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As shown above, XIII Roxas - Sora XIII requested a one-on-one sparring match in the spirit of testing his character's capability-and thus, by extent, his own-to hold the position of Lieutenant in the squad. In the same vein, the match will be held here in a partial state of plot-divergence, like a PRP, with the opportunity to be supplanted in the main storyline of the guild later. In other words, we'll figure out when this happens later. (It's sort of impossible for my character to be in multiple places at once, so, there's your excuse.) And now to my response:


Strange face, with your eyes
So pale and sincere
Underneath, you know well
You have nothing to fear

She's agreed to this, and by god will she bend her will to upholding that agreement to a righteous tee. Even if that righteousness is slightly internally focused. Like self-righteousness. It's not a real challenge, not even in the slightest. There hasn't been a dumbshit brave or drunk enough to actually try for her haori in, oh, Saza doesn't know, years? Maybe even a decade. There'd been a solstice feast that she dredged up in the not-quite-ancient folds of her memory that were still old enough that, while most of the night was a predictable, alcohol-fueled haze, even the ghost of that afternoon's pregaming was time-softened.

No, she wasn't scratching distractedly at the exposed flesh over her collarbone, all while bumping the heavily-dressed hank of hair that hung with familiarity over her shoulder with all the long-suffering dismissal of someone whom no longer dug her toes in at the rancor of it because someone wanted her job. She was here because an interesting, albeit scarily-composed transfer request had come through-which she gleefully tossed to some fourteenth-seat desk-jockey with a developing shiner garnered from none other than yours truly in a squad-centric game that we don't talk about in mixed company. It was amongst some other paperwork that Saza, to no one's surprise, didn't want to do.

But the Nanabantai was brilliant like that. Tight-knit to the point of exception, it was no surprise that she had no qualms or fear in pawning off the more mindnumbing aspects of her work to the others. And they groaned and complained but she just gave them s**t-eating grins and went off to find someone in need of some tutoring because she knew they all secretly reveled in how close it brought them to the unattainable glory of Captainship.

Now, like her own traditions demanded, she took matters into her own hands. While Sazagishi Kuroyanagi was an open and trusting Captain to her subordinates, she had a healthy loathing for the concise bureaucratic workings of the Gotei's hierarchy. She didn't trust the suggestions printed on paper regarding how she run her squad as far as she could throw them. Which was about a dismal two feet behind her because she never bothered to fold them into airplanes. After flicking the reviewing board's assessment of the newbie over one shoulder, slouching back in her cushioned chair, swigging some strawberry wine she was experimenting with, and flicking over the personnel file long enough to note he was from the Nibantai, she decided to schedule her customary welcome. Just like that, he was in. Now all he had to do was make her see what he could do and he'd be dropped into a ranking, likely one shared by others, and with someone to oversee his settlement.

Back in the present, Saza huffed as the door set in the wall that separated the far edge of the field from the regular streets of the Sereitei finally opened. She was here uncharacteristically early after having finished a basic self-defense class with about a dozen people from her old district. She'd decided the walk back to the barracks to snag some food in the spare minutes before needing to return just wasn't worth it. So, in direct counterpoint to her wild, roaming, scatter-brained nature, she was here waiting. She was here, waiting, impatiently. Not that Saza had a reason to let the wait bug her-she was just fidgety and damn if the new guy wasn't perfectly on-time.

He's nervous, she spat out hastily.

He's trying to make a good impression, Hacchan cut back.

Because he's nervous, Saza tossed it out with confidence and the zanpakutou couldn't actually argue. After all, she was right, or as good as. He's only ever been in one other squad. Y'think he's expecting me to be some sort of drill sargeant-slash-ninja? Like, in his mind, am I gonna go up to him and beat him bloodless if he's too early or too late? The Nibantai's kinda different, y'know? What if he's a total hard-a**? We'll just have to loosen him up a little, of course, but it'd be kinda nice to snag a wild one from the Pomp Squad. That there would be braggin' rights, really-.

Sacchan, the warning is gentle but with a solidity borne of being long-since accustomed to breaking her from these weird spokes of mental vomit. Hachi Senshi doesn't mind. He chides her with the simple exhale of her name and she just lets the mental equivalent of a cheeky eye roll waft over his presence in the background of her surface impulses and notions. But like anyone who really knows her can attest, the mouth won't stop that easily.

Did you see anything important in the file we should worry about? she asks, because Saza is the sort of person who focuses a lot of her conscious mind on the most notable and explosive details on life. What she and her zanpakutou realize but don't bother to comment on is that her subconscious mind is a beast for cataloging every other detail. The Captain learned the hard way to tap into that at an instant's notice, but she lets Hacchan function like a secretary and provide that information for her most of the time. It's easy, fun, it creates a profound sensory relay for them and lets them retain proximity.

Hacchan goes over it, and she nods-actually nods her head-, but she's multitasking imprinting what she cares about in her brain where this stuff customarily stays tucked in until it matters and recognizing the new arrival for the white-blonde hair she knows her new subordinate has, something she no doubt gleaned from the file. It's a weird thought, but she always seems to fixate on at least one physical feature to ground herself when interacting with others. It's not funny in an abnormal way, since it's something a lot people seem to do. But it still strikes her as goofy that she lets so much of what another person is be summed up in the space of a single trait, like hair color or a tattoo. It seems crude when they could easily shave their head, dye their hair, remove the tattoo, or dress another way that hides it or whatever it is she puts them down to in the physically individualistic sense.

He's going to be the guy with white-blonde hair, she realizes.

"Katarombei Heshishimo." It's not a ******** question, it's an assertion. She knows it's him. No one enters the meadow around welcoming periods, that hair is so damn noticable, the punctuality, the fact that he doesn't enter laughing or swearing or really making any sort of raucous noise. Everything points to "new guy." "Tell me somethin': ya drink?"