The districts of the Rukongai hadn’t indulged in such splendor in over a century. Every few feet of a pathed stone street was host to a cart that had souvenirs, toys, or even sweets of some kind. From the famous Hoshi candy to even the Commander’s own crystalline rock; there was no shortage of delicacies to be consumed by the masses. In the distant reaches, both rebellious and excited youth contribute in their own way, causing the vibrant rainbow light of a plethora of fireworks to clash with the amber blanket of the setting sun. Multiple street musicians make the festival their stage, their own unique compositions blending in and becoming hush beneath the over-arching fanfare conjured by the festival’s hosts. The smell of openly-roasted foods invades the nostrils of all attendees—Yakisoba noodles, Takoyaki, and Yakitori have become the favorites of the day. There seemed to be less attention turned to the actual cleanliness of the festival, and more of a focus on the overall enjoyment of its participants. The once spotless streets had become cesspools of discarded candy wrappings, half-gnawed bones, and plenty of other debris as a result of the games. All of these districts’ inhabitants and even those who had come from other districts, were indulging in the festivities while having their businesses prosper simultaneously. Everyone seemed to be having a great time!—Except this guy.
Dismally unamused, the party-pooping sloth drags his geta sandals along the ground with hunched shoulders. From the outside, one would assume an invisible elephant was sitting on his back. His strides are filled with a heavy burden, forced from his peaceful day of sleep and solace, to clean up another one of Kori’s messes. Between his teeth—not abnormally—he fiddles with a large toothpick-like object to appease his irritated jitters and fidgeting. His presence is insignificant, nothing glaring about him that makes him stand out in the massive crowd. No fame or infamy—at least among the Rukongai folk—allowed him to simply be another ant in the colony, an extraneous cog in the machine. To any onlookers, he was just another Shinigami unassigned to the games, able to instead spend his time participating in its pleasures. As an active study, The Kenpachi Games would usually be something that he’d dedicate a fair amount of attention to. It isn’t often you see Captain caliber shinigami fight without limit or restraint. While many looked at it as entertainment, the best and the brightest would know that above all, this was a teaching moment; an opportunity to learn and assess the many strengths and weaknesses of Soul Society’s strongest. Like most opportunities, this one passed by him slowly, out of reach due to his addiction to never-ending slumber. Some had even opted for his participation, though they were smart enough to know he had no interest in exerting that much effort among friends and comrades. What’s more, they aren’t the type of enemies he could sleep against while fighting, meaning he’d be losing precious hours. Absolutely not.
What was originally deemed urgent seemed to only frustrate the lone Kyoraku. He had hastily made his journey to the Rukongai, and spent the mere moments of his travel questioning the purpose of his mission. Perhaps just this once, he wouldn’t save Kori, but let her learn from her mistakes. His protectiveness wasn’t to be confused with doubt, however. She was perfectly capable of handling any situation on her own, but it was her methods that caused the trouble. Unlike Musou himself, Kori was a rebel among rebels, a woman who rewrote every rule in the book with her sword, her wits, and her body. While this was fine in a distant tavern somewhere in the Rukongai, it was not fine when it came to meddling in the affairs of Captains and Seireitei law. His shunpo, had turned into a run, his run, into a trot, his trot into a drag of a walk. Kori’s presence, once identified, hadn’t been surrounded by any Captains, any officers of the Omnitsukido, or the Kido Corps. No, instead it was nestled deep within the confines of a local bar, a place that she frequents. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do much cleaning up after all. Perhaps she had given up and gone to one of her usual spots to drink down the failure. At the very least he could comfort her, before dragging her limp, drunken body back to 8th Division away from the creeps and vermin that litter these establishments.
With one of his Zanpakuto’ slung over his shoulder, he approaches the bar’s entrance, the swaying door not doing much to keep the clamoring of its tenants inside. Just before he goes to step through, it swings outward against the weight of multiple Shinigami women clad in medical relief bags. His eyes popped out of his head, as the nurses come through first. He liked nurses. For the first time all day, his lips curl to create an ominous smile. His cheeks flush in crimson as if he too, had been participating in the same pass-times of those that resided inside of the bar. With his free hand, formerly tucked beneath the covering of his burlap-colored cloak, raises to awkwardly wave as they seem to struggle to force themselves through the entryway carrying an assortment of alcoholic items. Just as easily as the smile arose, it suddenly sunk to create a frown within the depths of his cheekbones. As the nurses had cleared the way, following behind them was a man. His smell came into frame far before his image; a mix of blood and alcohol, its pungence could not be ignored. Here he was, armless, with an entourage of nurses to tend to his every need. They had seemingly been trained, conditioned into waiting on this.. Man, hand and foot. One would never think that this was a man that had just stood his ground with multiple captains, or had fought in any bout at all. Even without the hands to grab the drinks himself, he was still drowned in his own drunken stupor.
“You..”
Unbeknownst to Musou, this wasn’t the first time today the White Death had heard the second-person pronoun directed towards him, perhaps not even the second. It seemed most had a shared reaction upon finally discovering the man after seeing him on the live feeds and hearing the whispers. The sloth’s clutch on his Zanpakuto gets a bit tighter, the toothpick between his teeth pointed skyward as it rests between his incisors.
“Where’s Kori?”
Stopping the man and the nurses in their tracks completely, the 8th Division shinigami sternly asks. It was clear this was the individual that Kori had come to find; to save. This was the blob of his dream given shape and form. The one who’d presumably fixed a Zanpakuto himself, something Musou himself didn’t have the innate talent to do in full. This was him? The question he asked regarding Kori was somewhat rhetorical, knowing that she was somewhere in that same bar behind him. But if they were in the same place, and she had found her target, why had they separated? Why was he in such a hurry to create distance between himself and her? They’d hear what Kori had to say before anyone went anywhere, Musou would make sure of it.
