When one is a scientist, and concentrating singularly on an experiment, attracting their attention can be quite a laborious task. They didn’t set up soundproof walls, or wear earplugs for their own amusement, after all.
A good scientist always makes sure that he is unaffected by external stimuli. Dealing with internal stimuli can be a little tricky, though. But the Great Mayuri had the solution to that—to a considerable extent. He had a jar of antacid tablets at the ready in case he got too hungry in the course of his experimentations. He was, after all, better than the good scientist; though not perfect, because Mayuri despised perfection, and laughed at anyone who claimed that they or their inventions were perfect.
“And if I add this brimstone to this molten lead...?”
Mayuri hummed to himself a tune that would remind one of a plunger being pulled out of a toilet as he perfunctorily emptied the test tube containing sulfur into the vat that miraculously kept the molten lead molten, and observed keenly as no visible change took place in the mixture.
To the eye of the ignoramus, Mayuri was a moron who didn’t know what the hell he was doing. If Mayuri were to ever hear such a comment, its speaker would find inevitably himself vivisected before he knew what was going on, and then pop off disgracefully.
Mayuri was, after all, more of an anatomist than a chemist.
And when Mayuri’s experiments seemed to be going downhill...
“Nemu!” Mayuri hissed through clenched teeth. “You useless animal! Get over here this instant!”
Nemu scuffled over timorously to where Mayuri was conducting his experiments.
“Yes, Master.”
“You dullard! Make yourself useful and fetch me the scalpel from my storage cabinet!”
“Yes, Master.”
“Go quickly, you dimwit! I don’t have all day!”
Nemu scurried over to the storage cabinet, which was located in a remote corner of the lab, and returned as quickly as she could.
“It’s about time you came.” Mayuri yelled, drumming his fingers on the countertop in annoyance; “I was beginning to think you’d died or something. Well? Don’t just stand there and stare at me like a lifeless gigai! Hand me the scalpel! Now make yourself scarce before I kill you and chop your body into millions of pieces and crush them and drop them into vats full of concentrated sulfuric acid!”
Nemu bowed and scurried away.
Mayuri stared at the scalpel in his hand.
“Nemu! Where are you, you useless pile of junk? Nemu!”
Nemu returned.
“You retarded rodent! Put the scalpel back in the storage cabinet! What use is a scalpel when I’m experimenting with liquids, you retard? Bring me the platinum stirrer!”
Nemu replaced the scalpel in the storage cabinet and brought Mayuri the platinum stirrer.
“Now begone before I disembowel you!” Mayuri yelled.
Nemu scurried away.
“She is so much trouble!” Mayuri said in exasperation, following which he gave vent to an exclamation of pain—“Argh!”
Mayuri had failed to notice the vat full of molten lead while he was in the process of slamming his hand down on the countertop in frustration.
“Damn you, Nemu!” Mayuri yelled, staring at his black and smoldering hand.
He shook his head in frustration and pulled the damaged limb out. Then he extracted from his robes his favorite drug and injected himself with it. Like magic, a new arm replaced the first.
“Now I’ll have to make more of this drug. What a pain, really.”
Mayuri was so frustrated that he almost considered going outside and taking a stroll down by the Lake. Fortunately, he checked himself in time and shoved those ignominious thoughts out of his head. How outrageous! How could he have even thought of something as disgracefully primitive as that? He was a scientist through and through, and the last thing a scientist does is leave his laboratory, unless for fieldwork or research.
“You’ll pay for this, Nemu! I know! I’ll pull you apart and then put you back together!”
While Mayuri was plotting on ways to torture his lieutenant and daughter, he was oblivious of the fact that the molten lead had spilled over due to overheating, and fallen on the hem of his haori before solidifying on the floor and thus trapping the haori.
“I’ve got it!” Mayuri exclaimed, failing to realize the aforementioned happening in his haste, and falling on the floor disgracefully when his haori tugged hard at him.
“Nemu!”
* * * * *
Hitsugaya cleared his throat as an excuse to think of what to say to the people gathered before him. He surveyed them elaborately, making all kinds of mental notes for which he had little or no use, and waited for someone to prompt him in the right direction.
He scratched his head and swallowed mechanically. Gosh! Why was introducing a bright and novel idea of recreation so difficult? Was it the fact that he was staring at a group of the most boring and lifeless people in the Soul Society, or was it just because he was afraid he’d be laughed at.
Whichever it was, the sight of Byakuya Kuchiki’s deadpan face (including eyes that were superciliously shut) was the biggest discouragement Hitsugaya had ever received in his short life. It was as though the man didn’t want him to talk at all.
Hitsugaya coughed.
The possibility was not farfetched.
After a few more minutes of silence, Hitsugaya cleared his throat again.
“Er...”
The fact that nobody in the room showed the slightest reaction to that introductory syllable greatly deterred Hitsugaya from talking, or even reiterating the syllable.
Silence pervaded the room once again.
Hitsugaya turned his attention to Soifon, whose face was surprisingly devoid of all emotion. Usually, her face was the picture of anger and premenstrual irritation. But now it appeared as though Soifon had come under the Kuchiki influence.
Even if she had shown the slightest sign of irritation, Hitsugaya would have felt encouraged. But now, he had no way to ascertain that she was even aware of his presence. Not even her eyes were on him. They were fixed on the poster of a black cat that was for some reason stuck on the wall behind Hitsugaya.
When Soifon had graciously permitted Hitsugaya to hold the meeting in her cabin, he was sure that at least she would be interested in what he was going to say.
What was he going to say?
He looked at Captain Kyoraku for encouragement, and let out a groan of consternation when he realized that he was asleep.
On the bright side, he was the only one showing the least signs of life: Captain Unohana, like Captain Kuchiki, stood with her eyes closed. One would conjecture that she was meditating on the profound secrets of the art of healing.
Hitsugaya shook his head.
“You guys, show some signs of life, won’t you?”
He was surprised at himself for even saying that. In the environs of the Squad 10 barracks, he prided himself for being lifelessly cold and stoic. But the crowd (it would be right to call the group of people a crowd, since crowds always make people nervous, and this group did just that to Hitsugaya) before him at present broke his walls of stoicism down and reduced him to what he really was, but would never admit to being: a child.
Soifon’s eyebrow twitched.
Byakuya shook his head ever so slightly to get a stray bang out of his face.
Kyoraku gave vent to a particularly loud snore.
Unohana straightened her robes.
Hitsugaya sighed. It was time for Plan B.
He snapped his fingers. The door of the cabin opened and Rangiku walked in, holding a large sack in her hands.
“Put it down here.” Hitsugaya ordered. He turned to the crowd before him. “Anyone up for candy?”
Unohana opened her eyes and smiled warmly at Hitsugaya.
Soifon tore her eyes away from the beautiful poster on the wall and focused them instead upon the sack in front of Hitsugaya.
Byakuya side-glanced longingly at it.
“If you listen to me, I’ll give you this.” Hitsugaya said. He pulled the rope at the sack’s mouth and thrust his hand inside it.
He gasped.
“What the...? Saké?!”
Instantly, three pairs of eyes went back to their original state and their owners resumed contemplating the infinite.
But the stertor stopped.
“Saké, my dear little friend?” Kyoraku said, jumping over to Hitsugaya with alacrity.
“It would appear so.” Hitsugaya said bitterly.
He turned to censure Rangiku, but she had vanished.
He left Kyoraku to revel in his newfound luck, and walked outside to look for his lieutenant. There were three charges against her: bringing saké to the Meadows; lying about it; and disappearing when she knew her captain would want to have a talk with her.
Hitsugaya’s meeting could wait until a pleasanter day: right now, he had to find and punish his lieutenant.
* * * * *
“What are you saying Nemu? Are you sure?”
Nanao straightened her glasses and regarded Nemu Kurotsuchi with a great deal of worry in her eyes.
“Affirmative.” Nemu said; “The sack Rangiku entrusted us with contained confectionery; not saké.
“Oh dear!” Nanao said, massaging her temples. “What do we do now? Does Rangiku know?”
“It is unlikely.” Nemu said.
“Women’s Association, what do you think we should do?”
The Women’s Association was short on members: Soifon’s whereabouts were unknown, and Rangiku said that her captain required her services.
On the other hand, Rukia had shown up for a change. She raised her hand.
“I think we should inform Rangiku of this discovery at the soonest: before something bad happens. What we should do is—”
At that moment, the door of the cabin was flung wide open, and a very disturbed-looking Rangiku staggered in, panting heavily.
“Rangiku!” Nanao exclaimed. “What on earth happened?”
“The unthinkable,” Rangiku said through pants. “Turns out that the sack of candy that was supposed to be in my captain’s cabin contained saké. The Captain found out, and now I’m dead.”
Nemu and Kiyone helped Rangiku over to a chair.
“Don’t you worry Rangiku,” Nanao said, placing an understanding hand on her friend’s shoulder; “I’ll take care of your captain.”
She straightened her glasses.
A look of pure horror pasted itself over Rangiku’s face.
“Oh no, Nanao! Not that!”
Nanao grinned.
“Yes, that.”
“Fine,” Rangiku said, closing her eyes in acceptance of her captain’s fate; “But don’t scare him too much. He’s just a kid, after all.”
* * * * *
It was evening soon, and all self-respecting people had one singular task to perform at this time of day: drinking tea.
A group of a select few individuals, who were famous for their self-respect, was invited over to the Head Captain’s cabin to drink tea with him.
“Captain Kuchiki, Captain Unohana, Captain Ukitake, Ichigo Kurosaki,” Yamamoto said, nodding at the respective owners of the names, “I would like to thank you for arriving here on time. One doesn’t expect young people to be punctual nowadays. I am happy to see that self-respecting people like you are still among us.”
Yamamoto nodded at each person in turn again before clearing his throat.
Ukitake groaned softly so that only Ichigo could hear him.
Apparently Yamamoto was about to begin a long and boring lecture. Judging from Ukitake’s reaction, Ichigo surmised that it wasn’t the first time the Head Captain had made the lecture.
And then Yamamoto began:
“Teatime defines that time of day when peace is at its peak and camaraderie glows brightest. Nothing can extinguish the fire of friendship that exists between fellow tea-drinkers, or break the seal of peace that the sacred drink has forged. Since ancient times, people have been drinking tea to calm their souls and become happy. Believe me, gentlemen and gentlewoman, there is no substitute for this drink. Times have changed, and people have changed, but only one thing has remained constant: Tea.”
At that moment, Lieutenant Sasakibe entered the room, carrying a tray with a porcelain teapot and a row of teacups on it.
Yamamoto coughed.
“Apparently,” he said with asperity, “Tea, too, has changed. Sasakibe, I had asked for Tea; not this abomination.”
Sasakibe appeared to have not heard Yamamoto. He placed the tray on the floor that separated the Head Captain from his guests.
“I’m sorry, Head Captain, but this is the quicker way to make tea.”
Yamamoto suppressed a yelp of indignation.
“Have you lost all your self-respect? I can tell you that you’ve lost all social respect the moment you stepped into this room with that thing.”
Ukitake could tell that his sensei was about to go berserk unless Sasakibe took the abomination back inside the cabin and returned smilingly with the more preferred version of Tea.
“Er, Sensai...” Ukitake began in an attempt to forestall the outburst of conflagration that he deemed inevitable unless the offending tea were removed from the Head Captain’s sight.
“I have not given you permission to speak, Jushiro!” Yamamoto said, his eyes aflame with senile anger.
Ukitake reluctantly sat back. He was not the kind of person to sit back and witness destruction when he had the power to prevent it. Unless, of course, his sensei ordered him to do so, in which case he would do so unhesitatingly, since whether he obeyed or not decided how much longer he was going to live.
Ichigo was watching all this with an amused look on his face. He had become pensively reticent ever since he had set foot within ten yards of the Head Captain’s place. He had supposed it was an effect of the wizened old man’s vast reserve of knowledge and calm. But now, the Head Captain was practically exuding peevishness. What irony!
“Sasakibe, I’m warning you,” Yamamoto said, “if you don’t get rid of that abomination—that disgusting ‘Western’ tea—you will become subject to my wrath. You can avert such a fate by bringing for me and my guests a kettle of oolong, and clay cups instead of glass.”
“It’s porcelain.” Sasakibe said.
Yamamoto shuddered.
“The very name offends me. Take it away from my sight at once!”
Sasakibe sighed and returned to the kitchen.
Yamamoto turned once again to his guests.
“I apologize for that. My lieutenant is a misguided, uncultured vagabond whose intelligence borders nonexistent. Now, where was I? Had I finished explaining to you all about the sacred Tea? Did I tell you about the influence of the Emperors of China in perfecting”—Mayuri would have cringed if he were present then—“this sacred brew? Did I explain to you the elaborate chronology of the development of Tea from what was simply a species of plant a few centuries ago to the elixir or life that it is today?”
Yamamoto’s audience collectively said, “Yes.”
“That’s good, then,” Yamamoto said. “In a short while, the sacred Oolong shall be brought by my worthless lieutenant, and we can all revel in its purity.”
Ichigo wondered if then would be a good time to suggest that they had already drunk their tea. The peculiar posture in which he sat was very uncomfortable for his lower half: his feet were numb, and he could barely feel his toes. He wondered why people even sat like that anymore. As if kneeling down and sitting on one’s heels wasn’t painful enough, they were required to sit with their backs as straight as goddamn boards. Ichigo wasn’t equal to the physical strain, and resisted with all his might the urge to swear.
He turned his attention to Byakuya and the others, who were also sitting the same way, but without showing the slightest sign of discomfort. Their knees were probably made up of a strange kind of rubber to be able to withstand the strain. Folding one’s legs beyond what they are capable of is, after all, no ordinary feat.
The Head Captain was the only one sitting cross-legged, Ichigo observed contemptuously.
Ichigo winced. He began to experience pins and needles in his legs, and he knew that unless he stretched them, they would fall prey to deep vein thrombosis.
When he realized that he couldn’t go on that way any longer, he acted impetuously:
“Holy Camoly! What on earth is that?” he yelled, pointing at something outside the Head Captain’s cabin, at a point beyond everyone else’s line of vision.
Everyone looked out of the place in the room where a wall should have been, and searched frantically with their eyes for the thing that Ichigo had seen.
Ichigo took advantage of the diversion he had created by stretching his legs. He exhaled sonorously as relief swept over the lower half of his body and assuaged the biting pain.
“What is it that you saw, Ichigo Kurosaki?” Yamamoto questioned.
In a second, Ichigo was back to his original, stiff position.
“What, what, what?”
“I asked, What is it that you saw, Ichigo Kurosaki?”
“Oh,” said Ichigo, laughing nervously, “that... Well, you see, I was mistaken. Must have been a dark cloud or something. I seriously thought it was one of those weird gate things that Hollows use.”
“It’s called ‘Garganta’, and it looks nothing like a dark cloud.” Byakuya said coldly.
Yamamoto nodded.
“At any rate, Ichigo, I’m glad to know that you are alert and your senses are sharp.”
Ichigo winced as the pain in his legs returned with its former intensity. Yes, his senses were too sharp for his own good.
“And now,” Yamamoto said as Sasakibe returned with kettle of Oolong tea in his hand and a scowl on his face, “we will drink some tea, following which we shall sit in the same manner and enjoy all the pleasures that Nature has to offer us over here.”
Ichigo could almost hear his legs screaming.
“Before we begin ingesting this sacred drink, I will tell you a little more about what I call ‘Tea’—with a capital T.” Yamamoto said, proceeding to talk elaborately on the vastly uninteresting subject.
And the pain in Ichigo’s legs persisted.
A good scientist always makes sure that he is unaffected by external stimuli. Dealing with internal stimuli can be a little tricky, though. But the Great Mayuri had the solution to that—to a considerable extent. He had a jar of antacid tablets at the ready in case he got too hungry in the course of his experimentations. He was, after all, better than the good scientist; though not perfect, because Mayuri despised perfection, and laughed at anyone who claimed that they or their inventions were perfect.
“And if I add this brimstone to this molten lead...?”
Mayuri hummed to himself a tune that would remind one of a plunger being pulled out of a toilet as he perfunctorily emptied the test tube containing sulfur into the vat that miraculously kept the molten lead molten, and observed keenly as no visible change took place in the mixture.
To the eye of the ignoramus, Mayuri was a moron who didn’t know what the hell he was doing. If Mayuri were to ever hear such a comment, its speaker would find inevitably himself vivisected before he knew what was going on, and then pop off disgracefully.
Mayuri was, after all, more of an anatomist than a chemist.
And when Mayuri’s experiments seemed to be going downhill...
“Nemu!” Mayuri hissed through clenched teeth. “You useless animal! Get over here this instant!”
Nemu scuffled over timorously to where Mayuri was conducting his experiments.
“Yes, Master.”
“You dullard! Make yourself useful and fetch me the scalpel from my storage cabinet!”
“Yes, Master.”
“Go quickly, you dimwit! I don’t have all day!”
Nemu scurried over to the storage cabinet, which was located in a remote corner of the lab, and returned as quickly as she could.
“It’s about time you came.” Mayuri yelled, drumming his fingers on the countertop in annoyance; “I was beginning to think you’d died or something. Well? Don’t just stand there and stare at me like a lifeless gigai! Hand me the scalpel! Now make yourself scarce before I kill you and chop your body into millions of pieces and crush them and drop them into vats full of concentrated sulfuric acid!”
Nemu bowed and scurried away.
Mayuri stared at the scalpel in his hand.
“Nemu! Where are you, you useless pile of junk? Nemu!”
Nemu returned.
“You retarded rodent! Put the scalpel back in the storage cabinet! What use is a scalpel when I’m experimenting with liquids, you retard? Bring me the platinum stirrer!”
Nemu replaced the scalpel in the storage cabinet and brought Mayuri the platinum stirrer.
“Now begone before I disembowel you!” Mayuri yelled.
Nemu scurried away.
“She is so much trouble!” Mayuri said in exasperation, following which he gave vent to an exclamation of pain—“Argh!”
Mayuri had failed to notice the vat full of molten lead while he was in the process of slamming his hand down on the countertop in frustration.
“Damn you, Nemu!” Mayuri yelled, staring at his black and smoldering hand.
He shook his head in frustration and pulled the damaged limb out. Then he extracted from his robes his favorite drug and injected himself with it. Like magic, a new arm replaced the first.
“Now I’ll have to make more of this drug. What a pain, really.”
Mayuri was so frustrated that he almost considered going outside and taking a stroll down by the Lake. Fortunately, he checked himself in time and shoved those ignominious thoughts out of his head. How outrageous! How could he have even thought of something as disgracefully primitive as that? He was a scientist through and through, and the last thing a scientist does is leave his laboratory, unless for fieldwork or research.
“You’ll pay for this, Nemu! I know! I’ll pull you apart and then put you back together!”
While Mayuri was plotting on ways to torture his lieutenant and daughter, he was oblivious of the fact that the molten lead had spilled over due to overheating, and fallen on the hem of his haori before solidifying on the floor and thus trapping the haori.
“I’ve got it!” Mayuri exclaimed, failing to realize the aforementioned happening in his haste, and falling on the floor disgracefully when his haori tugged hard at him.
“Nemu!”
* * * * *
Hitsugaya cleared his throat as an excuse to think of what to say to the people gathered before him. He surveyed them elaborately, making all kinds of mental notes for which he had little or no use, and waited for someone to prompt him in the right direction.
He scratched his head and swallowed mechanically. Gosh! Why was introducing a bright and novel idea of recreation so difficult? Was it the fact that he was staring at a group of the most boring and lifeless people in the Soul Society, or was it just because he was afraid he’d be laughed at.
Whichever it was, the sight of Byakuya Kuchiki’s deadpan face (including eyes that were superciliously shut) was the biggest discouragement Hitsugaya had ever received in his short life. It was as though the man didn’t want him to talk at all.
Hitsugaya coughed.
The possibility was not farfetched.
After a few more minutes of silence, Hitsugaya cleared his throat again.
“Er...”
The fact that nobody in the room showed the slightest reaction to that introductory syllable greatly deterred Hitsugaya from talking, or even reiterating the syllable.
Silence pervaded the room once again.
Hitsugaya turned his attention to Soifon, whose face was surprisingly devoid of all emotion. Usually, her face was the picture of anger and premenstrual irritation. But now it appeared as though Soifon had come under the Kuchiki influence.
Even if she had shown the slightest sign of irritation, Hitsugaya would have felt encouraged. But now, he had no way to ascertain that she was even aware of his presence. Not even her eyes were on him. They were fixed on the poster of a black cat that was for some reason stuck on the wall behind Hitsugaya.
When Soifon had graciously permitted Hitsugaya to hold the meeting in her cabin, he was sure that at least she would be interested in what he was going to say.
What was he going to say?
He looked at Captain Kyoraku for encouragement, and let out a groan of consternation when he realized that he was asleep.
On the bright side, he was the only one showing the least signs of life: Captain Unohana, like Captain Kuchiki, stood with her eyes closed. One would conjecture that she was meditating on the profound secrets of the art of healing.
Hitsugaya shook his head.
“You guys, show some signs of life, won’t you?”
He was surprised at himself for even saying that. In the environs of the Squad 10 barracks, he prided himself for being lifelessly cold and stoic. But the crowd (it would be right to call the group of people a crowd, since crowds always make people nervous, and this group did just that to Hitsugaya) before him at present broke his walls of stoicism down and reduced him to what he really was, but would never admit to being: a child.
Soifon’s eyebrow twitched.
Byakuya shook his head ever so slightly to get a stray bang out of his face.
Kyoraku gave vent to a particularly loud snore.
Unohana straightened her robes.
Hitsugaya sighed. It was time for Plan B.
He snapped his fingers. The door of the cabin opened and Rangiku walked in, holding a large sack in her hands.
“Put it down here.” Hitsugaya ordered. He turned to the crowd before him. “Anyone up for candy?”
Unohana opened her eyes and smiled warmly at Hitsugaya.
Soifon tore her eyes away from the beautiful poster on the wall and focused them instead upon the sack in front of Hitsugaya.
Byakuya side-glanced longingly at it.
“If you listen to me, I’ll give you this.” Hitsugaya said. He pulled the rope at the sack’s mouth and thrust his hand inside it.
He gasped.
“What the...? Saké?!”
Instantly, three pairs of eyes went back to their original state and their owners resumed contemplating the infinite.
But the stertor stopped.
“Saké, my dear little friend?” Kyoraku said, jumping over to Hitsugaya with alacrity.
“It would appear so.” Hitsugaya said bitterly.
He turned to censure Rangiku, but she had vanished.
He left Kyoraku to revel in his newfound luck, and walked outside to look for his lieutenant. There were three charges against her: bringing saké to the Meadows; lying about it; and disappearing when she knew her captain would want to have a talk with her.
Hitsugaya’s meeting could wait until a pleasanter day: right now, he had to find and punish his lieutenant.
* * * * *
“What are you saying Nemu? Are you sure?”
Nanao straightened her glasses and regarded Nemu Kurotsuchi with a great deal of worry in her eyes.
“Affirmative.” Nemu said; “The sack Rangiku entrusted us with contained confectionery; not saké.
“Oh dear!” Nanao said, massaging her temples. “What do we do now? Does Rangiku know?”
“It is unlikely.” Nemu said.
“Women’s Association, what do you think we should do?”
The Women’s Association was short on members: Soifon’s whereabouts were unknown, and Rangiku said that her captain required her services.
On the other hand, Rukia had shown up for a change. She raised her hand.
“I think we should inform Rangiku of this discovery at the soonest: before something bad happens. What we should do is—”
At that moment, the door of the cabin was flung wide open, and a very disturbed-looking Rangiku staggered in, panting heavily.
“Rangiku!” Nanao exclaimed. “What on earth happened?”
“The unthinkable,” Rangiku said through pants. “Turns out that the sack of candy that was supposed to be in my captain’s cabin contained saké. The Captain found out, and now I’m dead.”
Nemu and Kiyone helped Rangiku over to a chair.
“Don’t you worry Rangiku,” Nanao said, placing an understanding hand on her friend’s shoulder; “I’ll take care of your captain.”
She straightened her glasses.
A look of pure horror pasted itself over Rangiku’s face.
“Oh no, Nanao! Not that!”
Nanao grinned.
“Yes, that.”
“Fine,” Rangiku said, closing her eyes in acceptance of her captain’s fate; “But don’t scare him too much. He’s just a kid, after all.”
* * * * *
It was evening soon, and all self-respecting people had one singular task to perform at this time of day: drinking tea.
A group of a select few individuals, who were famous for their self-respect, was invited over to the Head Captain’s cabin to drink tea with him.
“Captain Kuchiki, Captain Unohana, Captain Ukitake, Ichigo Kurosaki,” Yamamoto said, nodding at the respective owners of the names, “I would like to thank you for arriving here on time. One doesn’t expect young people to be punctual nowadays. I am happy to see that self-respecting people like you are still among us.”
Yamamoto nodded at each person in turn again before clearing his throat.
Ukitake groaned softly so that only Ichigo could hear him.
Apparently Yamamoto was about to begin a long and boring lecture. Judging from Ukitake’s reaction, Ichigo surmised that it wasn’t the first time the Head Captain had made the lecture.
And then Yamamoto began:
“Teatime defines that time of day when peace is at its peak and camaraderie glows brightest. Nothing can extinguish the fire of friendship that exists between fellow tea-drinkers, or break the seal of peace that the sacred drink has forged. Since ancient times, people have been drinking tea to calm their souls and become happy. Believe me, gentlemen and gentlewoman, there is no substitute for this drink. Times have changed, and people have changed, but only one thing has remained constant: Tea.”
At that moment, Lieutenant Sasakibe entered the room, carrying a tray with a porcelain teapot and a row of teacups on it.
Yamamoto coughed.
“Apparently,” he said with asperity, “Tea, too, has changed. Sasakibe, I had asked for Tea; not this abomination.”
Sasakibe appeared to have not heard Yamamoto. He placed the tray on the floor that separated the Head Captain from his guests.
“I’m sorry, Head Captain, but this is the quicker way to make tea.”
Yamamoto suppressed a yelp of indignation.
“Have you lost all your self-respect? I can tell you that you’ve lost all social respect the moment you stepped into this room with that thing.”
Ukitake could tell that his sensei was about to go berserk unless Sasakibe took the abomination back inside the cabin and returned smilingly with the more preferred version of Tea.
“Er, Sensai...” Ukitake began in an attempt to forestall the outburst of conflagration that he deemed inevitable unless the offending tea were removed from the Head Captain’s sight.
“I have not given you permission to speak, Jushiro!” Yamamoto said, his eyes aflame with senile anger.
Ukitake reluctantly sat back. He was not the kind of person to sit back and witness destruction when he had the power to prevent it. Unless, of course, his sensei ordered him to do so, in which case he would do so unhesitatingly, since whether he obeyed or not decided how much longer he was going to live.
Ichigo was watching all this with an amused look on his face. He had become pensively reticent ever since he had set foot within ten yards of the Head Captain’s place. He had supposed it was an effect of the wizened old man’s vast reserve of knowledge and calm. But now, the Head Captain was practically exuding peevishness. What irony!
“Sasakibe, I’m warning you,” Yamamoto said, “if you don’t get rid of that abomination—that disgusting ‘Western’ tea—you will become subject to my wrath. You can avert such a fate by bringing for me and my guests a kettle of oolong, and clay cups instead of glass.”
“It’s porcelain.” Sasakibe said.
Yamamoto shuddered.
“The very name offends me. Take it away from my sight at once!”
Sasakibe sighed and returned to the kitchen.
Yamamoto turned once again to his guests.
“I apologize for that. My lieutenant is a misguided, uncultured vagabond whose intelligence borders nonexistent. Now, where was I? Had I finished explaining to you all about the sacred Tea? Did I tell you about the influence of the Emperors of China in perfecting”—Mayuri would have cringed if he were present then—“this sacred brew? Did I explain to you the elaborate chronology of the development of Tea from what was simply a species of plant a few centuries ago to the elixir or life that it is today?”
Yamamoto’s audience collectively said, “Yes.”
“That’s good, then,” Yamamoto said. “In a short while, the sacred Oolong shall be brought by my worthless lieutenant, and we can all revel in its purity.”
Ichigo wondered if then would be a good time to suggest that they had already drunk their tea. The peculiar posture in which he sat was very uncomfortable for his lower half: his feet were numb, and he could barely feel his toes. He wondered why people even sat like that anymore. As if kneeling down and sitting on one’s heels wasn’t painful enough, they were required to sit with their backs as straight as goddamn boards. Ichigo wasn’t equal to the physical strain, and resisted with all his might the urge to swear.
He turned his attention to Byakuya and the others, who were also sitting the same way, but without showing the slightest sign of discomfort. Their knees were probably made up of a strange kind of rubber to be able to withstand the strain. Folding one’s legs beyond what they are capable of is, after all, no ordinary feat.
The Head Captain was the only one sitting cross-legged, Ichigo observed contemptuously.
Ichigo winced. He began to experience pins and needles in his legs, and he knew that unless he stretched them, they would fall prey to deep vein thrombosis.
When he realized that he couldn’t go on that way any longer, he acted impetuously:
“Holy Camoly! What on earth is that?” he yelled, pointing at something outside the Head Captain’s cabin, at a point beyond everyone else’s line of vision.
Everyone looked out of the place in the room where a wall should have been, and searched frantically with their eyes for the thing that Ichigo had seen.
Ichigo took advantage of the diversion he had created by stretching his legs. He exhaled sonorously as relief swept over the lower half of his body and assuaged the biting pain.
“What is it that you saw, Ichigo Kurosaki?” Yamamoto questioned.
In a second, Ichigo was back to his original, stiff position.
“What, what, what?”
“I asked, What is it that you saw, Ichigo Kurosaki?”
“Oh,” said Ichigo, laughing nervously, “that... Well, you see, I was mistaken. Must have been a dark cloud or something. I seriously thought it was one of those weird gate things that Hollows use.”
“It’s called ‘Garganta’, and it looks nothing like a dark cloud.” Byakuya said coldly.
Yamamoto nodded.
“At any rate, Ichigo, I’m glad to know that you are alert and your senses are sharp.”
Ichigo winced as the pain in his legs returned with its former intensity. Yes, his senses were too sharp for his own good.
“And now,” Yamamoto said as Sasakibe returned with kettle of Oolong tea in his hand and a scowl on his face, “we will drink some tea, following which we shall sit in the same manner and enjoy all the pleasures that Nature has to offer us over here.”
Ichigo could almost hear his legs screaming.
“Before we begin ingesting this sacred drink, I will tell you a little more about what I call ‘Tea’—with a capital T.” Yamamoto said, proceeding to talk elaborately on the vastly uninteresting subject.
And the pain in Ichigo’s legs persisted.
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