The woman watched her be dragged to Fourth Division, nearly recalling fond memories of hearing a shinigami bitching about how much she hated Fourth. How it smelled of antiseptic and death. The female Captain's features were set still, serene, expressionless, though she didn't say she enjoyed watching shinigami buzz around the turncoat to try and save her life. Punctured lung, at the hand of Captain Hinamori, they reported. Horribly destroyed arm and shoulder, by Lieutenant Captain Matsumoto's hand. Retsu Unohana mused about how oddly life plays out as she moved forward, also beginning to work on Ichimin Kumorigachi and trying to ignore the woman's blank, mindless stare at the white ceiling. The reports of a total mental breakdown also reached Captain Unohana, and would be considered later. Right now, Kumorigachi was in the process of dying.
The female Captain cleaned her blade off on a throwaway cloth, ignoring how Kumorigachi's blood stained the fabric. Captain Hinamori was already setting to dealing with the destruction the attack by Aizen had wreaked. Men and women died. Good men and women, good shinigami. Ichimin Kumorigachi was the villainess that had assisted in perpetrating it partially, herself. She had done quite a bit of it in a rampage. It was of no importance. The woman allied herself with Aizen, and as Momo thought of the smiling visage of her long ago beloved superior, no quiver came to Hinamori's hand and her heart remained stony. If Ichimin had allied herself with Aizen, she deserved nothing more than death.
Matsumoto walked alongside Hitsugaya, examining the damages that the attackers caused. She recalled Ichimin's face and dispelled it quickly, remembering that another face had very briefly flashed through her mind again. A grinning fox of a man, one that had picked his side for thrill, probably. One that had abandoned her. One that she hadn't seen in fifty years, and one that Rangiku had been hunting for in every subsequent attack upon them by Aizen's forces. Ichimin was a surprise, and the remembrance of their former friendship stung horribly only for a moment, as if peroxide had been dumped on an old wound that never quite healed. It faded. Matsumoto went on, with the memory of a broken, babbling Ichimin in the dirt.
As the Captain's coat with the kanji for 'Three' emblazoned on the back fluttered, Izuru Kira kept walking along the battlefield and stopped at familiar reiatsus at his back. He turned to face Renji, and to see Ikkaku and Yumichika. They all had seen her, and they all remembered days of yore when a group of shinigami were drinking away their troubles with gusto, one a bipolar drunk jumping between mean as hell and giggling. One they themselves had declared an enemy, and one that they had seen a catatonic, frothing mess. They exchanged glances, before Kira was ushered off by his men to go have a drink. Third Division was mainly fine. The three walked off, spotting Matsumoto and watching as she joined them for a drink, wordlessly.
A scowling Privaron stuck his hands in his pockets, experiencing the magical memory eye dust for himself from Ulquiorra. He had thought it'd take more than just some memories to do something that damaging. She was a tough bitch, but apparently not as tough as he thought she was. And Grimmjow Jeagerjaquez couldn't help but think he should've killed her awhile back, if she was that weak a bitch.
A smiling man leaned against the back wall in the shadows, watching her crumple in a screaming, frothing mess. A bit of it actually struck him; maybe he should've been merciful and just killed her out of compassion. His smile dampened, before returning to its natural, unnatural appearance that made him seem inhuman. Gin Ichimaru's guilt faded. He stopped caring, and instead retreated to comfort that Rangiku was alright, and bathed in the humor of seeing Ichimin Kumorigachi fall so hard.
The Lord of Las Noches leaned his chin on his fist as he watched through Ulquiorra's eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. He found it highly amusing. The slightest notion that he might not have to, that being amused at watching Ichimin plummet from her pedestal somehow made him monstrous was thought of for only a moment, before being brushed away. Things would work out, as they always had. And it wasn't like he was surprised by the events.
Nothing surprised him anymore.
Seireitei was calm. As calm as it could possibly be.
The door was opened to a quiet (very much so) room, shattering the illusion of such a room being a world of its own to the sole occupant. A single person strode in quietly, shutting the door behind himself and glancing upwards at the only other person in the room, currently sitting up in bed and staring out the window. The sheets were not white; they were a ruddy brown color. She couldn't stand white. Had a near phobia of the color. The entire room had been changed for her to keep her calm, to keep her under control. She wanted no couch in the room, and remained steadfast in not wanting black sheets for her bed. And she wouldn't tell anyone why, though correspondence with Kurosaki had revealed to them why she loathed white so much. Apparently, her entire world had been white for a very long time.
The visitor was silent, as silent as the room had been beforehand. He didn't speak with her, never even bothered with pleasantries. The Captain's coat clashed with the dark, inky color of his hair only interrupted by the noble ornament hanging limply. He was silent, here with a mission, and she was completely compliant.
From the window, the normal people moving around below her garbed in black, she glanced over to him. Dull green eyes, much duller than her visitor remembered, rolled over to appraise him. A smile tugged at her lips, very gently so. Her lips parted to mouth a greeting, the long mane of blondish hair moving with her as she turned her head. Her hand lay limp on the sheets, around thigh level, fingers splayed openly on the dull ruddy sheets. Her movements were slight; sluggish. When she had come back, when she returned and then broke like porcelain, her skin had been a painfully, unhealthy pale. Near liquid paper white. Lack of sunlight, they had surmised. She let them know they were correct in that notion. But what they hadn't gotten the direct answer to was why she was so...why she looked so very tired, no matter what she was doing or how much rest she had had beforehand. That, why she absolutely abhored the color white, and why she wouldn't let anyone touch her. She hated to be touched. Even by Unohana, she would only just barely contain her urge to pull away, jerk away, get away from their hands.
And there was one more question that nobody had to ask, because they could just guess the answer.
Byakuya made his way across the room, dropping something into her lap while careful not to get too close. She was silent in opening the letter, scanning over it, and dropping it, watching the paper float gently downwards to the floor. They very barely let anyone come in anymore, only certain Captains. Why they had picked Byakuya Kuchiki was beyond her, because she found his presence discomforting. She wouldn't tell them why. The only things she had told them were what they had demanded from her, mainly about Aizen's base and his plans. She knew very little, and it frustrated them. They tried interrogation, but her mental condition was so blase that she barely reacted to Soifon's harsh manner of bad cop-worse cop, only going catatonic once again. And after the first time, Unohana had told them that doing it again may facilitate another complete breakdown.
"You understand?" Kuchiki queried with high disinterest. She nodded once, and only once, before her eyes trailed to the window again. How long she had been here, Ichimin Kumorigachi had no real idea. They didn't tell her, and she didn't really care either way. It felt like eternity. And it wasn't near long enough as she would've liked. She told them all that she could, about how Aizen had rigged her betrayal and massacre, how Aizen apparently erased her memories until recently, how he had done it all. They believed her, but they didn't trust her. Ichimin couldn't blame them. She wouldn't have either.
Byakuya gave a stiff nod, before turning on his heel and heading towards the door. When he reached it, he left the room as soon as he could, wanting to be away from her. Ichimin looked far too closely to Hisana in her final days, far too close for comfort. He never appreciated the visits, never liked them. Quick, clean, to the point. He made sure the visits stayed that way, without banter or chatter. Not that banter or actual dialogue could happen in the first place.
As he left, Ichimin's eyes remained upon the people outside, the shinigami walking around and taking care of their day to day lives. She envied them. So long to put herself back together, and she was still a work in progress. Fragile. Useless. Guilty. And plagued by bad memories of a too-short span of time within a vast white castle, a time when she was both immeasurably happy and still a laughable puppet on golden strings.
She thought of him sometimes. Aizen. She remembered happier times, and she regretted so very much. And hated a lot, that too.
Her eyes flickered to the letter on the floor, then back to the window. And she closed her eyes then. What would come, would come. Right now, she just wanted one thing.
Ichimin laid back down, closing the world out and smothering it in ruddy sheets.
She wanted a small part of peace, whether or not it was glass.
((Last chapter of Bluebird! I think of it as filler, actually; Faux Smiles was better, in my opinion. But the next part will most definitely be the last, and there's another timeskip so it seems appropriate for a new (and final) installation. And, believe it or not, I have an idea for how it'll all end. Be looking for the Coyote Gospel, coming very, very soon. Thanks again for reading, you guys.))