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[matermali]

( cw; cannabis )

[ There is no softness to the voice that murmurs onto the network in the midst of the night when people should be sleeping. Those sweet souls are not her concern if they don't wish to hear. She offers no comfort, but a reminder of what's been lost—what can still be taken.

In doing so, the woman's raspy words creep out from beneath the shadows with a voice that drags—no, it crawls—over ceaselessly hot coals. In its shudder to whisper out a poem borrowed from home, there is a smolder always bordering on a choked gasp. But no hurry, no hurry. Where do you have to be? ]

Old Yew which graspeth at the stones...that name the under-lying dead; Thy fibres net the dreamless head, thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

[ To that, a pause that looms with omen. ]

The seasons bring the flower again, and bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock beats out the little lives of men.

[ Now, a strange yearning nearly begins to dissipate the smoke that seems to scorch her throat.

Hush, take a moment. Take a breath; hold it. Feel the shiver of a fingernail at the nape of your neck, feel it trace the curve of your ear to borrow your attention. Only just. No, don't turn. Don't touch. Just listen; the whisper can still singe. ]

O not for thee the glow, the bloom...who changest not in any gale, nor branding summer suns avail, to touch thy thousand years of gloom.

And gazing on thee, sullen tree, sick for thy stubborn hardihood; I seem to fail from out my blood...and grow incorporate into thee.

[ For a time, it seems that may be all. Then, in the same hush she speaks with a more particular address: ]

I hear that we have been denied the ephemeral — to exist endlessly within a perverse mirror of God’s image. Here, nature should protest. Instead it menaces with its silence.

[ There is a silence of her own while Vanessa takes a drag to sigh out a thin stream of smoke into the evening air. Her voice now drops so low it grates and pinches too close, like gravel against tender feet. Tickling whispers are gone; they flee the weighted melancholy that persists. ]

We carry on within a dollhouse between worlds. Do not be tempted by its pretty trinkets, lest you truly be cursed to wander the demimonde forevermore.

[ Denial still rules paramount over the rumor of immortality, but the lack of bodies is an...unsettling implication. ]

...The graves lie empty.

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[zangetsu]

（ he's forced himself into some kind of routine here. he does drills twice a day, once not long after the sun's up and once not long before it goes down — a jog through the park, a series of kata, and then meditation. without his sword, it's not like he's helpless. but so much of his power lies in it, he's never bothered to cultivate the other powers a shinigami has at their fingertips.

he knows a few incantations, but actually doing them? hasn't happened yet.

still, he's on his way to try, jogging along one of the public paths in the park when he happens across... chanting?

at first, his brain momentarily shorts out trying to decipher the words in either japanese or english, and then it seems to shift and settle because what she's saying is recognized. tennyson? and that realization hits him about a half-second before the strange immensity of the pressure around her — the kind that has him reaching up over his shoulder for a hilt that isn't there.

he doesn't quite realize he's stopped dead to stare at her until it's too obviously awkward to try and say anything else, and then he just. draws up short, rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck and then starts racking his brain for the writer. shit, which old english guy...?

there is the thump of a heartbeat that seems overloud, and then he says as casually as he possibly can: ）

Tennyson, right?

[matermali]

[ Another night were Vanessa's senses are so dulled that she hears the voice before even noticing the person. To her credit, the furrow in her brow has eased by the time she shifts her attention; there's a deliberate crawl to the way her unblinking gaze travels from the moon to the bold young man with his shock of red hair.

The rest of her remains perfectly still—a statue if not for the chasm hidden behind pale eyes, and the whisper that scratches out from between thin lips that nearly hint at a smile. Slowly, she allows the phone to settle beside her, her other hand hovering just above her lap while wisps of smoke curl and twist. ]

Do you enjoy his work?

[ No matter if he doesn't. She's only glad that someone recognizes it. ]

[zangetsu]

（ once in a while, looking at someone feels a little like having someone pass over your (metaphorical) grave. it hits him, as she studies him, and he finds himself lowkey (correction: highkey) wanting to just. bolt out of there. there's some weird, primal fear lurking in the back of his mind alert to the danger vibe.

you know who she reminds him of, pretty much instantly?

captain unohana.

there's that... 'beneath serenity, lurks —' vibe to them both.

(the cigarette draws his eye briefly, and the accompanying smell. he's only run into it once before, but he's pretty sure it's pot. he was never one who cared much for rules or laws, so the only reaction it gets out of him is a cursory look around, that old instinct to scope out for law enforcement.) ）

He's not bad.

（ a beat. then, bluntly — ）

Who're you?

（ he may as well be asking what. ）

[matermali]

[ The way he looks over his shoulder is curious, given Vanessa's never worried about such things in London, but she recognizes the tension. It isn't all because of what she smokes, which she kindly pinches out to ease his nerves. No doubt anyone would be nervous when Vanessa looms like harbinger for everyone's doom; only if they allow this place to weaken them, of course. Only if it weakens her.

Something is...off about him. Something that stirs the shadows at her feet. It's enticing.

— Then gone. Something imagined, perhaps. ]

I'm certain he would be flattered beyond measure.

[ Lord Tennyson is quite alive as far as she's aware, not that she knows him personally enough to send him a letter and inform him that he is, in fact, 'not bad'. The thought amuses her far more intensely than it ought to, but when tensions run high and moods sink low, one is more likely to treasure the bizarre that presents as amicable.

Her gaze drops away—there's a sigh in the air between them, so much lighter now—and Vanessa pulls a silver case from her pocket to put away the rest of her cigarette. Until she can find more, they aren't something to toss away from just a little use. The case closes with a snap and a tinny ring in the ear. She looks back up.

Merely a mention of Tennyson, and then demanding her name? ...Coarse. She could almost smile again. ]

Is that how you usually approach a lady?

[zangetsu]

（ he watches as her movements, languid and deliberate in the way that you usually only see in lifelong dancers or martial artists. she puts the cigarette away, and the snap of the case makes him think of the fracture of small bones.

it's not like spiritual pressure. he's learned to stand tall under the weight of aizen and yhwach's own awesome power — the way you set your jaw against a blow you already know is going to hurt. there's a lot he's learned to stand. but it's almost easier, in a way. whatever's going on here is something insidious, a slow and twisting creep like choking vines, a tangle of undergrowth and thorns that crowd the sky and block out the sun. the illusion lingers at the edge of his awareness, but dissipates when he swings his head to focus on it directly — chasing the twilight of his periphery instead. he doesn't even know if it's just a sensation, conjured by his own mind.

maybe it was something in the cigarette.

(local man, who has the unfortunate luck to be turning eighteen on this very day, has no concept of how fast marijuana works on the system.) ）

Is that what you are?

（ maybe he should have more sense than that. but she's got him on the back foot, and manners have never been his strongest suit. ）

happy bday ichigo, have pandora's box

[matermali]

[ It really isn't, but it's such an unusual thing for a stranger to ask that puzzlement momentarily creases her brow. She isn't usually so tipped off balance, not so quickly, and it's by one who appears the most unassuming (she usually knows better). Is he to mean that she's rude for interrupting those still asleep? Unlikely. He looks like he was recently under exertion.

Someone else who has no trouble finding productivity in the night, whether it be by choice or necessity. ]

What a thing to say.

[ And something any lady would be offended by, especially after such an abrupt request for her name (is that what that was?). Instead, her tone evens out with an impartial flow, cooling the burnt scratch of her voice like water trickling through hot coals.

He's unusual, and not only for his abrupt behavior.

Having fully caught her curiosity now, she can't look away. His presentation is interesting enough, but she can see a person's heart beating through their eyes, and there's a part to her lips with the barest flash of teeth that suggests she's capable of utterly consuming it. There may as well not be anything left of the city beyond the bench, the street, and the lamp for how she pins him now with her attention. ]

What would you call me, then?

[ Does he know the name of his dread? There really is only one name—or thing—she can be called that may truly offend her, and anyone here is unlikely to guess it. ]

[zangetsu]

If I knew, I wouldn't be asking.

（ he seems to have pushed back against that dread, and found some equilibrium there. his voice has flattened out to cold neutrality instead of burning with the deep ichor of suspicion.

ichigo has never been unafraid. not of the hollows when he first encountered them, nor of the shinigami and arrancar and quincy to follow. his strength has lain more from walking forwards despite that fear. finding or forcing a way to act. and he doesn't always win, and he isn't always right — but the last thing anyone could ever say of him is that he's a coward.

however — there's a particular reason why a woman who isn't what she seems to be might strike an old chord with him, and while he's learned the truth of his mother's death and that it was never about him at all, knowledge has done little to erase the ancient and awful guilt. ）

[matermali]

[ Vanessa isn't sure how much she ought to be offended just yet, but she's impressed that the young man hasn't backpedaled no matter the pressure. Which leaves her to wonder: what is he? Despite the language, it isn't that of a belligerent child tossing mud at the first wealthy woman he sees.

He sees something beyond the shadows and lace, doesn't he? He doesn't seem to recognize the name of it, but perhaps he can spot it coiling and waiting. Waiting for what? A grander meal than you, child.

One doesn't need to be clairvoyant to appreciate his tension. He isn't here to flatter or insult. To hunt a hunter? Is that what he attempts? Not a simple human, but not a devil. ]

...My name is Vanessa Ives.

[ It's as much an answer as she knows how to give. Vanessa Ives is who and what she is, and it is cursed and ugly and it loves and yearns, and which does he see?

The metal case and communication device are slipped into her skirt pocket before she stands, but moves no closer. If he wants to know what Vanessa Ives is, then he'll need to be brave enough to find out. If he were wise, he would continue on with whatever he was doing before he knew she existed. ]

And yourself?

[zangetsu]

（ his eyes narrow, but he holds his ground as she stands up. even without his sword, there's a sense of confidence to how he holds himself. an awareness of his own body that's not often found in one so young.

if there is anything to sense in return — it is a tame maelstrom. a curious sense of equilibrium between a handful of supernatural pressures, come together into serenity at the eye of the storm of him. he's made peace with his patchwork heritage, and the only thing that's left is the sum of him. ）

Ichigo Kurosaki.

（ he puts his first name first, in the western custom. mostly because he doesn't want to have to jump through the hoops of explaining the proper order. he barely cares what his own friends call him, much less a stranger. ）

[matermali]

Ichigo Kurosaki.

[ A name repeated slowly, with Vanessa articulating each syllable with an attentive care — only a purring undercurrent ruffles the murmur of his name while she lets the sound of it settle softly and make a home in her memory. There, in the deepest dark, it's a name to be caressed by the self always hidden. As though the sound is shared with her sight—intimate kisses for the sleeping beauty—the sense of him is momentarily intoxicating. It buzzes through her ears to trickle onto her tongue (chocolate-dipped strawberries).

Tipping her head, Vanessa wonders at the sort of youth that could carry such a unique aura. This boldness isn't from inexperience, and that fascinates her. It seems he doesn't know whether he wants to risk approaching, but neither is he fleeing. Wondering now how well curiosity might dismiss this caution of his, a little smile pulls at the corner of her lips before she turns and takes a step away at a leisurely pace.

Her judgment seems to be made, and for now she's found no threat. Not one significant enough for her to fear turning her back. ]

Join me.

[ If he approached her for answers, why stop now? She's feeling amicable enough. Vanessa has her own questions. ]

[zangetsu]

（ well, she's basically the first non-japanese person that's gotten that pronunciation mostly correct.

he shoves his hands into his pockets, mulish — but he does fall into step beside her, in the lee of her looming shadow. what else can he do, really? he's committed now, and she doesn't seem any likelier to back down than he is. so, it's a stalemate until it isn't.

he isn't terribly inclined to fill that brief swell of silence. his sneakers are soundless on the neatly-manicured, carved-out path, and he's studying the way a rock skitters away after he scuffs his toe against it before he decides to speak — ）

Are you the one that brought us here?

[matermali]

[ It is the last question she expected anyone to ask, and the bewilderment is enough to momentarily still her footing. It's a skip and a shallow breath, then her steps continue on as if it were nothing more than pausing to look at a bird (what bird?). The grit to her jaw is barely discernible, but as ever-present now as the way her shoulders bunch.

She is coiling again, prepared to strike if necessary. Slow breaths now, deep enough to hold and ready Banishment for the tip of her tongue. ]

Do I appear capable of such a thing?

[ I did not mean to, she wants to say. There's a flutter in her chest, something bordering on apology for something she wants to claim is out of her control. It is quickly swallowed, ashes and all. She hadn't wished for any of this, but she had invited it since the beginning of time. Vanessa is positive that the Nightcomers are behind this, if not Lucifer himself. If so, it is because of her alone.

Forgive me, she would like to say, but she walks on with the pale shimmer in her eyes rapidly glossing over. If these people are trapped, they have become cursed by the shadow of her prophecy. How that will manifest, she has yet to learn. What she does know is that any who learn too much may turn on her, and she will not permit anyone else to trouble the path she needs to travel. Youth is no safety net in her world.

Already, this one seems far too astute for his own good. ]

First I am no lady, and now I am your captor? How shall I next manifest before you?

[zangetsu]

（ her response catches him off his guard. not in any meaningful way — he doesn't stumble, or stutter, isn't suddenly beside himself with the uncertainty of having pressed her. but he shoves his hands more deeply in his pockets, shoulders flexing faintly. it's hotter than he likes, and he's wearing a black shirt because he's at that age where fashion still matters more than comfort, and he's also not going to admit that pinpricks of fear-driven sweat is making the collar of his shirt uncomfortable against his skin.

rather than ask another question, he opts for offense — always offense, with him — by answering one she hasn't asked, but must surely be curious about. ）

I'm a shinigami. In English, it could be translated as 'death god' or 'soul reaper'. Does that mean anything to you?

（ it's not all he is. but it's all he's willing to give away. ）