Oh. Howdy there!

So, it's been more than a year since the last update, and I feel compelled to clarify where this story falls on my priority list… which is low. I am nearing the practicum phase of my graduate program, and also married recently. Pair this with coming back to Bleach pretty much just on time for the Quincy attack on the Seireitei and not having watched the anime (the original inspiration for this particular drabble) since the episode where Ulquirroa finally shows up to whup Ichigo….and things are somewhat up in the air. I desire to be true to the original characters with my play, here, but at the same time, I really want to take some major liberties with the plot. It leaves me in something of a quandary. So, I have a shorter chapter here, where I will once again try to tussle with the rotten formatting I seem to get with the site – I try to space it out to make it easier to read, I swear! I still also lack a beta, and so I am sure there will be errors below; for that, I ask your pardon.

I also still don't own Bleach.

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Renji attempted to remain stoic while he watched the 4th division members rush back and forth as they tried to stabilize Shuuhei. He didn't know much about healing or treating or tending or mending whatever the nine hells they did; he had always sucked hard at Kidō, and had never bothered to waste his time and limited efforts on it when beating the veritable (and sometimes literal) shit out of things was so much easier - and fun.

He knew enough, however, to recognize Isane opening up Hisagi for in-field surgery was a bad sign. As far as he recalled, open surgery – especially in the field - was pretty much a last ditch effort when nothing else could be done; it was more of a 'keep the bastard alive' tactic when a 'get them back in the fight' recovery was just a ridiculous idea.

Given how frantically she as throwing kidō around – and her release made it pretty damn fast, to be sure – he had the odd feeling that he might actually be there to watch Hisagi expire. Rage pooled in his gut, and he grabbed it, throttled it, and set it aside for later as his braced arms rhythmically clawed at themselves within the folds of his haori. Kira and Hisagi in one night would be a bit much to handle, and he hoped his men found the fucker who did this, so he could tend to them personally.

He kept his face as still as he could behind his new glasses and waited for Captain Ukitake to arrive as instructed, hoping his grinding teeth weren't too audible. At his side, his new 3rd seat shifted uncomfortably, and Renji had to quell an irritated urge to snap at the man; a taxing effort, given that stoicism was not something he was used to, or even good at. In a remote corner of his mind, he wondered if his old Captain had any tips for training the behavior in oneself. Knowing him, there was probably a damned lecture series.

Hadatada Ryuu was one of two 3rd seats in the division; he was the one who ensured that Hinamori's data from the field put into reports were accurate. Renji liked the guy well enough, but he was too damn anxious. It probably didn't help that Renji felt he had no right to be here, where Shuuhei was dying and dammit the fuck-all he wished Isane would get Hisagi's arm and hand to stop twitching like that! It reminded him of when those cats were run over by cars in the real world, but with Shuuhei instead. His jaw clenched harder and he distantly felt the click of grating teeth.

Isane, for all the tears streaming down her face and the panic poorly hidden underneath, was snapping Kidō off like it was nobody's business. He counted six spells in less than ten seconds, all of them level fifty or higher and idly wondered, however briefly his pooling rage allowed, just what exactly it was that her shikai did.

In the back of his mind, Zabimaru growled in muted warning, and as Shuuhei's body twitched and jerked once again under Kotetsu's ministrations, his sword arm ached in bloodthirsty, impotent anticipation.

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"You have exactly ten words to justify what the fuck you think you're doing in my home before I gut your worthless fucking hide, you shit-eating, ass-kissing, sandal-licking coward!"

Itegumo sighed in exasperation, wondering for the umpteenth time at the wisdom of his mistress' imperative that he come here and deal with this violent psychopath.

He had never felt strongly towards Hisagi Shuuhei in one way or another; his mistress was fond of the man, had been involved with him, and so he was content to allow her to do as she would. He had a good heart, and was well intentioned, but was not quite the wisest of Shinigami, despite the fact that he was the second or third youngest prodigy in the Gotei 13. It was a label Itegumo felt unbefitting of the man. Well, boy, really.

In truth, it was his sword that soured Itegumo's opinion of the fellow: a murderess and a whore; violent, debauched, and flippantly, flagrantly, willfully, blatantly evil. His mistress had uncharacteristically ignored and discounted his counsel, despite the regular attacks the wench let loose upon him, and he had endured it only for her sake and the hero worship she adamantly – and foolishly, he felt – mistook for affection.

He had felt her sorrow keenly when she severed all ties to the boy; had listened quietly while she cried herself to sleep for hours, wailing and shrieking into her pillows at the unfairness of her circumstances.

He had said nothing when she collected all of her mementos and reminders and boxed them, before putting them in her closet, unable to part with them and the memories the man-child had given her. He had not spoken when she nearly attacked her subordinate Taka for trying to dispose of the box without her knowledge. Nor when she thought of all the times the fool had ceased his intimate advances at her request and re-experienced bitter regret over those requests, now as bitter as the most potent of poisons.

He had been firm but courteous in his reprimands when she refused to speak to her sister, or Nanao, and when she verbally eviscerated Rangiku for trying to discuss the issue. He remained silent when her beloved Captain tried to help, only for his mistress to change the topic to work, adamantly refusing to deviate from anything professionally relevant in her inability to cope with her grief in a professional manner.

He had kept his silent vigil while she desperately tried to rationalize why the boy would help her just minutes after she publicly shamed him and discarded him, throwing away a highly valued and heavily invested connection.

He had supported her and lent her strength to stop her collapse as she learned, indirectly (and far too soon in proximity to the break itself), the answers to so many questions about his behavior that had infuriated, wounded, and confused her in their years together, internally acknowledging that the boy's silence had been the best choice. Despite himself, he had sympathized with the duress that had brought it forth – for the youngster had not deserved to be shamed in such a way, no matter his mistakes or failings.

Most of all, he had stoutly said nothing when she decided it meant the fool loved her and repeated the cycle of grieving with renewed vigor – lest his irritated derision at the poor self-discipline damage things further.

Itegumo felt love was the wrong word; someone whose soul was reflected in Kazeshini was terribly, horribly flawed, and incapable of true love, twisted as his loyalty may have been. Granted, it was no less thematically tragic – the killer who wanted to love but couldn't figure out how – but loyalty through violence was no way to bond to another, and this was no romance novella. It was reality – simple, complicated, brutal, remorseless, painfully factual reality.

It would seem this mattered not to his mistress, however. She had been alarmed when Lieutenant Iba had entered, bearing the mutilated, shattered body of Lieutenant Kira, bellowing for aid. He felt her panic mount as she heard that Hisagi was by himself, had bought time for Iba to carry Kira off to safety, and had been forced to shout over her terrorized thoughts so she could prep the damaged body before her for surgery- something he had not been forced to do since she was a 5th seat and was on call when Hollows breached the walls of the academy.

In his professional opinion: this was decidedly worse.

He had been relieved when Captain Unohana had taken over, and irritated when she sent his mistress and a squad to the battlefield. His mistress was a healer and a surgeon – arguably the second best in the Seireitei; a formidable adversary with Kidō, true, - but she had no place on the battlefield – not when there were a mere five first-rank surgeons in the entire Seireitei, Gotei, and Rukongai!

He had felt the Arrancar as surely as his mistress had, and it had set him on edge, knowing that most of the Shinigami they would find - assuming there were remains - would be dead, and the distress that would wring itself about his mistress' heart every time she arrived too late to save them – or at least the remains.

He had been left staggered by the panic and pain he felt from her when she found her former partner, and leery when the very winds around the boy bled her each time she came too close – no one had heard of this ability before, which by virtue of circumstance, hinted at a trap at best, and a murderous, unpredictable, and catastrophically-timed psychotic break at worst – for there is a time and place to say 'I told you so'.

He knew the look in the boy's face would haunt his mistress forever; the small smile and softening of the eyes in brief recognition before they glazed over; the body landing with a wet thud on the ground amid the remains of the men and debris, lying oh so terribly, gut-wrenchingly, sickeningly still; his blade returning to its natural form. It was a healer's nightmare, in that it signified the onset of the final death, and the approaching medical point of (effectively) no return.

It was for this reason he was here now, attempting to pull the child back from the brink; his mistress' soul frantically desperate to save this one particular life, ethics of care and professional comportment be damned. Desperate enough to forget her discipline and throw kidō around with more force than control like a 3rd year academy student, desperate enough to engage in highly risky in-field surgery without proper surgical assitance…

Desperate enough to -demand- he enter the boy's inner world.

It was the first time in their life together she had ordered him to do anything, let alone something so perversely taboo or socially unacceptable. So, despite his shocked, horrified reservations, and because he did not want his mistress further scarred or harmed, he resigned himself to go. He would admonish her properly once he ascertained the degree, if any, of trauma she came away with. Terribly undisciplined of her. Terribly!

Ergo his present quandary in the damp, windy, chilling field of banners and walls that left him feeling like his back was permanently exposed, and the grotesque feeling of blood seeping into his normally pristine sandals.

There were two Grecian couches in this center room their dark green cushions long stained crimson with the blood coating the ground, and a tattered, purple silk pavilion overhead. The mutilated body of the 9th division Lieutenant lay sprawled upon them, his breathing hitched, wet, shallow, and irregular. Idly noting a collapsed lung and a multitude of fractures and punctures, he turned his attention to the bloodied harlot before him, reminding himself silently of his mistress.

"My mistress wishes he live, so here I am . . ." She scoffed at him, and interposed herself between himself and the patient. He contemplated it, and then, before she could start their next fight, indulged a disclosure of his own opinion.

"…Bitch." Her eyes narrowed, white slits of fury as the wind by her fists sharpened in preparation.

"Grew a spine now that I'm on my own, did we?" His face remained calm, and his voice, steady.

"I am allowed to voice my own opinion here, since my mistress was too preoccupied to remind me to hold my tongue – something I suspect you have never been able to do." He watched as she began to shake with fury, waiting.

"So your cowardice is merely a result of your obedience? Well, that certainly makes more sense of you… though no less pathetic, you slave!"

"Says the woman whose menses are permanently out of control." She shrieked, and he was forced to duck under a massive gust of razor edged wind that tore apart the tented walls behind him, noting idly that she still managed to get blood everywhere without actually cutting anyone. Such an unsanitary person… had the Lieutenant had all his vaccinations? Memory failed him at the moment. That was alarming, with such a potent vector of potential disease – normally not a concern for spiritual beings, true, but if reiatsu functions similarly to air and other basic elements of life, then it would stand to reason -

"This is my home, and you are not welcome in it. Get. Out." He idly noted that she was attempting civility, and how poorly her delivery was enacted through her obvious inexperience. Still, she had not moved, and time, though slower here in one's inner world, still moved. Though Hisagi's chest still rose in slight irregularity, there was no telling when he would quit. Time was critical. His mistress had made her demands clear, and he would not fail her, despite his misgivings. His professionalism and self-discipline forbade the mere idea.

"Only after I have brought your master back from the edge of the death to which you so readily lead him towards." He ducked the second cut there, and rolled left, allowing her momentum to carry her over while using a small amount of kidō to throw a paralyzing blow to her solar plexus, fighting the revulsion he felt at the contact with her steely abdominals and the blood-soaked grass. He followed up with two more successive strikes of the spell, completely paralyzing her, before dragging and dropping her in front of the couches. With her in plain view, he turned his attention to the patient.

"Ba….st….ard…" He did not look away from his work, as his periphery told him the Kidō was holding, and he could work safely. He would not waste time just to spare himself her contemptible mewling. He could ignore her depredations in public when left to his own devices; she held no sway over him when faced with a professional crisis.

"Perhaps. Yet I am not the one so destructively self-centered that I would lead my master and by extension myself into death just to spite another person." He tried not to wonder at the numerous scars apparent on the man; though his body had healed under Unohana's ministrations, and his mistress' own, it would appear that they had neglected to attend to the wounds to his actual soul. The Captain would be surprised and most displeased to learn she missed such a thing, should he deign to tell her – thank the Spirit King for ethically grey-areas.

Itegumo had yet to see such scars, and fought the urge to cringe at the reiatsu that lined them. He knew objectively, from the officer's meeting, that the wretch had tried to kill her master continually since he learned his shikai, but to have the irrefutable evidence of her cruelty before him could have caused his resolve to falter, had he less professional discipline. His mistress had learned of such things in the 4th division's training programs and seminars, but the texts and diagrams did no credit to the ghastly truth.

He felt ill, and paused while he contemplated his options. Mercy killing was not unheard of among shinigami, and the ethics of care were very clear about legitimate grounds for euthanasia…

Reminding himself of his mistress, whose terrified efforts were nearly becoming a distraction of their own, he instead – with some professional reluctance - first re-stabilized the soul chain of the boy, finding it cracked and hanging on by a thin, defiantly tenacious link. This done, he moved to healing parts of the major organs in tandem, moving to another damaged pair each time he had stabilized one enough to buy himself more time.

It was frantic, heavy work, which he was accustomed to, overlooking the need to keep an eye on the murderess before him. When he had stabilized the boy, he felt his mistress' panic cede away from hysteria into something she could control, and rose from his hunched pose at the impromptu station, and stretched – mindful not to further bloody himself, of course. The soul was no longer in danger of dissipation, and the body had a reservoir of reiatsu on which it could now draw to begin recovery. He need not tarry any longer.

He paused as he eyed what had been hidden between the couches, and contemplated the significance of such a symbol in the very center of the man's inner world, where no one else should ever be. That it was hidden, even here, spoke volumes about the boy, and Itegumo felt the first stirring of pity for him, sharpened by the recognition that the wounds left from his blade were beyond mere reiatsu infusion. Orders or no, personal preference or no, he could do no more for the pitiful creature.

Though it did not excuse Kazeshini's behavior by any stretch of imagination, military code of conduct, professional ethics, or personal largesse, he eyed the slowly recovering butcher with more understanding as her wicked limbs began to respond. Eyeing his work one last time to ensure his bets effort would not be easily undone after his egress, he made his way to the entrance and left without looking back, glad to be gone from such an alien mindscape.

When he returned to his mistress, she was in surgery with Unohana, and did not have the time to ask questions of him, save a brief and heartfelt 'thank you'.

Itegumo remained silent, and let her work, attempting to clean the blood from his person, and found himself fearing that the stains would never truly come out.

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"Man, he looks like shit."

"Ikkaku! Timing!"

"What? He's dyin'. No point in confusing it."

"Tch. Our friends are dying and you demean them. Typical." Ikkaku glared at his companion.

"If they die now, Yumi, it will be after the Seireitei was mauled, and we failed to avenge them, or capture any prisoners, or even find the sonsabitches who help orchestrate the fuckin' thing! So fuck your timing, I'm out a fight!" He returned his gaze to the men in the intensive care unit. "An' I doubt it matters two shits t' any of them."

The intensive care unit, attached to what passed for the 4th division's operating room, was filled with bodies. The staff was finishing their reports, and as they did, each covered corpse was moved into another section of the division. In many cases, there were solid rails along the edges of the tables – many of those who had died had been in pieces, and small ones at that, and extra care was required to keep everything together for burial.

Yumichika turned the page of the magazine and re-crossed his legs to avoid numbness. The grisly remains of lesser Shinigami were largely none of his concern. The 11th division had fared well in the fighting, counting at least 30 hollows killed in varying districts of the Rukongai, with only a few casualties. Kira and Shuuhei were here, and had not yet been announced dead like so many of the others, and so he had little to worry him – aside from Ikkaku's rising temper and inclination to disturb him as a means of hiding his concern and temper tantrum at missing out on both a good fight and bragging rights at the next game.

"What're you reading?"

"It's a magazine, Ikkaku. People draw symbols that have sounds associated with them, which in turn make words, which, when paired with others, form sentences. This typically is used to communicate ideas, such as-"

"Mind your sass; you know what I fuckin' meant!"

"La~nguage." Ikkaku growled, tensed, and began to give every inclination of making a scene. Yumichika decided to humor him, if only to avoid Captain Unohana's wrath.

"Venereal disease, much like many others, is something commonly associated with the world of the living. Sex –"

"Oh for fuck's sake, Yumi…" Ikkaku grumbled as he returned to his seat, disgusted. Yumichika smiled.

"…As a means of procreation loses much of its significance to those of us awaiting reincarnation, which consequently leads many to believe that their sexuality exists to exploit as a means of entertainment in the meanwhile with little to no ramifications on their after-lifespan. This –"

"Is one thing they got right, hehe!" Yumichika frowned slightly and ignored the passing stretcher with what was likely once a man on it.

"…Misconception is patently false. Indeed, many individuals, in light of their mortal existence, bring their physical ailments with them into the afterlife in what is commonly recognized as Kharmic Physiostasis, a term in the medical community used to describe any ailment which is to have a lasting impact on the purification of the soul before its rebirth. This includes venereal disease, and due to the common misconception, means that many newly arrived spirits who engaged in promiscuous activities, employ their bodies as a means of commerce, -"

"Ah, the whores. Where'd we be without 'm?"

"… Or are brutalized by the conditions of the upper districts, are prime carriers and vectors for the spread of venereal disease among the citizens of the Seireitei. As in the mortal world, many of these are incurable, and, sadly, cannot be ameliorated as they could in the mortal world due to the nature of reiatsu itself."

"Oh shit! Seriously? Somebody better tell Futanari…" Yumichika grimaced.

"This makes the afterlife of many unduly difficult, as it ensures that those to whom the varied diseases are spread will face other health complications in their future lives, needlessly lengthening the reincarnation process."

"Che, right! 'Sorry Toku, but your night with Shizue-san means you'll be born with the clap!'"

"This can be compounded by those individuals who have arrived with Kharmic Psychostasis, a similar condition in which unresolved traumas or maladaptive character developments and actions in life have left such a scarring mark on the individual that they have compounded their reincarnation to face such difficulties or frailties in the afterlife. For those who arrive with both, -"

"Damn, Yumi! If that's the case, how much dick did you suck down there for you t-URGHK!"

"Medic! Medic! My idiot friend has cut his throat open on his Zanpakutō! Medic!" Yumichika immediately grabbed a passing 4th division member and shoved the choking Ikkaku into the poor man's arms. "Here! His throat is terribly cut! Quickly!" He smiled his sorry-not-sorry smile and waved in faux despair as three more technicians arrived to help force the half enraged, half choking, entirely bleeding officer into a side room to assess the damage. A near perfect cut, if he judged correctly – Ikkaku would be speechless for at least two weeks. Smiling, he returned to the chair and the article – it was a shame none of the other 11th division members really utilized their minds. He quickly returned to his place.

For those who arrive with both, the general prognosis is grim. Many of these individuals led heavily traumatic and desperate existences in the world of the living, and while many arrive in the lower districts of the Rukongai, it is not unheard of for the nature of life outside the Seireitei to compel them further into the upper districts, in light of housing and sustainability limitations. Moreover, there is substantial reason to believe that those who were responsible for great evils – implementing systemic injustices, genocides, orchestrating bloodshed or destruction on national or continental levels, pervasive abuse of the weak or vulnerable, and the like – are apt to be spared from the subjection to the gates of hell itself if their own existence was sufficiently marred by suffering entailed by bodily, mental, or spiritual ailments. The preponderance of available research suggests that this is likely connected to the inability to completely discern right from wrong in one of these parameters, which in turn is thought to conclude limited culpability on the part of the now-dead perpetrator of aforementioned harm.

Yumichika idly shifted his feet and sword as several stretchers were moved through the hallway by chattering 4th division doctors and turned the page.

How then, Yasochika-samma, does this relate to venereal disease amongst Shinigami and the Seireitei, you may ask? Well, dear reader, it is somewhat complicated, but bear with me while I tie the previous information into a coherent position. In light of the aforementioned complications presented by Kharmic Physiostasis and Kharmic Psychostasis, let us consider the incredibly low birth rate experienced among Shinigami and the Nobles of the Seireitei. Indeed, the statistics are so slight that they are effectively next to zero percent chance of conception, let alone carrying such a gestation to term. Infertility among Shinigami is apparently a fact of post-life, and consequently, when combined with the long standing traditional mores of the Seireitei, provides a barrier to the discussion of safe sexual practices, let alone the implementation of plans to address what projections suggest is a looming pandemic of venereal disease among Shinigami!

Yumichika decided that Ikkakku may have been right in considering Futanari as someone to speak to in light of this information. The man was a good fighter but an inveterate whore, with a reputation for roughing up the geisha-boys more than was acceptable in the niche market.

We of the 4th division have already received training and taken measures to ensure our own safety and that of our patients in our operating rooms and examination areas, but what of our patients - the men and women who serve as Shinigami on the line against the hollows and roughians of the Rukongai? Moves to bring the possibility of a public works project disseminating information about venereal disease among spiritual beings and contraceptives amongst the populace to counteract the spread have been brought before the Office of Central 46 on three separate occasions in the last decade through strenuous efforts by myself and 4th division's Lieutenant Kotetsu Isane, supported by our beloved Captain Unohana herself. Sadly, the grandiose attitudes that prevail amongst the allegedly 'gentle' men of the high chamber and their distance from the issue itself have resulted in no change of current policy – which is to say, silence coupled with obstinate inaction and an admonishment to women to better mind their virtue.

Yumichika stretched in his chair and surreptitiously grabbed a jar of tea off of the platter of a passing cart, sipping it slowly as he folded the magazine in half. He didn't think much of the 4th division as a whole, though he recognized its relevance. If Iemura wasn't simply overinflating his importance (as he was prone to do in public), then this would slightly raise his estimation of the man – not that he would ever publicly acknowledge it, of course. It took either bravery, stupidity, or gall to insult the decisions or body of the Central 46 publicly, let alone in writing and under one's own name.

This is unfortunate, as venereal disease can take its toll on a Shinigami's body in ways that it cannot affect a living one. Syphilis, for example, is a debilitating disease that eventually kills the living, though it can be lessened in its complications with judicious and timely application of medicines and treatment regimens. Sadly, the very nature of the reiatsu that compiles the Seireitei and spirit world at large means there is no such relief for the Shinigami – after a time, it will effectively cripple the soldier to the point where they lose any combat effectiveness, and eventually, leaves them a comatose, disease-ridden wreck in one of our quieter long-term care facilities – assuming we do not simply euthanize the sorry individual.

Many venereal diseases share such debilitating effects on spiritual beings, which pose an undue threat to Shinigami in the sense that we have disposable income, time for leisure and hobbies, and our work by its very nature makes geisha and other less savory attractions appealing to many. Consequently, such a pandemic could readily and sincerely undermine the combat efficacy of the Gotei 13. If there is to be a serious, top-to bottom reexamination of our practices and policies in light of the gross betrayal of the treasonous three, then it behooves us to look at every facet of our structure and society as a potential means of subversion by our newest and arguably most bitter foe. We can begin by ensuring that our bodies are not fighting against us with the complicit aid of our bad habits and unduly silent social strata.

3rd Officer Yasochika Iemura, 4th Division, Gotei 13 Court Guard Squads

Yumichika decided he did not care to read Ruminations on the application of Hadō of high level in the operating room for patients facing amputation and folded the magazine back up before returning it to the table. Sipping the tea, he noticed that the majority of the bodies had been processed, and the few who had been in surgery were being wheeled out. Ikkaku wasn't in sight as of yet, which suited him fine, and he was sure some of the 11th division troops would be ready to move shortly. He pondered the implications of what he had read.

The kharmic physiostasis and psychostasis ideas were odd to him; he had a mind for numbers, calculations, reasoning, and all the other intellectual things that his division didn't care for, but much like they, he did not nurture such capacities. He may be able to get such information out of Kira, later, but the more applicable and disconcerting facet was the rate of disease. Reiatsu served as a source of strength as well as existence, and so it was rare for a Shinigami to become ill outside of a combat induced toxin or ability. Individuals like Captain Ukitake were rare, and largely unheard of, but if the Captain's example were true to the standard experience, then it would mean for an unpleasantly long stay in the afterlife, indeed.

In the 11th division, fighting and bloodshed were everyday occurrences, and arguably hourly. True, most of the troops preferred to fight and drink, but there were others who had some varied interests. Some smoked, a few dabbled in gambling, and a rarer few like Futanari were known for their lasciviousness. Logic would dictate that the entire division was largely at a higher risk for the exposure of blood-borne illnesses and diseases…which would severely cripple the Gotei if the assault division were incapacitated by their own blood, or happened to shed it everywhere.

That would make any battlefield all the more dangerous, and needlessly so. Admittedly, that would require a very intentional line of thinking, and could arguably be giving the enemy too much credit for multiple avenues of attack. At the same time, if it could be used properly – and if Aizen's treachery had revealed anything, it was his ability to conceptualize and enact long-term, highly complicated strategies – having an entire division risk becoming a major vector for a debilitating disease, or susceptible to a disease-based Arrancar attack, would be a major force multiplier in the grand scheme of the war. Not that he needed it, of course, but nonetheless…

Yumichika was still contemplating this when his Lieutenant arrived, and was compelled to spend the next two hours following her around the division barracks while she terrorized the men. When Ikkaku was ready to leave (with a neck brace to ensure that he wouldn't damage his larynx for three weeks, he smugly noted), they followed their Lieutenant and the 11th's walking wounded back to their own division barracks. The Captain was out tonight, and so he saw to the Lieutenant's nighttime rituals himself, all the while contemplating what, if anything, he should say to the Captain, and how.