» venezia. [ASH]

Truly, even in the most beautiful locations on Earth, where beauty ascended into heaven’s grasp, where serenity was an unavoidable way of life; there would always be conflict.

It was futile to avoid conflict, and even more inefficient to pretend it didn’t exist.

Green blood splattered into the formerly peaceful Italian canal, disrupting and transforming the harmonious stream into small torrent of chaos! Following the irregular blood was a corresponding spirit, filled to the brim with any sin known to man. The corrupted soul smashed into the water, blending its irregular colored blood with the water and sent a crashing wave of the concoction that’d splash against anyone near construct of water. Upon contact with the liqud, the green monstrosity imposed a painful screech upon the sound waves and effectively exposing any being with spiritual perception to a live horror movie.

A redheaded figure dressed nearly from head-to-toe in mysterious black garbs drifted through the air with a powerful, yet elegant grace. In comparison to the demon he hunted, the black fur-bearing figure would undeniably appear much more villainous; the soul reaper wielded a pretentious grin capable of throwing any politician off their feet, with a cold look in his eyes that seemed as if they could have frosted the entire area with prolonged contact. Through a swift and extremely exquisite movement, the ominous male figure unsheathed the katana armed upon his lower back with a two-handed reverse grip, and plunged his blade so deep into the evil spirit’s mask that the weapon’s handle participated in the soaking of blood.

His authoritative movements sent a fierce ending through the veins of his enemy, causing it to suffer a gruesome ending before being consumed by the irrefutable embrace of hell. The victorious spirit seemed as if he delighted upon every molecule of fear the creature discharged before it de-materialized. For what he thought was his ears alone, the spiky redhead expelled a chuckle and re-sheathed his bloodied weapon.

His chin rose as his pupils experienced the nightlife of Italy. “Take a break from all your paperwork, they said! Go to Venice, you’ll have fun on guard duty, they said!” The male’s deep voice resonated of a humorous light, as if he were emulating someone else’s voice.

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The enigmatic soul reaper led his chuckling to a gradual close, and battered his bloodied weapon against the air pressure to effectively usher a majority of the defeated spirit’s bodily liquids into the Italian body of water, and relaxed the sealed zanpakutō into its pitch black scabbard. And not a millisecond before his attention resigned back to the repetitive duty of his practice, a human of noteworthy spiritual perception tugged at his awareness via his auditory acuity. It seemed even in the midst of routine and duty, there was always an intriguing component to be attached, even if it may have been unwanted.

Despite how much of a workaholic the earthbound lieutenant was, he was also a man who rarely turned down amusement. Despite the surprise of the dark-skinned male’s staggering inquisition, the death god to whom he questioned failed to let his grin falter, if anything, it amplified through indiscernibly calculated logic. With a haunting lack of celerity, the red-haired soul’s head shifted to the direction of the bombarding questions, and he would cast a gaze so demonic that the depth of his eye’s callousness contrasted his grin like white on black. With a sheepish pace comparable to the re-alignment of his head, the figure pocketed his softly calloused hands and walked into the air as if invisible steps were in place.

With a blatant disregard for the discombobulation the human was incurring, the mystifying individual’s smirk opened ever so slightly, and he utilized his sarcastically-scarred larynx, “What?” His deep voice investigated with a singular word before allowing another chuckle to escape his mouth, “You’re a black guy with white hair and eyebrows, and you think you’re the one hallucinating?”

His auditory movements came to a halt, as did his physical movement. The garbed death god kneeled down in the air merely inches away from the terrain the human positioned himself upon; his hands steadily resting in his comfortable pockets. The red strands of hair resting above the man’s amber eyes danced as he disingenuously tilted his head, examining the human as if he were nothing more than a disposable specimen. Once again, his immovable grin widened, “If I was real…would that frighten you, human?” His drawn out inquiry reverberated of nothing but a mocking politeness, as if his sole goal in life was to invoke fear within the precocious being in front of him.

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The young man was amusing, and he had a strong point. From a human’s perspective, flying samurai re-enacting Mortal Kombat on estranged monsters was nothing less than unorthodox. Of course, one came to forget such a detail after a century and a half of performing the activity. The Shinigami could do nothing but expel a chuckle from his lips with the questioning of his species. He refrained from exposing the contradictory parallels linked from his initial retort. The redhead rose to his feet, and nonchalantly strolled to Anders’ left, taking a comfortable seating right next to the dark-skinned individual. Through the action, the soul reaper’s piercing amber eyes refused to depart from the human “bulls-eye.”

Although through the use of his peripherals acuity, he took note of the postcard making its home within the human’s hands. It wasn’t every day that one found a spiritually aware human, and even rarer to find one that had some semblance of spiritual concentration. The pretentious fog enveloping the god of death lazily navigated into the high-spec human’s boundaries, “You’ll learn more about yourself when you stop attempting to deceive yourself. You’re much more afraid of the pretty boy capable of slaughtering the scary monsters than the monsters themselves.”

The malicious grin corroding the nameless soul reaper’s face quickly evaporated, and replaced with a genuinely friendly smile only amplified by the creasing around his eyelids. In an attempt to initiate a welcoming handshake, the spiky-haired spirit openly outstretched his right hand towards the obviously discomforted human, “You can call me Jesus, I’m the scary self-proclaimed good guy.” Like the snap of a finger, the aged soul digressed into sarcasm.

Following the hopefully successful gesture, he would proceed to verbally inquire of the elephant in the vicinity; the postcard, “There’s something special about that card, ain’t it?”

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The human prospect became more and more interesting by the second. While he wasn’t powerful by any means of the definition, he was engaging in his own right. He definitely had potential, and if harnessed and ripened, the young man could have turned into a force of good. The young adult’s feet stood on the precipice of norm and irregular, and he knocked on the door of the spiritual world, or rather, the spiritual world knocked on his. If it was knowledge he sought, fate had led him to the right man, and perhaps the only man capable of satiating that intellectual thirst.

“Oooh,” ‘Jesus’ cooed with interest, his amber optics thoroughly examining the manipulation of the paper. Judging by the boy’s description, it was obvious that he knew the current limits of his power, yet remained ignorant of what it truly was and what caused this power. The deity-nicknamed soul reaper’s smile would dim; though proceed to encapsulate a friendly nature. One of his hands would casually extend toward the human’s person, and easily grasp one of the papers enveloping Anders. If the young man was any kind of perceptive, he would have noted how his powers had no damage among the visiting spirit.

Nothing is free.

A scoff momentarily interrupted the welcoming smile upon the redhead’s visage, and he rose to his feet whilst pursuing a visual examination of the paper between his fingertips. The death god’s lips opened softly, and comically began to mutter, “You walk on water, save humans from demonic monsters and nobody believes you’re Jesus.” Curiously, the strands of the Shinigami’s red hair would frolic in the wind as he fully angled his torso towards the seated mane of white. The ominous vision of his emotionless amber eyes returned their gaze upon him.

“You have absolutely no idea what you really are.” His words coupled with a deep chuckle, discarding the piece of paper to become a slave of wind’s desires. And still, he declined the need to directly answer the male’s question like any polite being would, and instead veiled himself in vague smog. The nameless spirit’s left hand reached for the black and red handle of his weapon, steadily gripping it inversely. Through a calm motion lacking any bit of haste, the steel would come out of its sheath as slowly as a snake would stalk its prey.

“Do you, Anders?”

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The Shinigami’s feelings were starting to take quite the bruising! Nobody that came into contact with the fiery-haired fellow seemed to trust him, or like him, for that matter. On the logical end, it was quite warranted. If small deeds done were of more product than great deeds planned, then the visiting spirit was nothing less than dirt poor. Even as he acted now, his small deeds were a simple assimilation of a more profitable conclusion.

The death god’s amber gems stared blankly at the human as he reacted, his actions and tongue surging with fear and mistrust; ready to fight for his life, well aware that he’d become a speck of the past if the spirit so wished it. And while his analysis of “Jesus” was true, it was out of order for this particular situation. “No, you’re not.” The man’s grin expanded maliciously, his blade fully drawn in his left hand with a reverse grip. As if he were computing a most beneficial timing, the untrustworthy soul lifted the steel to level with his face, his gaze upon the human ever-present.

Through an unforeseen movement, the lieutenant’s red-hair would masquerade with the wind, the steel of his armament inching closer and closer at the human faster. And then he disappeared from sight, leaving only a thick swoosh in his previous location.

Clink!

Mere meters behind Anders’ person, the spirit he marked with doubt clashed once again with a vicious hollow headed for the human’s vicinity; his entire body. He angled the steel of his blade to lock against the teeth of the creature, prohibiting movement from the monster perfectly. To say the least, Ashton was quite disappointed in the human’s current capability to detect reiatsu, or even have a twitch for corrupted phantoms. In irony of the scenario that presented itself, the more humane ghost of nature would sustain an immovable calm through his smirk.

The back of his head tilted, hopefully prompting the human to back away from the immediate field of combat. While there was a pathetically twitchy struggle on the weaker side of the lock, Ashton would continue to comically mock the young man, “If you were just a human being, this beautiful little creature right here wouldn’t have tried to kill you.” As if he were casually consulting the dark-skinned male for a dinner menu, the death god gave a turn to his jaw, and observed the mortal. “Are you alright, kid?”

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The light creases under the rose-haired spirit’s eyes integrated with excess definition as he shook his head. Reasons for why such an action took place, for the moment, remained an anomaly. Whilst he held the creature in place with a blade lock, the soul’s visual organs took examination of the high-spec human’s movements; as well as his ability to manifest logical thought under pressure. The reiatsu-infused papers assumed their thunder, and jolted forth at the hollow’s head. Successfully, the creature’s internal liquids imported into the air like a faulty faucet. However, the creature had yet to be thoroughly conquered, and its anger sharpened with the professionalism of the greatest blacksmith.

A microscopic tingle of respect crept into Ashton’s grin, and he proceeded to knock the knights off the horrid monster’s chess table. Following logic akin to his social movements, the Shinigami promptly exploited the momentary absence in the hollow’s exercise. And through a fluid and rehearsed motion, Ashton broke the lock with the hollow, drifted back a few inches, and through a fencer’s animation, gouged out the eyes of the creature and sheathed his fluid coated steel. Effectively, the soul reaper had transmuted the beast’s animalistic courage into pure agony; leaving its body fainéant in the air as it manifested its imponderable discomfort into a distorted howl.

“This…is a hollow,” Ashton educated, his relaxed body language exhibiting symptoms of volubility, “These are corrupt human souls that weren’t able to cross over to the afterlife.” His head angled from the painfully contained example to the human behind him, “Even you could become one if died tonight.” He saw little need in providing further elucidation on whether not the statement wielded lingering implications, or properly answering the inquiries that expelled from Anders’ mouth.

The smirk-brandished soul reaper seemingly disappeared, leaving another slight gust of wind.

Reappearing directly behind the Anders, he elongated his sleeved left arm on the human’s right shoulder, his silver ring-bearing forefinger pointing directly at the creature. “These gorgeous Barbies want to do nothing but devour you, me, and each other for power.” Almost instantaneously, Ashton manufactured a ‘gun’ out of his pointer and middle finger, steadily directed at the foul demon before them. The death god’s deep, enigmatic voice would continue to pierce the mortal’s comfort bubble, “Kill it, Anders.”

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From Ashton’s skewered perspective, watching Anders raise his hand to bring an end to the floating monstrosity was like instructing a precocious child to paint an exquisite canvas. As the disked ascended, the enigmatic soul reaper savored every single millisecond of its destruction. Blood spewed from creature, and the painful howl it expelled intensified from the bowels of its being; its seemingly unending agony. And as the beast gradually dispersed into tiny black fragments and escalated into nothingness, it seemed as if each and every particle of the being assimilated upon the redhead’s growing grin. Such a detail that would go unnoticed to the human, a consequence of him bowing his head in lawful morality.

“You did a good thing there, Anders.” The gun composed of his fingertips would revert into an open palm, and tenderly tap onto the young man’s shoulder as a gesture of sympathy. “Each and every time you kill a hollow, it transfers to the afterlife, and they finally get a chance to live anew.” Had the dark-skinned male’s eyes managed to drift towards the space-invading spirit, he would have seen a gentle look in the optics to match the gentle strokes of verbiage. “Because of you, that monster finally gets to rest in peace.” As per usual, the Shinigami managed to leave out the juicy, unnerving truths of his speech. Anders had just sent that beast straight to hell.

As slowly as it slithered upon his being, the soul’s softly calloused hands would have left the human as he paced backwards. Turning around, he began to take his movement forth to the corner, where a lighted and beautiful Italian bridge was constructed. Ashton’s golden eyes would cast their vision over his shoulder, his calm voice dancing along the sound waves, “Now that they know you’re strong enough to cleanse them, they’ll be on you constantly.” Had Anders not took the hint to walk with him, Jesus’s voice would have become an echo through the architecture; ignorance and anxiety would be left for him had he not followed. “Your friends, your family, your girlfriend, they’ll all be targets for these monsters.”

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