Steam bun in hand, Masaki leaned back and sighed happily. He was sitting in a tree in one of the gardens surrounding the Eighth Division, and he couldn’t be more at ease. Feet dangling below him, he stared off into space without a care in the world. A couple of shinigami ran past him through the grounds.
He watched them go. Did he have to be somewhere? Maybe, but he really couldn’t remember. And, in all honesty, he really didn’t care.
So many new recruits this time of year; academy graduates still wet behind the ears and either overconfident with their abilities or so cowed by seasoned shinigami that they forgot how to so much as hold their zanpakutou properly. Even the upper seats like her did not escape the hassle they caused as each struggled to settle into squad life and routines. However, it wasn’t some graduate Ise-fukutaichou was chasing after when she ought to have been delivering the latest batch of reports.
Instead, the bespeckled woman frowning up into a tree at the waraji peeking out as if they had no better place to be. Honestly! Their owner was little better than Kyourako-taichou. Except, at least this particular man had to obey her orders and weather the scolding he was soon to receive. “Donato-sanjuuseki! Is your zanjutsu group so well-trained that you have nothing more to teach them?”