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Ichigo is kriffing pissed.
He can already hear Master Urahara’s: ‘Give it to the Force, my stubborn Padawan. Do not let anger control you or your actions. Breathe. Find your peace.’
Yeah, no. That’s not going to cut it today.
Jumping from one moving anti-grav transporter onto another and another in the ridiculously busy street of the higher levels of Coruscant, Ichigo grabs Rangiku’s hand when she falters during one of their landings when a bike speeder bypasses them dangerously, and with a harsher tug than he would usually give, he drags her with him.
It says a lot about how much Rangiku is shaken that she doesn’t faux scold him for such rough treatment or tries to tease him about holding hands.
Gin is such an idiot who’ll get them all killed. Or maybe not them but it’ll get him killed and what then? Rangiku will be inconsolable. Master Hirako might just fall to the Dark for good and Ichigo? He’ll try to avenge his best friend - possibly something more - to death. No Jedi code drilled into his head since toddlehood will stop him from losing his mind.
“I don’t understand,” Rangiku speaks up suddenly over the heavy traffic noise, her Force presence swirling with worry and puzzlement, making Ichigo look at her briefly from the corner of his eye.
“What?” There’s a rather lot right now which Ichigo also doesn’t understand.
“Gin never said anything about ever suspecting anyone in the Senate, and now he goes, leaving behind a concerning message, which we only opened because we’re nosy osiks, telling us not to follow and to stay away from the Senate of all places in the foreseeable future?” The longer she speaks, the more agitated she gets. “Since when does Gin point at something unless it matters? He could’ve just said ‘don’t follow’ and left it at that.”
They make another long jump, this time they get a horn from an annoyed driver of an A-A5 speeder truck. Rangiku huffs and continues her tirade.
“No proof offered. None of his convoluted thoughts process given. Not even an obscure statement about his daunting Force visions. Just an order we’re supposed to accept and a Force’s saken request not to be angry or grief him after all is said and done. That doesn’t sound like Gin at all! He’s a cunning survivalist who has tens of meticulous plans for just in case scenarios! If anyone is to do rush and seemingly suicidal decisions, it’s you!”
“Hey,” Ichigo defends but it’s halfhearted at best. While it’s true that he and Rangiku are the more hot-headed of their trio, Gin acts out when either of them is in danger. His cool is only cold until it feels like you’re being burned alive. “I told you I once overheard Master Urahara and Master Hirako speaking about Chancellor Aizen.”
“Yes,” Rangiku nods her head, her blonde-orange hair whipping in the wind when T-85 speeder bike drives too close by. “That’s why you said we have to immediately go after Gin.” She frowns. “But you didn’t specify anything.”
“Hirako didn’t trust him,” Ichigo continues, frowning slightly at the memory. “He said the Chancellor’s presence in the Force felt… wrong. Not dark or light,” Ichigo adds. “Apparently, that’s the problem. Master Hirako said it was too smooth, like there was nothing there to read, no friction, no noise. Like what you feel from him isn’t what he is. Just what he lets you feel. Honestly, I didn’t, still don’t really understand what he meant by that.”
“What did Master Urahara say about that?” Rangiku asks quietly.
Ichigo hesitates.
“…Master Urahara didn’t agree, but he neither disagreed with Master Hirako.”
Silence stretches for half a second too long.
Rangiku’s expression sharpens, something cold settling beneath the agitation.
“So Gin points us at the Senate,” she says slowly, “leaves behind something that sounds like a hidden goodbye, and the one name even tangentially connected to both is the Chancellor?” Her Force buzzes in agitation. “That can not be a coincidence.”
Ichigo doesn’t answer her. She has to know Ichigo silently agrees.
They stop beside the Senate’s side entrance. The two Corrie clone troopers stationed there look at their robes, the padawan braids, the lightsabers hanging from their hips and nod their head in greetings.
“What business do you have in the Senate?” A clone on the right asks leisurely, his Force presence bright and bored. It’s clear the question is asked purely for the need to uphold protocols.
Rangiku ups her charm and smiles in a way only female Theelin can, full of captivating beauty and enchanting grace.
“An associate of ours from the ranks of Senators is finally back after being away for some time. We decided to visit them,” she explains in broad strokes, nothing too specific.
“Oh! I heard Senator Chuchi has returned from her trip home. I saw her stop by Commander Fox’s office today, bringing gifts for the clones. She always brings those fruity, sweet chocolates packed in pretty boxes,” the clone on the left chirps, vibrant in a way that’s rare for the Coruscant stationed clones.
That’s news to Ichigo and Rangiku but bless the timing. They personally know Riyo, and hopefully she’ll play along if needed and confirm they spoke with her.
“That’s right! We have a bit of free time on our hands, finally, and you know senators, or at least some of them, you can never catch them at their apartments. They seem to sleep in their offices,” Rangiku smoothly follows up, unwittingly untangling wild locks from her forehead horns that stuck there during their hurried run.
“Yeah, Senator Chuchi is a good sort,” the energetic clone says and moves to the side to make more space for them to enter through.
“Have an uneventful shift,” Ichigo wishes the usual to the clones and they both snort or laugh, waving them a bye.
They go without haste and nod when they pass someone. It wouldn’t do them any good to create commotion with their urge to rush.
“Do you feel Gin anywhere?” Ichigo leans towards Rangiku and whispers. His Force sensing is one of his worst skills.
“Up,” Rangiku answers with eyes half lid closed as she focuses.
They all have individual mental Force bonds with each other but right now, Gin is actively blocking them. Even then, Rangiku is the supreme sensor out of their trio and unless Gin is actively erasing his presence with his Shadow techniques, she can find him anytime, anywhere.
They take a lift.
It’s way too slow than both of them would prefer and they have to chat with more people, clone troopers and some personnel, but finally they reach their destination.
Ichigo abandons patience first, of course. He steps through the lift doors the moment they crack open and speedwalks the rest of the way, Rangiku right behind him, her presence tight and coiled, her usual warmth drawn inward like a flame bracing against wind.
The doors to one of the upper private chambers slide open before they even touch the panel. A silent invitation if Ichigo ever saw one, and he can’t help but hesitate before entering.
Rangiku’s hand between his shoulders unconsciously straightens him and pushes him through.
Gin stands with his back aimed at them at the centre of the room, back straight, shoulders relaxed in that deceptively loose way he uses when he’s most alert. His head is tilted slightly, as if listening to something only he can hear.
And next to him stands…
Chancellor Aizen.
Only… not.
Not fully anymore. The Force around him isn’t smooth now like around any non-Force sensitive individual. It’s vast and layered and seemingly endless. It’s like Ichigo is standing at the edge of something that has no bottom.
Ichigo’s breath catches, instincts screaming too late, too loud.
It’s almost like an illusion is being peeled away to reveal the rotten core of a tree.
Not really visually. The polished, harmless presence fractures, revealing something colder beneath. Ancient. Calculating. A presence that does not press against the Force but actually bends it.
The vornskr wearing a nerf’s hide finally stepped out of it.
“Ah,” Aizen says softly, voice warm, pleasant. “Welcome, stray Padawans.”
Ichigo’s hand is already on his lightsaber. Rangiku is mirroring him on his left side.
“Gin-,” he starts and stops, with the next words chocked on.
Because Gin turns.
The first thing Ichigo notices is that Gin’s eyes are open. That is exceedingly rare for the Miraluka hybrid. The second thing is… those beautiful ice blue orbs are flickering with Sith’s yellow.
Rangiku gasps from next to him which means she noticed the same thing and Ichigo is not imagining anything.
“W-Why? What’s the meaning of this?” Rangiku asks, anguish clear in her weakened voice and normally, Ichigo would be trying to comfort her but this time, he can only stare dumbly at the yellowish eyes.
Anger spikes in his chest, sharp and fast like a flare that burns through training and breath and every lesson Master Urahara and other teachers ever tried to drill into him. The Force answers him immediately, rushing to meet that emotion, feeding and sharpening it, but not in a good way.
He ignites his blade mid-step, blue light snapping to life with a violent hiss as he places himself half a step in front of Rangiku without even realising it.
“Step away from him,” Ichigo orders with low voice.
He stares right at the Chancellor who turned out to be a Sith.
Kriff. Ichigo is so kriffed. What the Void is he supposed to do against such monstrous powers he can feel oozing out of Aizen? Double kriff. He and Rangiku should have taken time to at least comm their Masters before they burst in here completely unprepared. If he survives this, Master Urahara will for sure rain hell down on him on their next training. War or no war, some lessons have to be learned.
“Such admirable loyalty between the young generation,” the Sith muses, and Ichigo thinks it almost sounds fond. The hard glint in his eyes disapproves. “Misplaced, but admirable nonetheless.” His yellow-tinted gaze flicks from them to Gin while his hand sweeps grandiosely towards the agitated Jedi Padawans. “Didn’t you say you are willing to do anything for me? Prove to me your resolve, my young Apprentice. Show them where you stand now.”
“Of course, Master.” Gin doesn’t hesitate.
That’s what catches Ichigo off guard the most… that hurts the most.
Gin moves fast. Not with the killing intent Ichigo fears at first, but with hard-learned precision, controlled and measured. His blade ignites in a flash of red (whywhywhy?!), but the strike that follows is angled, almost… almost like a warning.
Mentally shaking himself, Ichigo meets it halfway.
Their sabers clash with a sharp crack, blue against red, and light spills across the polished Senate floor. Gin’s fighting style is familiar. Defensive angles twisted just enough to redirect, to guide, to control distance instead of closing it.
He’s not going for the kill or maiming. He’s trying to manage the fight like Masters lead their foolish, inexperienced Padawans during spars.
“Gin, what are you doing?! Master? Hirako is your Master,” Ichigo snaps, pushing forward harder and is forced to step back under the returned pressure of the opponent’s blade. Prove resolve? Gin is proving karking nothing and Ichigo is both relieved and confused.
Most of Gin’s expression doesn’t change from his wide, close-mouthed smile, but his eyes are closed once again, hiding the Dark Side’s sick yellowish. Ichigo can almost pretend they are merely training together like this.
Their blades lock against each other in another swing and parry and the harsh reality makes itself impossible to ignore when the red light burns into Ichigo’s retina.
Rangiku has drawn her blue lightsaber but she’s not trying to engage in the fight. She still stands by the now closed door and while her stance is loosened, Ichigo know how deceptive it is. Trying to get around her defence is a painful experience.
Ichigo snarls and pushes harder. The Force surges with him, raw and unrefined, flooding his limbs, amplifying strength over precision. He swings again and this time it’s faster, heavier, a two-handed arc meant to overwhelm rather than outmanoeuvre.
Gin doesn’t meet it head-on, but rather he steps through it. A pivot where he shifts his weight, and his blade catches Ichigo’s at the last possible second, sliding past it instead of stopping it. The motion carries Ichigo forward, off-balance, his own strength working against him.
A brush from Gin in the Force follows with a push that is barely a push at all. It’s just enough to guide Ichigo another step too far and help him regain his lost balance while ensuring it put some distance between them.
Ichigo recovers with a sharp inhale, turning on his heel and coming in again, faster now, abandoning form for instinct.
He feints high.
Drops low.
Sweeps left.
Gin easily catches it. Of course he does.
Red intercepts blue inches from his side, the angle tight, precise, turning what should’ve been a clean, hopefully incapacitating hit into another dead end. Their blades lock again, close, too close by the heat flaring between them.
Ichigo leans in. “Stop it,” he growls, voice low, desperate. “Just… stop this and come with us, Gin. Whatever you feel like you have to do, we can help. Our Masters can help.”
The Miraluka hybrid opens his eyes briefly and Ichigo can see the flickering battle between ice blue and Sith’s yellow. Then the yellow stabilises again and Gin huff a small, mocking laugh. “I don’t think so.”
He disengages smoothly, twisting his wrist and slipping out of the lock, stepping back instead of forward, red blade drawing a clean arc that forces Ichigo to follow or lose him entirely.
Ichigo follows because of course he does.
He reaches through the Force, not to strike but to grab. Master Urahara would sigh at how messy and too direct it is. No subtlety at all. It’s all a surge of intent rather than technique, reaching for Gin’s centre, trying to latch on, to hold, to pull him away.
Gin catches it coming miles away. His head tilts just slightly and the Force around him shifts in a protective barrier.
It doesn’t push Ichigo back. The Force grab around Gin slips like it’s trying to grab water, like trying to hold onto something that refuses to be held.
Ichigo’s grip finds nothing solid, his connection slides off whatever Gin is doing, whatever control he has over his presence now.
And for a split second… Ichigo doesn’t recognise him.
That hesitation costs him.
Gin steps in fast and closer than before. Their sabers clash again, but this time the angle is wrong and Ichigo’s guard is too open, his stance too wide from the failed Force pull. Red presses in, controlled but firm, forcing Ichigo’s blade aside, exposing his centre. And just when Ichigo expects a blow to his wide-open chest, Gin stops.
The blade hovers a breath away. Not striking and not finishing the fight.
Ichigo’s heart slams hard against his ribs.
Because that… That was an opening. A clean one.
And Gin didn’t take it.
Their eyes meet. Closed lids or not, Ichigo feels the conflict happening.
Honestly, Ichigo’s mind is just as big a mess right now. Gin is his best friend, one of the most important people Ichigo has, who has yet to die somewhere far on a random battlefield against the Separatists. Just what is going on?
Gin moves again. This time, he’s pulling back and resetting the distance between them.
Behind them, Rangiku shifts again, tension winding tighter, her grip on her saber whitening as she watches. It must be frustrating to see her best friend fight like that.
“How disappointing.” Ichigo hears Aizen say and is horrified to realise he forgot about him during his fight with Gin.
A flick of his wrist, a step that barely seems like movement at all, and suddenly he’s there, red blade carving through space with terrifying precision.
Gin doesn’t even have time to turn properly.
The strike lands clean. The red blade pierces through Gin’s abdomen in one smooth motion, cauterising as it goes, leaving behind a burning void instead of blood.
Gin’s presence flickers and his breath breaks. He doesn’t scream. He does not even gasp.
For a second, his body seems to forget how to function, knees faltering as the damage settles in, slow and absolute. Whatever was hit matters. A lot.
“I’m… sorry,” Gin says, voice softer than Ichigo has ever heard it. Gin’s eyes are wide open and the blue in them is undeniable as his gaze jumps from the wound to Rangiku, to Ichigo.
He crumbles down without any resistance, his body giving up.
Rangiku is there before he hits the ground. Of course she is. Ichigo can think there is a lot of ‘of course’ when it comes to them.
She drops to her knees hard enough that Ichigo hears the impact even through the ringing in his ears, her hands already pressed to Gin’s abdomen, over the burned wound, trying desperately and impossibly to hold him together.
“Stay with me. Gin, stay with m-me,” her voice breaks, stripped of all its usual warmth and playfulness, raw in a way Ichigo has never heard before. Bluish light finally encases her hands and the Force healing begins. Not that it’ll do much since Rangiku might be the best of them when it comes to healing but in comparison to Jedi Healers, she’s nowhere near as skilled as to heal such a grievous wound.
Ichigo doesn’t move for a second.
Two.
Because something cold and horrifying settles into place in his chest.
This all could lead to not just losing Gin. But losing them.
It hits him all at once like a fragging blaster bolt straight to the core.
The way Rangiku always drapes herself between them like Tattooine sunlight.
The way Gin watches, quiet and sharp, like he’s a shadow sentinel for them both.
The way Ichigo always ends up standing just a little closer than necessary, like a shield and sword in one he never lowers.
The way it was never just friendship. Not really. Not for some time now.
“At the end, he proves to be useless,” Aizen says and Ichigo whirls to face him, stepping between him and Rangiku and Gin. “A creature of instinct trying to play at foresight. He believed proximity would grant him control. That standing at the centre of a design would allow him to change it.” A soft hum, almost thoughtful. “An understandable mistake.”
“What are you talking about?” Ichigo snaps.
Aizen doesn’t answer right away and when he does speak, Ichigo is not sure it is an answer.
“Attachments,” Aizen says, quieter now, sharper. His gaze flicks past Ichigo, briefly, toward Rangiku, toward the way she curls over Gin’s body, toward the thread of emotion in the Force that pulses between all three of them. “People are predictable in their attachments. Gin. You. Even Matsumoto over there. You all have them. It’s so easy to implant seeds of fear into the mind of someone who cares for others. They can try to lie and deny but at the end of the day, they will do anything to keep these bonds intact,” Aizen says and takes a step forward, unhurried. “Do you know how easily the Force bends around bonds like these? How readily it can be shaped, guided… exploited?”
Ichigo feels bewildered. The Jedi have a code. One of the rules pertain attachments, that is, the inability to accept change as the fundamental characteristic of life; to accept death as the natural part of life; the inability to let go.
But what does it have to do with Gin being called Sith’s Apprentice?
“You call what you have loyalty. Love, perhaps, if you are feeling particularly honest with yourselves.” A faint smile curves his lips. “I call it leverage.”
Love. Jedi are allowed to love, but not to possess. The Code encourages loving without needing to hold onto people or things beyond their time.
Something in Ichigo snaps. Because he does love. He loves Gin and Rangiku and the trio they have made since their childhood.
Ichigo’s grip tightens around his hilt, breath uneven, anger flaring hot and bright.
Aizen’s eyes gleam.
“You burn so brightly,” he observes. “And yet you have no idea where to direct that fire. You strike wildly, you cling desperately, and you wonder why you fail.”
He takes another step closer to Ichigo. “I offered Gin clarity. Purpose. A place where his… talents might have mattered. Sure. I used a little bit of incentive, but instead…”
A short, measured pause.
“He chose sentiment instead.” Aizen’s gaze settles fully on Ichigo now.
“And now,” he says softly, “I offer you the same.”
The red blade hums as Aizen’s saber powers up, lifting slightly.
“Show me,” Aizen murmurs, almost inviting. “How far you are willing to fall for them. Just where will your rage take you.”
What follows a shamefully short fight.
Ichigo moves before thought can catch up.
Blue blade arcs forward in a furious strike, fast, unrefined, powerful in the way Masters always warned him against; driven by emotion, not control.
Aizen meets him effortlessly. Their sabers connect and for a single, impossible moment Ichigo believes that maybe he can overpower him.
Then Aizen turns his wrist. Such a slight movement and everything falls apart.
Ichigo’s grip falters as the red blade slides along his, angle perfect and pressure just exact to perform a disarm. His lightsaber is ripped from his hand.
It spins across the floor, blue light skidding over plush carpet to polished stone before clattering uselessly out of reach.
Ichigo doesn’t hesitate.
He pulls his second blade, a shoto, free before the first saber even hits the floor. It’s a lightsaber he built just yesterday after meditating about his current fighting style and it led him to a completely new form.
He lunges again. It’s full of desperation and rage and Aizen easily meets his strike, not even slightly caught off guard by the second blade. If anything, it makes him more excited.
“How very un-Jedi of you,” Aizen murmurs, almost approving.
Sparks scatter as their blades collide again.
“A concealed weapon. A strike born of desperation.” His gaze sharpens. “Tell me, Kurosaki, how many more rules are you willing to break to keep those you are attached to near?”
In place of an answer, Ichigo’s Force surges, wild and uncontained, flooding his limbs as he abandons every structured form Master Urahara drilled into him. His stance shifts mid-step, weight dropping low, shoulder turning as he twists past Aizen’s guard instead of meeting it head-on. There is no finesse this time.
The Force answers but it feels wrong, twisted. Ichigo must be imagining the scream he hears from it. It crashes outward from him in a raw wave, not a push, not a pull, but something in between, an attempt to drag Aizen off balance, to create a single opening. Just one, just enough to do some damage.
Aizen doesn’t resist. Instead, he laughs. “This! This right here is what I’m talking about. Raw power. Unrefined. Undisciplined. Unpredictable. Give in, Kurosaki! Embrace the Dark Side!”
Ichigo falters.
What? No, no, he’s not using the Dark Side of the Force. He can’t!
Ichigo abruptly cuts off his connection to the Force. It leaves him unbalanced and his next cut at Aizen, the opening he so wanted, is missed.
“I will never give in to the Dark,” Ichigo declares, his breathing laboured.
“Such a shame.” Aizen’s eyes are cold and uncompromising.
Ichigo’s second lightsaber follows the previous one and rolls away on the plush carpet, and immediately the red lightsaber is aimed real dangerously close to his face.
Aizen tilts his head slightly, studying him. A faint, wistful smile appears on his face. “You would have made a most interesting apprentice.”
The lightsaber lifts.
“No!” Rangiku screams.
Time slows. Not really. But it feels like it.
Ichigo doesn’t look at Aizen. He looks past him.
At Rangiku, kneeling on the floor, hands stained with nothing but still trying to hold Gin together, her shoulders shaking, her voice breaking, her presence in the Force frayed and reaching… always reaching.
At Gin, sprawled and too still, his hazy ice-blue eyes barely tracking Ichigo like he’s already slipping somewhere far away, yet stubbornly holding on just long enough to see him one last time.
He thinks, absurdly and stupidly, of all the things they didn’t say.
Of Rangiku’s laugh when she leans too close, like sunlight spilling where it shouldn’t reach. The way Ichigo always leaned into her reaching, feeling all the reassurance he needed.
Of Gin’s quiet presence at their backs, sharp and constant, like nothing in the galaxy could touch them as long as he was there. Ichigo easily trusted him to have his six when a situation required it.
His breath catches.
I love them.
He gives the feeling to the Force, feeling like the sky has opened wide inside his chest, vast and endless, and he’s finally stopped trying to hold anything back.
And the blade descends.
“Bzzzztttt.”
Wide-eyed, Ichigo stares at a green lightsaber stopping the red one from cutting him down. His breathing quickens, he lets his eyes roam from the green blade towards the hilt and startles when he recognises it.
“Master!” Ichigo exclaims, relieved.
“You-,” Master Urahara thrusts the offending lightsaber up, pushing Aizen away a few steps. “Are the most troublesome Padawan I ever had.”
Ichigo doesn’t waste time furiously scrambling up. With his mind out of immediate shock, he remembers to call his strayed lightsabers back into his hands. He scolds himself for such a rookie mistake. That he’s not dead is a miracle.
“I am your only Padawan.”
The Master-Padawan Force telephatic bond pings with fond exasperation that quickly becomes fastidious focus once again when Aizen laughs, drawing their full attention.
Master Kisuke moves slightly to the front, his aim to shield Ichigo no doubt. Usually, that would make Ichigo bristle like an offended tooka but after suffering the instant loss against the Sith Lord not a minute ago, he only internally sighs with relief.
“Welcome, Jedi Master Urahara Kisuke.” Aizen’s smile doesn’t falter, but something colder settles beneath it, sharpening the curve into something almost surgical. “Nosy Padawans are one thing. Jedi Master is another thing. Of all the variables I accounted for,” Aizen continues lightly, as if commenting on an interesting inconvenience rather than a threat, “you were always the most… troublesome.”
Urahara’s cursed fan flicks open with a soft snap, a taunt for the enemy to underestimate his attention, green blade steady, posture deceptively relaxed. “Ah,” he hums, amused, “I do try.”
Aizen’s eyes narrow just slightly. “Of course you do.”
Ichigo watches the standoff while holding his breath. Over his Padawan years, he has seen what his Master is capable of, from casual street fights to diplomatic missions gone wrong to the battlefield against the Separatists as a strategist or a fighter. But can his Master win against the Sith Lord alone? After all, Ichigo was so useless it’s painful to think about it.
Aizen exhales, almost content, and it puts Ichigo on the edge and shifts into a fighting stance. “Let us… simplify matters.” He pulls out a comm and Ichigo's eyes widen when he recognises with whom it connects. Ichigo looks at his Master, but he doesn’t seem put off, nor is he preparing to intercept the call. “Commander Cody. It is time. Execute Order 66.”
There’s a silence from the other side. The Marshall Commander of the 7th Sky Corps merely stands there with his helmet on. Last time Ichigo heard, Commander Cody is supposed to be on Utapau. Why would Aizen comm this particular person?
“…Chancellor,” Commander Cody says at last, voice level, professionally strict just like anytime Ichigo heard him speak. Ichigo’s Commander, Wolffe, is his batchmate and Woffle bitches about all his siblings, but Cody and Fox in particular are mentioned more often. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the order.”
And because Wolffe and Cody are batchmates, Ichigo can hear that there is no confusion whatsoever but rather a refusal to engage.
“I have Jedi on my line,” Cody continues calmly. “Excuse me.”
The comm clicks, dead.
Holy kriffs! Cody really has guts just like Wolffe. He can’t wait to tell Wolffe about this. The Commander will laugh himself silly at the disrespect.
“Oh my,” Urahara says lightly, almost delighted. “You actually went through with that?”
Aizen’s smile tightens just a fraction.
“You think you’re so smart. That we didn’t take precautions?” Master Kisuke steps forward, voice light but edged, the usual playfulness sharpened into something far more dangerous. “Triggering a command is one thing, Aizen. Ensuring it lands is another.”
Ichigo blinks.
“…Was something supposed to happen?”
Urahara chuckles.
“Oh, quite a few things,” he says. “None of them particularly pleasant.” His gaze sharpens slightly behind the shadow of his hat. “But fortunately for us,” he continues, “The clones remain exactly what they’ve always been.”
He pauses and lets the anticipation sit.
“Our allies.”
For the first time, Aizen looks angry. Truly angry. The Force around him distorts and Ichigo feels his stomach drop. Such power…
“You altered them,” he says, his quiet rage tightly held back.
Urahara tilts his head, fan tapping lightly against his shoulder, the lightsaber firmly held before him remains as a barrier. “Such an ugly word,” he hums. “Let’s say I… removed an unnecessary variable.”
Aizen moves without warning. There is no buildup.
One moment stillness- the next, red light carving toward Master Urahara in a flawless, killing arc.
Green meets it instantly.
The clash is nothing like Ichigo’s.
No wasted force and no excess movement. Just precision meeting precision, intent colliding with calculation. The impact hums through the chamber, controlled and contained, both Masters already adjusting, already reading three steps ahead.
When Aizen presses next, Master Urahara yields not back, but aside, turning the strike with minimal effort, redirecting the momentum into nothing. His footwork is almost lazy, almost careless, and yet every angle closes exactly where it needs to.
Aizen’s follow-up is immediate. A feint high. A real strike low. A flicker in the Force that bends perception for half a heartbeat. But Master Urahara doesn’t look where the blade is. He moves where it will be.
Their sabers blur. Red. Green. A dance too fast for anything but instinct and mastery, Force flowing between them not in bursts, but in constant, controlled currents. It’s a chilling sight.
The moment Urahara engages Aizen, the pressure in the room shifts, just enough for Ichigo to break away and move towards the spot where Rangiku kneels above Gin. A sharp tug from his Force bond with his Master is a clear order for him to fall back.
He drops to his knees beside them.
For a split second, everything narrows.
Rangiku’s hands pressed tight over the cauterised wound, trembling despite all her strength, her usual warmth stretched thin and fraying at the edges. Ichigo can’t tell if her healing helped whatsoever. Gin beneath her, too still, too quiet, his presence in the Force dimmer than it should ever be, like a light struggling not to go out.
Ichigo’s chest tightens.
No.
“Ichigo,” Rangiku catches his attention softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t join in the fight. I-”
“Ran. Shut it. Gin needed you more. It’s fine.”
“You- You idiot!” she hisses through her teeth. “You almost died! He- Aizen- if Master Urahara didn’t step in when he did, you would be-“ She takes a deep breath and looks down at Gin. When she gazes back at Ichigo, tears are fresh in her eyes. “Ichigo, I can’t lose you too.”
Ichigo’s expression hardens, something fierce and unyielding settling in his chest as he looks between them, at her shaking hands, at Gin’s too-pale face.
“You’re not going to,” he says, voice low but absolute. His hand comes down over hers, steady, grounding. “Neither of us is going anywhere. We are going to survive.”
Ichigo looks back at the fight to make sure his Master is still okay.
Master Hirako literally appears out of nowhere.
His yellow lightsaber is quick and ruthless, his form sure and steadfast. He bears his weapon down at the opponent continuously, not allowing any reprieve.
There’s also badly leashed bloodlust leaking out from him.
While his eyes are on the enemy, Ichigo can feel his twirling Force ripple in brief bursts towards where the Padawans are gathered.
Ichigo has never felt Master Hirako like this.
Not in training. Not in sparring. Not ever. His presence twists in the Force, spiralling, sharp and unpredictable, brushing against Ichigo in brief, precise pulses.
This is Jedi Master Shadow in the act of hunting down a Dark Force entity, in this case the Sith Lord.
Aizen is forced back for the first time, truly and fully, and it fills Ichigo with glee to see him thrown off guard like that.
“So this is what ya’ve been playing at,” Master Hirako says, tone flat and dangerous. “All that polish, all that control just to corner my Padawan. Not a bad plan, I gotta say.”
“Shame you forgot who taught him,” Master Shinji adds, driving his blade down in a vicious overhead strike that Aizen barely deflects in time. Aizen recovers smoothly, red blade snapping back into guard, expression composed but tighter.
“And yet,” Aizen says, voice calm despite the sudden shift, “you arrive too late.”
Master Hirako laughs short and ugly. “Yeah?” he says, stepping in again, faster, harsher, forcing Aizen to give ground another step. “Then why is he still breathing?”
Aizen’s eyes flick just briefly toward Gin.
That’s all Master Urahara needs.
He moves in without warning. Green flashes at Aizen’s flank, precise where Master Hirako is overwhelming, controlled where Master Hirako is chaos reincarnated. Surprisingly, the two styles don’t clash; they interlock. Master Hirako presses high, fast, brutal where Master Urahara slips low, redirects, cuts off escape angles before they can even fully form.
Together they box Aizen in.
“You really should have done your research more thoroughly,” Master Urahara says lightly, as if discussing a minor miscalculation over tea.
Aizen’s gaze sharpens.
“Oh?”
Master Hirako’s blade crashes down again, forcing Aizen into a tight parry.
“My Padawan,” Master Hirako says, voice dropping, something dangerous threading through it now, “doesn’t come to me unless something’s gone very, very wrong.”
Ichigo stills and he can see from the side of his eyes Rangiku doing the same.
“And when he tells me,” Master Hirako continues, each word punctuated by another relentless strike, “that a certain Chancellor is threatenin’ the two idiots he’s dangerously attached to-,” His grin sharpens. “I pay attention.”
Ichigo’s breath catches. The rage that settled spikes fast and violently, nearly bleeding his vision red. Aizen did what?!
Before he can act on the new found wave of adrenaline, Rangiku is holding his hand. That makes him stop and think for a moment. Ichigo unclenches his jaw and feels it. That same pull as before. That same edge he almost crossed. He exhales slow and deliberate.
Lets it go.
The Force shifts with him, the anger slipping through his grasp instead of tightening it.
Ichigo squeezes Rangiku’s hand, grateful for the way she grounds him.
Aizen moves to disengage.
He doesn’t get the chance.
Master Urahara is already there.
“Ah, yes,” Master Urahara hums, stepping into Aizen’s retreat, cutting off the angle cleanly. “The attempt at coercion. Promises of harm, carefully implied futures…” His eyes narrow just slightly beneath the shadow of his hat. “Very effective, under normal circumstances. But you made one small error.”
Aizen’s stance shifts. For the first time, it’s fully defensive. “I make no mistakes.”
Master Hirako’s laugh is sharp as a blade. “And yet, Gin came to me first.”
Master Hirako drives forward, forcing Aizen into a high guard.
Master Urahara slips under it.
Green flashes.
Red falters and for a single, perfect moment, Aizen’s defences are open.
Yellow lightsaber arcs cleanly through Aizen’s neck.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then the head separates while it’s body still stands. Instead, horrifyingly it collapses inward. Light fractures around the dissolving body.
And where Aizen stood, black smoke erupts outward, twisting, coiling, dissipating into nothing.
Silence crashes down.
Ichigo stares, breath uneven and heart pounding. Is this the end?
“…Told you,” a weak voice murmurs faintly, “Not to follow.”
Ichigo nearly breaks his neck with the speed he turns to look at Gin, whose breath is shallow, voice threading through pain and something softer beneath it. His eyes are still slightly hazy, but there’s more life too now.
“Gin!” Rangiku exclaims and Ichigo lets out something between a laugh and a broken exhale.
“Yeah,” Ichigo says, rough. “Not happening.”
“Yeah… figured you wouldn’t listen.”
Ichigo huffs something that might be a laugh, might be a choke. “Yeah. Next time try talking to us before joining a Sith Lord who threatened you.”
“…Wanted to keep you out of it,” he whispers. A laboured breath. “…Both of you.”
Ichigo’s chest tightens painfully. “Then you’re an idiot,” he says, voice rough, breaking despite himself.
Gin’s lips twitch into a ghost of a smile.
“…Kinda knew you’d say that.”
Rangiku leans closer, her forehead almost touching his, her voice trembling.
“You don’t get to leave us,” she whispers. “Not like this. Not without-”
She cuts herself off. Too late. The words are already there.
“You’re not dying here. Not before you explain yourself properly. Not before-” She hesitates for a fraction. Taking a fortifying breath, Rangiku glares at Gin, then at Ichigo. “Not before we figure this out.”
Rangiku squeezes Gin’s hand, her voice quieter now, steadier despite the tears. “You don’t get to run from us anymore,” she says. “Not from this. Not from how we feel.”
She exhales a harsh breath and grabs for Ichigo’s hand, entangling their fingers.
“Gin, Ichigo …I love you guys.”
Ichigo feels his heart slam hard against his ribs.
Because… of course.
Of course she does.
And of course-
“…Yeah,” Ichigo says, quieter. “Me too. Both of you.”
Gin’s breath stutters. For the first time since Ichigo befriended him in the Youngling’s Creche, Gin is visibly caught off guard.
He exhales shakily, something fragile slipping through the cracks of his usual composure.
“…Love you too.”
Ichigo's smile is probably the widest it has ever been in his life. For a moment, everything else falls away, the fight, the fear, the lingering echo of the Dark brushing too close, and all that’s left is this quiet, overwhelming warmth flooding his chest like standing under twin suns after thinking the sky would never brighten again. The Force hums differently around them now, softer, fuller, like it’s settling into place, and Ichigo realises he’s not holding on out of fear anymore but because he wants to, because they’re here, both of them, and somehow, impossibly, they chose each other back.
“While this is all sweet and whatnot, make space for Kisuke if you don’t want this newly-bloomed love to die early,” comes Master Hirako’s voice from behind Ichigo who nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise.
“Already joking about my death, Master? I can’t be that bad then,” Gin wheezes out. Honestly, those two have such a weird relationship, always going verbally at each other’s throats yet never actually meaning.
Master Hirako brushes his hand against Gin’s forehead in a soft touch. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, Gin. I told you not to get in touch with Aizen. Me and Kisuke got it.”
“Hnm.”
Master Urahara kneels next to Ichigo and a much more powerful healing blue crawls over Gin’s damaged abdomen. “Hmm, we need to get Unohana here, but until then, I will do what I can.”
“Already commed her. Isshin too. Unohana says she pinged the med evac from the clones stationed here. Apparently Chief Medical Officer Purify is on his way here with some IV-bag and pain relievers. We’re in good hands.”
The relief that swallows Ichigo is overwhelming enough that he leans against his Master who casually supports him even as he heals.
Master Unohana is Chief Healer, the best there is and she will heal Gin in no time. And Isshin…
Ichigo’s father.
Rangiku’s Master.
And bit Ichigo’s goofy father.
Ichigo exhales, tension he didn’t even realise he was holding loosening just slightly.
Good.
Good.
They’ll be okay.
They have to be.