A/N – And now we begin the story.

Disclaimer – I don’t own Bleach, any of the canon characters, situations or settings. Don’t sue.

Chapter 1

Dawn was just breaking across Seireitei as Renji approached the headquarters of the 6th division. He was walking upright and in a relatively straight line, which he considered an achievement in itself after a night out with Matsumoto and Kyouraku-taichou; still, he was feeling decidedly mellow, and he was glad that his shift did not begin for another two hours.

The two Shinigami on guard sprang to attention and saluted him as he neared the gates. “Abarai-fukutaichou!” they snapped out in perfect unison, rushing to let him in, and he grinned weakly at their nervous enthusiasm.

“Yo,” he managed, waving a lazy hand as he passed. “Morita; Kenzo.” They were first year recruits straight out of the Academy, still awed by their first placement. Give him another six months, and Renji and the other seated officers would work them ‘til they cried, turn them upside down and shake them until they lost their shine and took on the shape of the 6th division.

If they did something extraordinary – or extraordinarily stupid – they might even come to Kuchiki-taichou’s attention.

That was how things were in the 6th. The division revered their aloof captain, speaking in awed tones of his absolute authority, his perfect discipline, his control of his extraordinary power. The subdued thrum of Kuchiki-taichou’s reiatsu underlay the entire compound, an unspoken assurance – though they saw only little of him, the division at least knew that he was present in his office, no doubt kneeling in a shaft of perfect sunlight, drinking tea and contemplating drifting cherry blossoms.

If the captain set the impossible standard for the division, it was Renji – with his rough and ready methods and flashfire temper – who set the everyday tone, gathering the day to day concerns and triumphs of the squad, dispensing praise and discipline and offering an occasionally sympathetic ear. During his first days as vice-captain there had been numerous complaints made about his methods: fresh from Zaraki-taichou and the 11th, he had been lean and hungry, fierce and proud, and the predominantly noble 6th had always had a reputation for order, discipline and tradition. When Kuchiki-taichou had indicated his complete indifference in the matter, however, Renji and his detractors had been forced to work out a rough compromise.

Renji had once ventured to thank the captain for that tacit show of support. Kuchiki-taichou had looked at him and said that he had known exactly what Renji was when he chose him for the position.

Such was the enigmatic, often maddening captain. And since his fight with Kurosaki Ichigo, when he had come to some kind of inner revelation, he had become even harder to read.

A few steps into the compound, Renji felt the captain’s reiatsu, but rather than its usual disciplined calm, it was stirring a little, tiny spikes and eddies that Kuchiki-taichou would normally never allow. No wonder the guards had been nervous; if there was one thing Renji had learned in the late upheaval, it was that if the high-ranking officers were unsettled, it could spread through the whole division.

If Kuchiki-taichou was unsettled…

As he headed further into the headquarters’ corridors, he passed other Shinigami scuttling about, their shoulders hunched and their eyes wary. They brightened when they saw him, relieved and reassured by his presence. Renji felt the weight of their expectations like a physical burden, their belief that he could find out what was wrong with their world and fix it. And so, rather than heading to his room and snatching an hour of much-needed sleep before starting the day, he braced his shoulders and headed towards Kuchiki-taichou’s office.

He could feel the reiatsu humming in his bones as he approached. Even before he heard the flat, monotone order to enter, he knew that the captain was aware of his presence. On guard and very much aware of his manners, he stepped into the office and bowed, awaiting acknowledgement.

In his peripheral vision Renji could see the Kuchiki-taichou with his back to him, standing, as always, before the glass window looking out over Seireitei. That was nothing new. What was different today was the sword – not Senbonzakura – lying unsheathed on the pristine lacquered desk, the tightly-wrapped hilt stained with blood, and the blade blackened with soot and coated with...a dark, oily film?

Forgetting himself, Renji stepped over to the desk and bent over the sword, sniffing suspiciously at the substance on the blade. Underneath the reek of soot and the tang of metal and oil was a sharp, acrid scent that stirred the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Poison?” he gasped incredulously, before he could stop himself. But who would do such a thing? And how had Kuchiki-taichou got hold of such a blade?

“Abarai-fukutaichou,” Kuchiki-taichou said formally, ignoring Renji’s interruption, “As of today you will be the effective head of this division. I have already sent the forms for processing.”

“B-but, taichou!” Renji exclaimed, utterly blindsided.

“I do not know how long I will be gone, but in the meantime you will be acting captain, invested with all my privileges and responsibilities. If you feel yourself in need of advice, you would do well to be guided by Ukitake-taichou.” His flat black eyes watched as Renji sputtered and gasped. “And, Renji,” he continued ominously, “do not disgrace the division while I am gone.”

And with that, Kuchiki-taichou turned his back once more, and Renji had to be content. Still not quite sure what had just happened, he bowed briefly and wandered out of the office in a daze. He hardly noticed when the third and fourth seat gathered around him, anxious to know what was so wrong. His mind was still occupied with the thought of the 6th division without the captain, of himself behind the captain’s desk in the captain’s office.

He was not ashamed to admit that he was terrified.

Once Byakuya felt Renji and the other officers move further away towards the common area, he turned his attention back to the sword that he had taken from the leader of the assassins last night. It lay on his desk like a foul, dishonourable stain, a filthy reminder of what could have happened.

Rukia had been sleeping nearby last night, her own chambers not far down the corridor from his. If the assassins had gone after her as well, or if the fight had spread to other areas of the house, she might have sustained a wound from the poisoned blade.

If she had been harmed…

His hand clenched on Senbonzakura’s hilt.

If she was harmed in this, he would never forgive them.