Eidolon
Murderface Murderface
It was still a drab day in Rukongai when Creed stepped out of the town hall. Given a difficult mission and the sole representative of Seireitei’s authority, the burden of what he must accomplish sat heavily on the youth’s shoulders. A calloused hand lifted and ran back through his dark hair, golden eyes sweeping the sprawling district hub with a lack of enthusiasm. He would need to formulate a plan and carry it out with elegance if he hoped to come back to his division a success.
And so, lingering in the rain and growing drenched in the process, the youth pondered for several hours. Finally, he lifted himself up and searched the buildings nearby for something in particular. Once found, he did not hesitate to step inside, pushing the swinging doors wide open and stepping into the dimly lit interior of the building of sin. The music quieted and almost all the conversations stopped around the tables and bar as the shinigami stepped in.
Eyes tracked his movements, exhales bringing plumes of smoke to hover limply in the air. A moment later, he found himself at the bar proper, looking to an attentive barkeeper. “Some good Sake,” he opened. All the place returned to normal at those three words, all engaging in banter, drink, and gambling once more.
Putting enough of the potent liquid down to keep his stomach warm, Creed spoke to no one and kept to his own, seemingly what the people expected of him. But his isolation bore fruit, for the entire time he was profiling the clients as they went about their routine of pleasure. Whores, drunks, and seemingly upright citizens relaxing alike were all evaluated by the criteria in the shinigami’s mind until he found a mark.
It was waiting on that mark that required him to drink so much. If nothing else, he had to keep the appearance of having a purpose in being in the bar: to drink sake. Eventually, the brown haired young woman made her way back to the street, and a half minute behind her Creed emerged.
Tailing the mark was fairly simple work. While the golden eyed youth had no formal training in the arts of espionage or stalking, he was naturally fast and possessed an agility that a normal soul could never hope to match, let alone follow. Further, the time spent in the bar gave him a chance to absorb the feeling and nature of the place he was in, it set his mind to becoming the instrument he would need to be and cleansed the many doubts and uncertainties that had clouded him in the earlier hours.
There along the roof tops, stepping lightly and quickly on spots shored up directly by supporting beams, he witnessed the girl slip into an unmarked dwelling. Bingo, he mentally praised himself. A quick flash step brought him back to street level, and a moment later he too stepped inside.
Unlike the bar, shinigami were not welcome where he went. Just inside, a pair of burly men were flanking the only apparent entrance deeper into the abode, and upon seeing him tensed and came together to form a barrier of flesh. The Mystic read the tension clearly, and capitalized on it.
Lifting his hands up and adopting a submissive step back, he offered, “Look, I’m not here for that sort of thing, I just need my next.”
That caught the bouncers off guard. Shinigami weren’t the type to ask, or respect the rule of underworld life. They just crushed and broke through obstacles until they got what they wanted. In this case, however, their potential adversary was attempting to stick with the game. It shouldn’t have worked. That should have made them all the more suspicious.
But Creed had fresh memories of how they all behaved at the bar, and that told him of the strong possibility for success with this ploy. “Right, just keep it away in there.” With that, the bald one on the right opened the door. As Creed passed through, he could feel both gazes locked onto him, and emerging into the den proper, still at least one set of eyes behind him. They weren’t that trusting.
After a quick scope, the youth found the obvious man in charge, the proprietor of the goods he was asked to purge from this district. He made no bold moves, but nor did he hesitate. Walking up, he simply lifted two fingers and declared, “Two.”
The man nodded and produced two small, perhaps thumb sized containers that were sealed and slid them half way across the table he was sitting at. “Thirty Kan,” he responded with equally curt words.
Great, there goes half my mission fund, Creed internally grumbled while showing no hesitation in the action of plucking out his coin pouch. He dumped out about that much, counted, and then passed over the correct amount to the dealer. Scooping up his score, the shinigami then turn and left the building entirely.
He could feel the tension ebbing as he did so, and once more he slipped up to the rooftops after a few skewed treks through alleys and yards. He opened one of the containers, seeing the opalescent paste within and confirming he had hit his mark. Then, for some hours more, he waited.
Brash action wouldn’t net him the prize desired, and so instead of breaking up the den after getting dealt his portion, he decided to resort to kidnapping. And to do so, he constantly stalked and patrolled the perimeter of the building. His thoughts were that middle men needed to unload their hauls to higher authorities. And that middle men often didn’t know enough.
His guess proved at least half correct. After some time, the contingent of three exited from the right side of the building and made a quick, but quiet pace across the whole of the town. It seems they were especially careful to avoid being followed. Unlike his contemporaries in Soul Society though, they were unable to track the presence of spiritual pressure, and so, he needed only avoid their eyes. And people rarely look up.
As the dawn began to threaten, the final mark made his appearance. The three had long since gone, and eventually, out in their place, came a very skinny man wearing his overly showy robe open, to expose his smooth chest. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his eyes were nervous. For the first time since coming here, Creed felt excited.
This man, who served on the ruling council, was directly tied to the distribution of the drug. Surely he had found the wellspring. A pair of shuynpo later, and the unsuspecting council member was atop the roofs of his fair town, staring directly into the golden eyes of justice.
“I only want to know one thing, and then I’ll let you go,” Creed spoke the truth. Though this is as fair as the human trail would lead him, he hadn’t discovered the source.
At first, the man was startled. He glanced about wildly, likely considering plans of shouting for help, jumping from the building, and possibly attacking his interrogator directly. All fell through, and after a long silence he answered, composed, “Anything you get from me will cost you, boy.”
Creed smiled. “I’ve got fifteen Kan to my name and two doses of your shit.”
That unsettled the council member, who scratched at his obi. He said nothing in return.
“Figure it out? I can just kill you, put these doses on you and turn your head in. Since you are involved highly, nearly everyone will believe that I did a wonderful job in stopping this shit from being sold and gain respect for the Shinigami and their rule.” He finished with a slow shake of his head.
“But that’s not good enough for me. I want to actually stop it, not get the praise of a half-assed job well done. So, options clear?” He stared and waited for a response.
“Seems so.” That came out flatly, with a little choke near the end. Wild eyes and wild jerks of the body told Creed his suspect was at the point of panic, but he did and said nothing to quell, or agitate, the criminal. “Fine, I’ll tell you who the big boss is. And you’ll shit your pants.”
Finally, Creed thought triumphantly. He awaited the hard earned information, growing nervous himself. It never came.
“You’ll be the one shitting your pants,” came a voice from behind the impaled councilor. A blond man, hair pulled back into a pony tail, stepped away from his kill and swiped his zanpakutou through the air to clean away the impure blood.
Staring at a counterpart, a man clad in the black funeral robes of a death god, Creed could only feel shock. His own complacency had let this man not only sneak up on him, but kill his only, and best witness. “Fuck,” is all he managed to get out.
“I suppose your next. Syroc is my name, no division. Used to be in the Third, but, what with the little mix up the captain had I decided to stake out my own turf.” Creed had nothing to say in return, at least for a moment.
Then the anger got the better of him, the feeling of having something snatched away right at the finish line, and something good and right. “This isn’t your turf, you little shit eater, you’re just muscle.”
That drew a smile in return. “Well well, I guess you won’t know.” Syroc drew up his stance to a ready position, demonstrating his obvious skill with the weapon. “And unlike the trash they send out to these jobs, I’m a real death god.” His reiatsu unleashed, a pulse of emerald green that washed over the rooftop before spreading into a vaporous haze. “And my sword has a name.”
Creed flared his own spiritual power, snapping his sword to the ready. Unlike the blade, however, the last line shook his resolve. It seemed very likely he would die here, lost and nameless to time.
[1,691]
And so, lingering in the rain and growing drenched in the process, the youth pondered for several hours. Finally, he lifted himself up and searched the buildings nearby for something in particular. Once found, he did not hesitate to step inside, pushing the swinging doors wide open and stepping into the dimly lit interior of the building of sin. The music quieted and almost all the conversations stopped around the tables and bar as the shinigami stepped in.
Eyes tracked his movements, exhales bringing plumes of smoke to hover limply in the air. A moment later, he found himself at the bar proper, looking to an attentive barkeeper. “Some good Sake,” he opened. All the place returned to normal at those three words, all engaging in banter, drink, and gambling once more.
Putting enough of the potent liquid down to keep his stomach warm, Creed spoke to no one and kept to his own, seemingly what the people expected of him. But his isolation bore fruit, for the entire time he was profiling the clients as they went about their routine of pleasure. Whores, drunks, and seemingly upright citizens relaxing alike were all evaluated by the criteria in the shinigami’s mind until he found a mark.
It was waiting on that mark that required him to drink so much. If nothing else, he had to keep the appearance of having a purpose in being in the bar: to drink sake. Eventually, the brown haired young woman made her way back to the street, and a half minute behind her Creed emerged.
Tailing the mark was fairly simple work. While the golden eyed youth had no formal training in the arts of espionage or stalking, he was naturally fast and possessed an agility that a normal soul could never hope to match, let alone follow. Further, the time spent in the bar gave him a chance to absorb the feeling and nature of the place he was in, it set his mind to becoming the instrument he would need to be and cleansed the many doubts and uncertainties that had clouded him in the earlier hours.
There along the roof tops, stepping lightly and quickly on spots shored up directly by supporting beams, he witnessed the girl slip into an unmarked dwelling. Bingo, he mentally praised himself. A quick flash step brought him back to street level, and a moment later he too stepped inside.
Unlike the bar, shinigami were not welcome where he went. Just inside, a pair of burly men were flanking the only apparent entrance deeper into the abode, and upon seeing him tensed and came together to form a barrier of flesh. The Mystic read the tension clearly, and capitalized on it.
Lifting his hands up and adopting a submissive step back, he offered, “Look, I’m not here for that sort of thing, I just need my next.”
That caught the bouncers off guard. Shinigami weren’t the type to ask, or respect the rule of underworld life. They just crushed and broke through obstacles until they got what they wanted. In this case, however, their potential adversary was attempting to stick with the game. It shouldn’t have worked. That should have made them all the more suspicious.
But Creed had fresh memories of how they all behaved at the bar, and that told him of the strong possibility for success with this ploy. “Right, just keep it away in there.” With that, the bald one on the right opened the door. As Creed passed through, he could feel both gazes locked onto him, and emerging into the den proper, still at least one set of eyes behind him. They weren’t that trusting.
After a quick scope, the youth found the obvious man in charge, the proprietor of the goods he was asked to purge from this district. He made no bold moves, but nor did he hesitate. Walking up, he simply lifted two fingers and declared, “Two.”
The man nodded and produced two small, perhaps thumb sized containers that were sealed and slid them half way across the table he was sitting at. “Thirty Kan,” he responded with equally curt words.
Great, there goes half my mission fund, Creed internally grumbled while showing no hesitation in the action of plucking out his coin pouch. He dumped out about that much, counted, and then passed over the correct amount to the dealer. Scooping up his score, the shinigami then turn and left the building entirely.
He could feel the tension ebbing as he did so, and once more he slipped up to the rooftops after a few skewed treks through alleys and yards. He opened one of the containers, seeing the opalescent paste within and confirming he had hit his mark. Then, for some hours more, he waited.
Brash action wouldn’t net him the prize desired, and so instead of breaking up the den after getting dealt his portion, he decided to resort to kidnapping. And to do so, he constantly stalked and patrolled the perimeter of the building. His thoughts were that middle men needed to unload their hauls to higher authorities. And that middle men often didn’t know enough.
His guess proved at least half correct. After some time, the contingent of three exited from the right side of the building and made a quick, but quiet pace across the whole of the town. It seems they were especially careful to avoid being followed. Unlike his contemporaries in Soul Society though, they were unable to track the presence of spiritual pressure, and so, he needed only avoid their eyes. And people rarely look up.
As the dawn began to threaten, the final mark made his appearance. The three had long since gone, and eventually, out in their place, came a very skinny man wearing his overly showy robe open, to expose his smooth chest. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his eyes were nervous. For the first time since coming here, Creed felt excited.
This man, who served on the ruling council, was directly tied to the distribution of the drug. Surely he had found the wellspring. A pair of shuynpo later, and the unsuspecting council member was atop the roofs of his fair town, staring directly into the golden eyes of justice.
“I only want to know one thing, and then I’ll let you go,” Creed spoke the truth. Though this is as fair as the human trail would lead him, he hadn’t discovered the source.
At first, the man was startled. He glanced about wildly, likely considering plans of shouting for help, jumping from the building, and possibly attacking his interrogator directly. All fell through, and after a long silence he answered, composed, “Anything you get from me will cost you, boy.”
Creed smiled. “I’ve got fifteen Kan to my name and two doses of your shit.”
That unsettled the council member, who scratched at his obi. He said nothing in return.
“Figure it out? I can just kill you, put these doses on you and turn your head in. Since you are involved highly, nearly everyone will believe that I did a wonderful job in stopping this shit from being sold and gain respect for the Shinigami and their rule.” He finished with a slow shake of his head.
“But that’s not good enough for me. I want to actually stop it, not get the praise of a half-assed job well done. So, options clear?” He stared and waited for a response.
“Seems so.” That came out flatly, with a little choke near the end. Wild eyes and wild jerks of the body told Creed his suspect was at the point of panic, but he did and said nothing to quell, or agitate, the criminal. “Fine, I’ll tell you who the big boss is. And you’ll shit your pants.”
Finally, Creed thought triumphantly. He awaited the hard earned information, growing nervous himself. It never came.
“You’ll be the one shitting your pants,” came a voice from behind the impaled councilor. A blond man, hair pulled back into a pony tail, stepped away from his kill and swiped his zanpakutou through the air to clean away the impure blood.
Staring at a counterpart, a man clad in the black funeral robes of a death god, Creed could only feel shock. His own complacency had let this man not only sneak up on him, but kill his only, and best witness. “Fuck,” is all he managed to get out.
“I suppose your next. Syroc is my name, no division. Used to be in the Third, but, what with the little mix up the captain had I decided to stake out my own turf.” Creed had nothing to say in return, at least for a moment.
Then the anger got the better of him, the feeling of having something snatched away right at the finish line, and something good and right. “This isn’t your turf, you little shit eater, you’re just muscle.”
That drew a smile in return. “Well well, I guess you won’t know.” Syroc drew up his stance to a ready position, demonstrating his obvious skill with the weapon. “And unlike the trash they send out to these jobs, I’m a real death god.” His reiatsu unleashed, a pulse of emerald green that washed over the rooftop before spreading into a vaporous haze. “And my sword has a name.”
Creed flared his own spiritual power, snapping his sword to the ready. Unlike the blade, however, the last line shook his resolve. It seemed very likely he would die here, lost and nameless to time.
[1,691]