Forward

For a long time it seemed that they weren’t moving forward so much as they were moving sideways.

The warehouse they’d rented, they decided to buy. After all, it was big enough for all of them to live in comfortable space from one another without being too far away. The main floor of the warehouse had become their gathering place. After all that had happened, none of them really wanted to be alone. Kisuke had fixed up another dimension in the basement and they’d taken to sparring there in the mornings and evenings. Four of the eight had gotten jobs and managed to blend in well with the real world’s society. The other four spent their days cleaning the warehouse—after all, their own homes in Soul Society had been spotless—or helping Kisuke with his research.

The years passed this way, quiet and uniform. The group of former captains and lieutenants became a group of companions and good friends. Shinji decided to keep his hair short for a while. Love kept a pair of white mice as pets in his room. Kisuke bought a store on the other side of town that catered to the needs of Shinigami that couldn’t or wouldn’t be met by Soul Society. Some of them were highly illegal, it seemed. He came to them weekly with whatever news he’d heard from his customers, and sometimes Hiyori visited him there to see his new inventions.

Kisuke kept up with his research into how to rid them of the Hollows, but it seemed there was nothing to be done. He was always trying something, always researching something, but had yet to find a cure. In the meantime, they had all come to accept that the Hollow was a part of them and that if they couldn’t beat it, they could at least join it. They practiced holding the transformation for longer, practiced using Hollow powers like the Cero. Secretly they thanked Aizen for the new and interesting powers they had—and they cursed them for the life and the family and friends that had been stolen away from them.

Sometimes, it seemed that they had settled into a normal life in the real world. They watched television, read manga, listened to the radio. Mashiro became a great cook, Kensei mastered all the martial arts taught in the real world, and Hachigen learned to program computers. Sometimes, when Lisa was caught in a compromising position with a carrot in the laundry room, or when Shinji could be found shaving Hiyori’s eyebrows off in the dead of night, things seemed average. They had become a family of sorts. On some days, when the talking cat was asleep in a sunbeam on the windowsill and Kisuke was beating Hiyori at Mario Cart, you wouldn’t suspect.

The years could hide their true intentions; the time gave them the ability to wait quietly for that opportune moment. You’d almost forget who they were, or who they had been. They would take the news from Soul Society about Aizen’s rebellion and the theft of the Hogyoku with a blank stare and pursed lips. Hiyori’s red jumpsuit no longer reflected her lieutenant status. Shinji’s checkered tie didn’t symbolize his might as a Captain of the 13 Protection Squads. They would go about their lives as if the goings on in Soul Society mattered not. It was easy to forget, when all you could see was the surface.

On the surface they were bickering over the last cookie or who was folding the towels this time. On the surface, Hachigen was flaming someone on a message board at 2 am and Kensei was practicing yoga on the roof. On the surface, someone pissed on the toilet seat, someone had used up all the hot water, and someone forgot to shut the refrigerator door.

On the surface, you couldn’t see the calculating way that Kisuke looked up into the sky every morning when he awoke.

Or the cold cruelty hidden behind Hiyori’s usually blustering, boisterous fits of rage.

Or the hardness in Rose’s delicate hands, always perfectly manicured.

Or the sharpness of Shinji’s blade, hidden under his bed.

The Vizard had patience. They would bide their time, plotting cunning plots and cutting schemes. They would lay low and keep quiet, battling their inner demons and resting assured that they could wait forever if need be. They would go to work. They would sweep the floors and cook dinner. They would spar in the basement until they couldn’t stand. Hiyori would beat up some guy who drew graffiti on the outside of the warehouse with a joyful glint in her green eyes. Mashiro would throw a tantrum when her favorite red marker went missing.

They would wait.

Until one bright and sunny afternoon when Kisuke and the talking cat would tell Shinji and Hiyori over tea about the impossible story of a boy called Kurosaki Ichigo. Kurosaki Ichigo, who along with three human companions had broken in to Seireitei and rescued a member of the Kuchiki clan who’d been sentenced to death. Who’d fought the Kenpachi and lived to tell about it. Who had an illegal Mod Soul hidden in his room, to protect it from being exterminated. Who had won the trust of all 13 Captains of the Protection Squads. And whose soul had tread into Hollow territory. If they wanted anybody on their side in the fight against Aizen, Kisuke would say while brushing that flyaway blonde hair from his eyes, they would want Kurosaki Ichigo. So they would find him. They would train him up to control the Hollow within him, to use that power to his advantage rather than letting it take over his mind.

And one day, Aizen would show his face again. And then all hell would break loose.

But until then, here they would be. Fighting over the remote, playing double solitaire and strip poker, and making prank calls to businessmen in the next district.

And waiting.