Bleach Fic
Title: Beaten
Characters: Ishida
Rating: G
Warnings etc: none
Word Count: 299
Summary: Ishida is overwhelmed
Written for bleach_contest week 30 -- "onslaught"
Beaten
One last step backward and Ishida could feel the wall behind his back. There was nowhere else to go. Backed into a corner, he flicked his eyes to the exit paths he’d mapped instinctively. He could not reach them without inflicting damage. Ishida knew that unless he was willing to carve a path through the advancing horde that he would have to give up. Give up… was that ever an option before?
He wiped his hands on his school trousers, the motion hurried, the result painful. A ripe blister, one of several spread over his hands, decided that the friction was enough to make it burst. The sudden jolt of pain from the flap of skin was a death cry, an involuntary yell from something that knew with all certainty that it was about to die.
He wished to hold out his hands, show them the damage wrought, ask for a reprieve - but he knew it would never be granted. He had built up his reputation after all. They all knew his name, knew what he could do - it was no accident that they targeted him, that the floor rumbled as they approached.
Would it have been any different if he had his Quincy uniform, rather than these horrid trousers? Would he have held some extra aura, some other power to hold his assailants back? He bowed his head - it did not matter now: this was just wishful thinking.
He thrust out a hand, making the mass hesitate, stop.
He beckoned one of them in closer by flexing his damaged hand. He smiled dangerously. ‘Show me what you’ve got.’
The chosen girl paused, momentarily unsure, but she still pushed her poorly basted lace apron into Ishida’s open hand. ‘Thank you, Club President - can you fix it for me?’
Characters: Ishida
Rating: G
Warnings etc: none
Word Count: 299
Summary: Ishida is overwhelmed
Written for bleach_contest week 30 -- "onslaught"
Beaten
One last step backward and Ishida could feel the wall behind his back. There was nowhere else to go. Backed into a corner, he flicked his eyes to the exit paths he’d mapped instinctively. He could not reach them without inflicting damage. Ishida knew that unless he was willing to carve a path through the advancing horde that he would have to give up. Give up… was that ever an option before?
He wiped his hands on his school trousers, the motion hurried, the result painful. A ripe blister, one of several spread over his hands, decided that the friction was enough to make it burst. The sudden jolt of pain from the flap of skin was a death cry, an involuntary yell from something that knew with all certainty that it was about to die.
He wished to hold out his hands, show them the damage wrought, ask for a reprieve - but he knew it would never be granted. He had built up his reputation after all. They all knew his name, knew what he could do - it was no accident that they targeted him, that the floor rumbled as they approached.
Would it have been any different if he had his Quincy uniform, rather than these horrid trousers? Would he have held some extra aura, some other power to hold his assailants back? He bowed his head - it did not matter now: this was just wishful thinking.
He thrust out a hand, making the mass hesitate, stop.
He beckoned one of them in closer by flexing his damaged hand. He smiled dangerously. ‘Show me what you’ve got.’
The chosen girl paused, momentarily unsure, but she still pushed her poorly basted lace apron into Ishida’s open hand. ‘Thank you, Club President - can you fix it for me?’