall, supressing a slight shudder.

"The ninja Orochimaru apparantly wished information on the shinigami anatomy, so I was chosen, captured, and vivisected." The vulgur imagery was spoke of as calmly as if she were reading a chart, she was so used to such things, to dissections, torture, experiments, and research.

"It would be best to avoid him." She added.

The evening was a practice in suppression. Now, Ishida quashed disgust and horror beneath his cool exterior, leaving his expression blank as he looked as her during her explanation.

"Ah," he remarked, finally, a minute after she had finished her warning. "So it seems." Ishida could not imagine that the shinigami anatomy much different from any other person's, however, that red ribbon... Finished with Aizen's file, he slid it toward her to place back into the Shinigami notes, and shifted the notes on the Espada back into proper order.

Next and finally, the Others. If there were figures like this 'Orochimaru', it might prove necessary to read those notes as well.

"You may keep those." Nemu spoke softly. "I keep copies of those files for most people I encounter new to the City."

Truth be told, she felt she had overstayed her welcome long ago, thought he must think her rude and a thousant other things including shinigami in the negative sense of the word, and most importantly... she was sure he had not wanted to share such emotions he had been through with her.

Ishida blinked, thought to protest, but decided against it. His nod was slow but certain, his hands shuffling the pages closer to him. "It's kind of you, Kurotsuchi-san." After all, they were hand-written. The many times she must have wrote these words!

He glanced down at the pages, his eyes catching his watch face once more. Late, and clearly, they were finished. Pushing back his chair, Ishida stood, fingertips resting on table-edge as he looked at her.

"I'm sorry for keeping you so long," he said, trying for a brusque tone, fighting the urge to thank her for help he had forbidden her to give. Best not to encourage it.

"I do not deserve such words, please, I apologize for keeping you." She gathered the pages of notes she had not copied, stacking them neatly with one hand trailing slightly behind the other in speed and deftness, pulling them into her arms. That he had allowed her to see him was all she should have, all she should dare wish for.

She should not be selfish.

"I..." Nemu bowed low, heavy braid falling off her shoulder and hanging beside her face. "Thank you for seeing me, this once, against your will and through my own selfish insistence."

Ishida pressed his lips together to keep himself silent, gritted his teeth as an incentive to not shake his head once more. Deserve. He could not, would not, did not care. He would, had to be cold, even if it left a despicable aftertaste, that he would need to act as she had come to expect because of a man like Mayuri.

"Only this once," was all that he let himself say, a stern statement offset by his narrowed, irritatingly gentle eyes. He walked to the door and opened it, pulling it back against the wall and standing beside it, ushering her out with the curve of his hand.

His eyes fell, irresistably, to the bend of her right wrist over her stacks of notes. Ishida resisted the urge to wish her a safe trip back to where she lived, to walk her back to be certain that nothing would happen. Irrational. Instead, he resigned himself to the return of the ticking.

"... Of course." The shinigami had already resolved in her head that unless his life was in danger, she would not directly interfere or contact him again. ... Not directly. She walked quietly to the door, met his gaze for a brief moment, and bowed again, soundless, not wanting to say any more words least they try and tie her there, least she say something she didn't mean, something rude or assuming or too ingratiating.

So she simply left without a sound, her reiatsu suppressing even damper the minute she stepped out the door, head bent over her notes with a troubled expression on her face.

Meeting her eyes, Ishida permitted himself a nod. "Good night," he murmured, more at her retreating back and under his breath. As he felt the pressure of her reiatsu diminish, it reminded him to suppress his as well--Ishida closed the door, refusing to look long at her shrinking figure.

The ticking began, a steady drum reverberating in his skull. With his back to the door, Ishida looked across the empty apartment and, with a hollow, tangled, too sick feeling, returned to the table. Not to pick through his emotions, to sink into the facts and wrap his mind around the more unwieldy concepts. Simply to read the remaining notes before collapsing.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

COMPLETE!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject