Iwamura strode through the midday heat. His hands were chilly; chilly, and a bit stiff overall. One was on Sasugaru’s pommel. He had accustomed to the malaise, if only by the flippancy of de-sensitization.
The events of those brief few months in time, segregated from the rest of his volatile life in his head, had been playing in the background on perpetual repeat. He could recall perfectly what he was doing at the start of it all: signing for Captain approval, as Vice-Captain of the Sixth, a 50-odd-page piece of legislation on minor regulations over Rukongai visitation policies. He had just lifted his pen when a subordinate of the First had burst into his enlargened office, straining for breath—effective immediately, on the direct order of Captain-Commander Bashira, he was to be named the Captain of the Seventh.
Within a week or so, Bashira, along with Captain Ika Mazi, were gone—deserted the Seireitei, the former by dramatic (and in Iwamura’s view, disconcerting) force, per the official report. Both had already disappeared when Iwamura was finally informed, a fact which served only to drive the blade in further. Only by the skin of his teeth had he withheld himself from descending upon the Central 46 in a rage-filled hunt for answers; instead, for two weeks, Iwamura had sequestered himself to his new abode, a terribly-ornate manor that was, at the very least, tranquil and private enough.
This sequence, with all the granular details therein, replayed twice more in Iwamura’s head before he arrived at the First Division’s front gate.
Shinigami were milling about the immaculate street, some towards a new post, some towards their midday meal, some others toting messages and reports and supplies; some alone, some in pairs or greater—Iwamura brushed through them all, nodding intermittently to some that glanced dragooned eyes with him. It was the rush of a full day for the Seireitei, something exceedingly commonplace; something that produced a subtle pang of longing in his massive chest for the fireworks of yesteryear, of Chiharu, particularly on this day.
His Reiatsu output and conspicuous stature were notification enough—he lumbered through the gates and into the barracks proper, his wolfish orange gaze skimming for one Tina Alvenor, the new Captain-Commander.
The events of those brief few months in time, segregated from the rest of his volatile life in his head, had been playing in the background on perpetual repeat. He could recall perfectly what he was doing at the start of it all: signing for Captain approval, as Vice-Captain of the Sixth, a 50-odd-page piece of legislation on minor regulations over Rukongai visitation policies. He had just lifted his pen when a subordinate of the First had burst into his enlargened office, straining for breath—effective immediately, on the direct order of Captain-Commander Bashira, he was to be named the Captain of the Seventh.
Within a week or so, Bashira, along with Captain Ika Mazi, were gone—deserted the Seireitei, the former by dramatic (and in Iwamura’s view, disconcerting) force, per the official report. Both had already disappeared when Iwamura was finally informed, a fact which served only to drive the blade in further. Only by the skin of his teeth had he withheld himself from descending upon the Central 46 in a rage-filled hunt for answers; instead, for two weeks, Iwamura had sequestered himself to his new abode, a terribly-ornate manor that was, at the very least, tranquil and private enough.
This sequence, with all the granular details therein, replayed twice more in Iwamura’s head before he arrived at the First Division’s front gate.
Shinigami were milling about the immaculate street, some towards a new post, some towards their midday meal, some others toting messages and reports and supplies; some alone, some in pairs or greater—Iwamura brushed through them all, nodding intermittently to some that glanced dragooned eyes with him. It was the rush of a full day for the Seireitei, something exceedingly commonplace; something that produced a subtle pang of longing in his massive chest for the fireworks of yesteryear, of Chiharu, particularly on this day.
His Reiatsu output and conspicuous stature were notification enough—he lumbered through the gates and into the barracks proper, his wolfish orange gaze skimming for one Tina Alvenor, the new Captain-Commander.