logs | (catch-all/open) hold up, i'm invincible

(strangely enough, in death, there's slightly more space for mikey to feel alive. not much has changed within him, but without subordinates, without an organization, with no concerns about quarterly smuggling orders or whether the police has anything at all on him, it allows for him to breathe a little easier.

not that it's all flowers as mikey exists in this place. even in the afterlife, it'd be a lie to say that his dark impulses don't suffocate him, or that his brain fog has lifted, his memory improved, and his dissociation left - it's actually even worse, which he could never have imagined being true. instead, it feels like this place has given the darkness deep within his heart has now been given a megaphone, and it screeches into his ear ever so often.

"look at you. protect them? you? from you? you clearly can't stop yourself, monster. one down, and if you hadn't thrown yourself from that building? two? three? stay away from everyone. you'll hurt them in the end."

"shinichiro died. baji died. emma died. and you're a corpse. a walking corpse that does nothing but destroy. they'd sure be absolutely thrilled to see what you've become, you piece of shit."

"and of course! you couldn't just live! what about izana's dream, you idiot? you're walking away from that too? you're weak weak weak weak WEAK YOUR STRENGTH MEANS NOTHING."

"you'll never be like him."

and those are devastating, as much as he believes them wholeheartedly ever so often. so, he'll do what makes him feel closer to himself, a grounding exercise of sorts, as he hangs by the harbor and twists tools around a marine propulsion, white hair full of grease and hands black from it, as it sits patiently at the harbor.

mikey just hears commotion near him, and he cannot let go of the mechanical part he's holding at the moment. so, he'll use that commanding voice that has got him so far in life.)

Hey, you! Pass me that wrench, please.

（ he's happening past, hands stuck in his pockets, bag slung over his shoulder when he hears that request.

to be perfectly honest, he considers ignoring it. ichigo is absolutely shit at following orders at the best of times, and a Commanding Tone is a good way to get him to flip the bird and backflip off the pier, but his natural recalcitrance is softened by that please.

with a long-suffering sigh, ichigo sifts through the nearby tools until he comes up with a crescent wrench, and he steps in to hand it over. then his hands go right back in his pockets — he's not a stranger to taking things apart and putting them back together, but mechanics aren't really for him — it's more chad's area.

(then again: what isn't chad's area? ichigo's pretty sure he could take up the classical flute on tuesday and be in the philharmonic by friday.) ）

Do you want me to move the tools closer?

（ you know. fix the issue of needing outside help. ）

(truth be told, mikey's own capabilities are more on the motorcycle variety. some things apply, some obviously don't, so a lot of it is trial and error, and using his few working braincells to put two and two together. he takes the wrench, and while it looks like he's not putting much effort into using it, the screw he was tightening even makes a noise to say that it's enough.

patting his hands, he just gives a thumbs up as he sticks his head into the machinery, his voice echoing.)

That'd be great.

（ so, obligingly, he hauls the (heavy, what the hell) toolbox over. sets it down beside the guy, and then takes a few steps back to maintain his meticulously enforced bubble of Personal Space. ichigo, not a people person. but he is a person lately hauled up from a depressive mire from hell, and that means maybe not just blowing people off immediately and walking away.

he looks at the engine. the guy. the engine again. he's all very glad this indecision can't be seen while the guy's got his head in the engine bay. finally — ）

What exactly are you doing?

(it's fine, mikey's been in a depressive mire from hell for a decade. he gets it, sort of. while he can't be seen, his presence can definitely be felt, which means mikey's guard is up in case he has to kick.

a hum echoes, and he resurfaces to look at the other.)

Trying to see if I've still got it. You?

Got... 'it'?

（ got what. excuse him, he's ancient. when a millennial from 2003 meets... whatever this is, and the vernacular hasn't quite caught up with him yet.

give him a minute. ）

Did you lose something in the engine compartment?

（ ... he really is smart when he puts his mind to it.

apparently said mind is just. you know. on vacation at the moment. ）

(it's fine, he was born in 1995, he gets it... but alas, some noise inside the machinery indicates that he is moving things around... before he takes full advantage of the fact he's tiny to sneak right in.)

... No, I used to be really good at fixing machines. Haven't done that in a decade or some. Hey, shine a light in here, by the way.

（ his desire to Keep Walking is woefully stymied by the warring desire to Be Useful. what a wild dichotomy. the duality of teenagers.

but finally, he does fish a flashlight out of the toolbox. clicks it on once, which results in the dimmest, shittiest light imaginable. several whacks to it gets it a little less anemic, and he leans in, one hand against the engine bulkhead as he shines it more-or-less where the guy needs it, trying to do the nice thing and avoid his eyes. ）

You got a name?

(oh, he used to me one, once. a difficult one, who was adored and worshipped by hundreds - makes a boy spoiled to the bone. that's kind of why the orders and requests come out, he just forgets that they don't really have to be followed through anymore.

it's hard to get used to this.)

Manjiro, but nobody really calls me by name. I'm Mikey. You?

Kurosaki.

（ he's a last name kinda guy, but 'mikey' gets a nod. honestly? easier to remember than manjiro anyway. see: reason number 2923 why he calls sado 'chad'. ）

Is that bolt supposed to be loose?

（ he's stooped to look a bit deeper into the compartment, resting his free hand along the engine's external compartment as he blinks owlishly in the light. he gestures to a bolt near what looks like... pistons, maybe? that's halfway unthreaded. ）

Good catch.

(he still hasn't gone to that bit yet, but it's always good to get ahead of work. a grunt as he tightens it, before he looks back at where the light is coming from.

which is stupid. so a hand immediately protects his eyeballs once he realizes it.)

Japanese, huh? Age, town.

（ he covers the light with a hand reflexively as the guy tries to blind himself, muttering a 'sorry'. ）

Uh... seventeen, Karakura Town. It's in West Tokyo Prefecture.

（ he's started hating giving that out, the way everyone keeps looking at him like he's crazy. karakura doesn't seem to exist for most other people, and it's sort of making him lose his mind. ）

You?

... That ain't a thing. Is it a thing?

(definitely doesn't exist for him, but alas. he finishes what he was doing within the machine, and he pops out from the same hole he came in.

they won't know if it works till they connect it, and it's definitely not here that they'll get that going. his work is done.)

Twenty-eight, Shibuya.

You aren't the first person to say that. Look, I'll draw you a map. But the easiest explanation is that something about my world is different, and for some reason this area got called Karakura in mine.

（ it's weird to consider that his entire life, his family, might not even exist in other versions of tokyo proper. his expression tightens slightly, thinking of his sisters, and then he shakes the unease off. ）

Shibuya's not far away. We're a little north-west of you guys. I can get on a train and be there in under half an hour.

No need, I believe you. Shit's crazy here. I ain't gonna lie, it's nice that there are some Japanese people here. It's less alienating that way.

(man, his bones aren't what they used to be. the stretches he does are extreme, and the flexibility shows with each, but the cracking joints give him a bit of satisfaction.)

You think that really matters when we're dead?

（ it's not like he hasn't noticed. it's nice to come across a name that's comprised of familiar syllables, to talk to people about what life was like back in tokyo prefecture. even if none of them know about karakura, it's not like he hasn't been to shibuya, or any of the other dozen places he knows of.

but if everyone here is in the same boat, what does it matter? dead's dead. there are only four soul societies in the world, souls filter to the nearest ones. you're going to have foreigners whichever way you look at it, and maybe the common tongue of stygia makes it easier. ）

I almost feel like every other person I've tripped over here is Japanese. Or American.

Of course it fucking matters. What are we if not the collective of our surroundings?

(and if there's someone who believes it wholeheartedly is manjiro sano. a man now, but once a boy who lived to make his deceased brother's legacy go on. who needed people like he needs air, to guide and to restrict.

who grew up in a dojo, carrying the name of it with each punch and kick.)

（ his eyebrows lift a little. ）

It's too early for philosophy.

（ he says, and then immediately follows up with: ）

But we're all still mostly human here that I've seen. Humanish. Not everyone's going to have a countryman to make this shitty place a little less shitty.

Does it matter whether it's early or not, we're dead.

(two can play this game. and to the top of the engine he goes, lighting a cigarette and shrugging.)

Huh. What you're gunning for? Dead rights?

Nah.

（ he tracks the guy as he shuffles himself around, lights up a cigarette. the wind changes, and the smoke carries the scent. he's never actually hated it the way some people do, so it doesn't compel him to move. ）

You can do what you want. Like you said, we're dead.

I'm not so sure on the dead thing, to be honest. I'm definitely dead, but I know some people who definitely weren't supposed to be.

(kazutora, age 15, and last he's seen, kazutora was as old as him.)

That doesn't matter either, I suppose?

What makes you so sure we aren't?

（ unfortunately, the outcome was an understandable one for him, and he hasn't been able to shake that melancholy. even knowing that grimmjow having no memory of it casts doubt on the entire thing — ichigo's been quick to stumble blindly into tolerance of the whole theory. ）

Maybe because I'm nearly thirty, and other people who were also nearly thirty last I checked are fifteen, and some other shit that I can't explain is happening, and well -, they for sure were not dead at that age, last I checked.

Could just be an alternate universe.

（ look, he watches movies. he's hip. pop-culture savvy. even if his version of pop culture is some twenty years in the past... ）

But someone I know is like that too. I'm from two years after them, and they were... definitely alive.

Yeah, that actually does happen. You two only?

(listen, he doesn't really dispute the idea. there are all these versions of him that definitely did happen, and he can't do much about it.

still. ain't it weird?)

the harbors

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