BLEACH Side Story: Chain/Gun/Gear
folder
Bleach › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
1,052
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Bleach › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
1,052
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or anything therein, nor do I wish I did given poor Kubo’s workload. This particular story is totally voluntary, and I am not taking a cent off of it.
Prologue: Dutchman of the Desert
Warning: This fic will NOT primarily focus on sex, or even romance. Both will appear, mark
you, but not for a good while. If that loses me readership, hey.
But Watcher, you ask, why then are you posting it here at all? Well, reader, I’d like to
tell this story *my* way, and due to the great quantities of graphic and gruesome violence and inevitability of eventual sex I think I’d have trouble keeping it on, say, Fanfiction.net.
Now, without further ado, let’s begin.
BLEACH Side Story
"After two days in the desert sun
My skin began to turn red
After three days in the desert fun
I was looking at a river bed
And the story it told of a river that flowed
Made me sad to think it was dead
You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
La da da, da, dadada, lada da da da,
La da da, da, dadada, lada da da da"
--Horse With No Name, America
Behold the sunless desert sands of Hueco Mundo.
The word “desert” itself first meant “deserted,” and this desert fits that description well. It is vast and flat, almost devoid of feature or limit. Only occasionally does a dead, petrified tree protrude from the endless oceans of sand, its surface glimmering in the perpetual moonlight. Very few things live in this desert, comparatively speaking, and none of them are worth meeting.
Its inhabitants are vicious, animal, *hollow* shells of living things, fueled entirely by the thirst to consume. The leap from this desert, from time to time, to prey on the inhabitants of other worlds. Given the opportunity, they prey on one another, fusing and conglomerating together into horrifying new creatures, shifting masses of personality and madness.
No. None of the desert’s inhabitants are worth meeting.
With one exception.
Let us visit, behind the safety of narrative lens, the sole sane (comparatively speaking) inhabitant of that desert.
Look at him (and it is a him). He trudges through the barren sands, his head bent as if in shame or prayer. His dark hair is wild and uneven, his barely-shaven beard thin and scraggly. His shapeless grey tunic is little more than a tube of loose cloth with a few strategically placed holes. It is old and raggedy, its surface inexpertly whipstitched together where it has been torn. Bare feet trudge on bare sand, one in front of the other and back again in endless monotony.
About his wrists are bound thick bangles of black metal, attatched to black chains. These chains drag behind him on the sands, connected to large metal spheres of the same dark hue. Curiously, despite their apparent weight, neither ball leaves a trail on the sand. Instead, they seem to float over across the face of that desert as daintily as a water strider across the surface of the pond, never breaking through.
One wonders what his crime must have been, to suffer so grim a sentence as this, and one is left wondering. However, one also wonders whether it has broken him. As he tops a slight rise in the twilight, he lifts his head to cast his gaze about him. As he does, observe his face.
One cannot, despite volumes of literature to the contrary, assess a man’s spirit by looking deep into his eyes. However, look at the grim squint, the tense eyebrows, the dry tongue licking quietly over dry lips, the harsh set of a stone that has stood firm against punishing storm for ages on end. One will quickly see that whatever has become of him, he is not broken.
One sees in him the fire of charcoal in the brazier, the fire that burns slow and long and cannot be extinguished.
you, but not for a good while. If that loses me readership, hey.
But Watcher, you ask, why then are you posting it here at all? Well, reader, I’d like to
tell this story *my* way, and due to the great quantities of graphic and gruesome violence and inevitability of eventual sex I think I’d have trouble keeping it on, say, Fanfiction.net.
Now, without further ado, let’s begin.
BLEACH Side Story
"After two days in the desert sun
My skin began to turn red
After three days in the desert fun
I was looking at a river bed
And the story it told of a river that flowed
Made me sad to think it was dead
You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
La da da, da, dadada, lada da da da,
La da da, da, dadada, lada da da da"
--Horse With No Name, America
Behold the sunless desert sands of Hueco Mundo.
The word “desert” itself first meant “deserted,” and this desert fits that description well. It is vast and flat, almost devoid of feature or limit. Only occasionally does a dead, petrified tree protrude from the endless oceans of sand, its surface glimmering in the perpetual moonlight. Very few things live in this desert, comparatively speaking, and none of them are worth meeting.
Its inhabitants are vicious, animal, *hollow* shells of living things, fueled entirely by the thirst to consume. The leap from this desert, from time to time, to prey on the inhabitants of other worlds. Given the opportunity, they prey on one another, fusing and conglomerating together into horrifying new creatures, shifting masses of personality and madness.
No. None of the desert’s inhabitants are worth meeting.
With one exception.
Let us visit, behind the safety of narrative lens, the sole sane (comparatively speaking) inhabitant of that desert.
Look at him (and it is a him). He trudges through the barren sands, his head bent as if in shame or prayer. His dark hair is wild and uneven, his barely-shaven beard thin and scraggly. His shapeless grey tunic is little more than a tube of loose cloth with a few strategically placed holes. It is old and raggedy, its surface inexpertly whipstitched together where it has been torn. Bare feet trudge on bare sand, one in front of the other and back again in endless monotony.
About his wrists are bound thick bangles of black metal, attatched to black chains. These chains drag behind him on the sands, connected to large metal spheres of the same dark hue. Curiously, despite their apparent weight, neither ball leaves a trail on the sand. Instead, they seem to float over across the face of that desert as daintily as a water strider across the surface of the pond, never breaking through.
One wonders what his crime must have been, to suffer so grim a sentence as this, and one is left wondering. However, one also wonders whether it has broken him. As he tops a slight rise in the twilight, he lifts his head to cast his gaze about him. As he does, observe his face.
One cannot, despite volumes of literature to the contrary, assess a man’s spirit by looking deep into his eyes. However, look at the grim squint, the tense eyebrows, the dry tongue licking quietly over dry lips, the harsh set of a stone that has stood firm against punishing storm for ages on end. One will quickly see that whatever has become of him, he is not broken.
One sees in him the fire of charcoal in the brazier, the fire that burns slow and long and cannot be extinguished.