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Description

A soldier from the Army of the Western Spirits is a common man. He does not have a Zanpakto or Bankai like his eastern counterparts. He cannot draw on reiatsu (though the higher ranking officers can summon the life energy). He is on average five foot, nine inches tall, around 180 to 190 pounds. Though he is mostly white given his North American and European roots, he has more colors from the immigrants that have passed in those territories.

His uniform is blue, molded into a similar model from the Federal outfits of the Civil War (where many men entered the afterlife). His main weapon is a Springfield Trapdoor, chambered to fire .45 caliber rounds, infused with small amounts of reiatsu to kill demons (their eastern brethren call them Hollows). If he is attached to an Urban Combat unit, he may have a repeating rifle or one of those new shotguns. His bayonet is forged from steel from the ground in the afterlife. He carries with him his rations, cooking utensils, blanket, and any personal belongings he can fit. At last, he holds a entrenching tool for when the need to build breastworks arises.

He knows very little of the Soul Reapers in Soul Society across the sea. He understands they have similar roles, though their form of government is disdainful for this voting man. He is mystified by the women that have combat roles in their society. While females in his land can serve in the rear line, it is rare that a woman fights in the ranks. The same can not be said about the Knights of the West, the true equivalent of Soul Reapers. He has seen women wear the ceremonial cloaks and whatever armor they desire to wear. Some of the men that have seen women from the east (there have been a few meetings across the New Atlantic) tell tales of extraordinary beauty.

He depises the Wandenreich, a collection of fascist humans bent on genocide. He’s heard the stories of the war long past between Quincy and Soul Reaper. His society was not the same back then, but the tales still stir emotions. If they do cross paths on the battlefield, he will show the Soldat that their arrogance and fancy swordplay won’t stand up to disciplined rifle fire. He is unclear about Hueco Mundo, but stands guard in case they attack.

He knows that he is still mortal, and that when he dies, he will be reincarnated with no memories of this existence. He still takes up arms when his nation calls for it. He knows fear, but controls it in the heat of battle. He knows individually he is weak compared to the powerful Soul Reapers, the Hueco Mundo horde, or the Fascist Quincy’s. He fears not though; he fights as a unit. When the call to arms is heeded, he joins the ranks with his brethren, and march off into battle. As one young medic explained to Apacci as he was caring for the wounded Arrancar.

“We’re not that different from you. We join for a cause, and fight for our comrades.”

…To this day, the blue-haired follower of Tia Harribel found herself enamored with her Florence Nightingale, not that she’d tell her two compatriots about it.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

For Isane Kotestsu, the arrival of these unknown soldiers created more uncertainty. She had no way of knowing if these troops were friendly or not. With most of the Gotei 13 dead or out of commission, there was no way Soul Society could survive another enemy.

“Ma’am, I’m looking for the commanding officer of the militia.”

The figure on horseback spoke. He was young, not much older than herself. His brown hair poked out from underneath the black fitted hat. A blue uniform, indistinguishable from the common uniforms except for the shoulder patches and sword.

The Federal troops had only started to spill into the larger courtyard. The narrow streets of Soul Society restricted their movements. They were all nervous, rifles at the ready with sharp eyes watching their front. The young Brigadier Fitzpatrick was among his men. The native South Carolinian wondered if he would survive the day to see that beautiful lieutenant with the white hair again.

Suddenly, to their front rose a wall of blue and white. The large group of soldats, easily over 400 strong, drew back their bows. One of their officers, equal to rank as Fitzpatrick, shouted.

“Loose!”

As one, the soldats fired their arrows. The blue-colored rishi weapons slammed into the lead regiment. Dozens of men were bowled over. Limbs snapped off from the force, a few men lost their heads. One unfortunate corporal screamed as he tried vainly to hold his intestines from spilling out.

The blue line wavered, but did not break. At once, Fitzpatrick screamed out his command.

“Let’s Go! Fire by Battalion!” The lead regiment filled out its lines as Springfield carrying soldiers brought their rifles to bear. The soldats responded by drawing another round.

“Ready! Aim! Fire!” Both sides fired simultaneously. Federals were cut down, but now the Quincy’s experienced losses. The front rank fired into their front as fast as they could pull their triggers. For the humans, they were shocked that their troops were being taken down. After slaughtering most of the Soul Reapers for little loss, the Soldats reckoned the day was theirs. The arrival of these foreign troops changed all that.

The Soldats spilled across the street, over the railing, and fired back at the approaching soldiers. Swords sheathed, their reshi-composed bows fire blue arrows. One lances through a young private through his stomach, leaving the boy screaming in agony. Blue coated warriors take up the opposite side and fire back; the air becoming thick with white smoke. A Soldat screams as his elbow is blown off. For those fleeting, terrifying moments, white and blue fight nearly eyeball to eyeball.

So focused on the threat at hand, the Soldat’s fail to notice the rest of Fitzpatrick’s brigade swing around and take up position farther up the street. From there, the mix of South Carolinian and Virginian troops begin firing down on the fascist soldiers. One alert Soldat finally realizes the danger.

“We’re being flanked! We gotta get out of here!”

A few brave fighters turn to shoot, but are cut down as .45 caliber rounds rain down. The Federals whooped and hollered as they kept firing. Not even the wounded were spared from the carnage. As one private later recalled in a post-battle interview.

“Yeah, we coulda taken them all prisoner, but we wasn’t in for that.”

Word of the massacre by the Wandenreich at Iron Town had reached all the ears at the capital and in the army. Not one soldier had sympathy for the genocidal Quincy’s.

______________________________________________________________________________

The first two regiments that had crested the ridge had been decimated; the survivors running for their lives. Just behind them, another regiment was coming up. Unlike the previous, this regiment was composed of veteran soldiers, the nucleus being former soldiers of the Second Connecticut Heavy Artillery.

“Come back! Come back! Reform and fight!” The veterans call out to no avail. They are too crazed with fear as they run. The seasoned Colonel in charge draws his sword high and shouts.

“Move forward Connecticut!”

At the lip of the ridge, the regiment paused to volley fire at the Soldats. Then, they drop to their knees, ejecting spent cartridges and ramming in new ones. As one, the regiment rises to fire again. The now wise Soldats tread carefully, knowing the lot in front of them were not rookies. As the blue-coated soldiers fired, a captain was walking down the line shouting encouragements.

“Keep up your fire boys!” He ducked as a blue colored arrow shot overheard.

“Keep it up! Pour it into them! That’s it, that’s the style!”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The blue-coated Major listened as Kenpachi explained his plan and how he became stronger. Then, he asked a question.

“You’re telling me you killed your best healer to gain strength?”

“Retsu wanted me to become stronger to fight these invaders.” He exclaimed. McPherson waited a moment then spoke again.

“Mate, are you fucking retarded?” The Irish-American was not impressed.

Description

A soldier from the Army of the Western Spirits is a common man. He does not have a Zanpakto or Bankai like his eastern counterparts. He cannot draw on reiatsu (though the higher ranking officers can summon the life energy). He is on average five foot, nine inches tall, around 180 to 190 pounds. Though he is mostly white given his North American and European roots, he has more colors from the immigrants that have passed in those territories.

His uniform is blue, molded into a similar model from the Federal outfits of the Civil War (where many men entered the afterlife). His main weapon is a Springfield Trapdoor, chambered to fire .45 caliber rounds, infused with small amounts of reiatsu to kill demons (their eastern brethren call them Hollows). If he is attached to an Urban Combat unit, he may have a repeating rifle or one of those new shotguns. His bayonet is forged from steel from the ground in the afterlife. He carries with him his rations, cooking utensils, blanket, and any personal belongings he can fit. At last, he holds a entrenching tool for when the need to build breastworks arises.

He knows very little of the Soul Reapers in Soul Society across the sea. He understands they have similar roles, though their form of government is disdainful for this voting man. He is mystified by the women that have combat roles in their society. While females in his land can serve in the rear line, it is rare that a woman fights in the ranks. The same can not be said about the Knights of the West, the true equivalent of Soul Reapers. He has seen women wear the ceremonial cloaks and whatever armor they desire to wear. Some of the men that have seen women from the east (there have been a few meetings across the New Atlantic) tell tales of extraordinary beauty.

He depises the Wandenreich, a collection of fascist humans bent on genocide. He’s heard the stories of the war long past between Quincy and Soul Reaper. His society was not the same back then, but the tales still stir emotions. If they do cross paths on the battlefield, he will show the Soldat that their arrogance and fancy swordplay won’t stand up to disciplined rifle fire. He is unclear about Hueco Mundo, but stands guard in case they attack.

He knows that he is still mortal, and that when he dies, he will be reincarnated with no memories of this existence. He still takes up arms when his nation calls for it. He knows fear, but controls it in the heat of battle. He knows individually he is weak compared to the powerful Soul Reapers, the Hueco Mundo horde, or the Fascist Quincy’s. He fears not though; he fights as a unit. When the call to arms is heeded, he joins the ranks with his brethren, and march off into battle. As one young medic explained to Apacci as he was caring for the wounded Arrancar.

“We’re not that different from you. We join for a cause, and fight for our comrades.”

…To this day, the blue-haired follower of Tia Harribel found herself enamored with her Florence Nightingale, not that she’d tell her two compatriots about it.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

For Isane Kotestsu, the arrival of these unknown soldiers created more uncertainty. She had no way of knowing if these troops were friendly or not. With most of the Gotei 13 dead or out of commission, there was no way Soul Society could survive another enemy.

“Ma’am, I’m looking for the commanding officer of the militia.”

The figure on horseback spoke. He was young, not much older than herself. His brown hair poked out from underneath the black fitted hat. A blue uniform, indistinguishable from the common uniforms except for the shoulder patches and sword.

The Federal troops had only started to spill into the larger courtyard. The narrow streets of Soul Society restricted their movements. They were all nervous, rifles at the ready with sharp eyes watching their front. The young Brigadier Fitzpatrick was among his men. The native South Carolinian wondered if he would survive the day to see that beautiful lieutenant with the white hair again.

Suddenly, to their front rose a wall of blue and white. The large group of soldats, easily over 400 strong, drew back their bows. One of their officers, equal to rank as Fitzpatrick, shouted.

“Loose!”

As one, the soldats fired their arrows. The blue-colored rishi weapons slammed into the lead regiment. Dozens of men were bowled over. Limbs snapped off from the force, a few men lost their heads. One unfortunate corporal screamed as he tried vainly to hold his intestines from spilling out.

The blue line wavered, but did not break. At once, Fitzpatrick screamed out his command.

“Let’s Go! Fire by Battalion!” The lead regiment filled out its lines as Springfield carrying soldiers brought their rifles to bear. The soldats responded by drawing another round.

“Ready! Aim! Fire!” Both sides fired simultaneously. Federals were cut down, but now the Quincy’s experienced losses. The front rank fired into their front as fast as they could pull their triggers. For the humans, they were shocked that their troops were being taken down. After slaughtering most of the Soul Reapers for little loss, the Soldats reckoned the day was theirs. The arrival of these foreign troops changed all that.

The Soldats spilled across the street, over the railing, and fired back at the approaching soldiers. Swords sheathed, their reshi-composed bows fire blue arrows. One lances through a young private through his stomach, leaving the boy screaming in agony. Blue coated warriors take up the opposite side and fire back; the air becoming thick with white smoke. A Soldat screams as his elbow is blown off. For those fleeting, terrifying moments, white and blue fight nearly eyeball to eyeball.

So focused on the threat at hand, the Soldat’s fail to notice the rest of Fitzpatrick’s brigade swing around and take up position farther up the street. From there, the mix of South Carolinian and Virginian troops begin firing down on the fascist soldiers. One alert Soldat finally realizes the danger.

“We’re being flanked! We gotta get out of here!”

A few brave fighters turn to shoot, but are cut down as .45 caliber rounds rain down. The Federals whooped and hollered as they kept firing. Not even the wounded were spared from the carnage. As one private later recalled in a post-battle interview.

“Yeah, we coulda taken them all prisoner, but we wasn’t in for that.”

Word of the massacre by the Wandenreich at Iron Town had reached all the ears at the capital and in the army. Not one soldier had sympathy for the genocidal Quincy’s.

______________________________________________________________________________

The first two regiments that had crested the ridge had been decimated; the survivors running for their lives. Just behind them, another regiment was coming up. Unlike the previous, this regiment was composed of veteran soldiers, the nucleus being former soldiers of the Second Connecticut Heavy Artillery.

“Come back! Come back! Reform and fight!” The veterans call out to no avail. They are too crazed with fear as they run. The seasoned Colonel in charge draws his sword high and shouts.

“Move forward Connecticut!”

At the lip of the ridge, the regiment paused to volley fire at the Soldats. Then, they drop to their knees, ejecting spent cartridges and ramming in new ones. As one, the regiment rises to fire again. The now wise Soldats tread carefully, knowing the lot in front of them were not rookies. As the blue-coated soldiers fired, a captain was walking down the line shouting encouragements.

“Keep up your fire boys!” He ducked as a blue colored arrow shot overheard.

“Keep it up! Pour it into them! That’s it, that’s the style!”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The blue-coated Major listened as Kenpachi explained his plan and how he became stronger. Then, he asked a question.

“You’re telling me you killed your best healer to gain strength?”

“Retsu wanted me to become stronger to fight these invaders.” He exclaimed. McPherson waited a moment then spoke again.

“Mate, are you fucking retarded?” The Irish-American was not impressed.