♔ ℜ ε ƴ ♔

"You want to try it out for yourself?"

『♀』 “So you’re thorough then…”

"Can’t say I’ve ever enjoyed someone like that…"

"Damn right."

"Talkin’ to some lowlife dipshit who thinks stealin’ my face’ll somehow save his skin," he spat, grudgingly intrigued by how coarse the other’s voice sounded; the faker knew his trade well. 

"Che, ‘course you’re you. Plastering that shit on ain’t gonna change—” Szayel? What was the moron on about, drawing the Octava into this? Grimmjow had not fingered the younger Granz for this: the man would hardly waste his time lurking deep in the forest for a joke. But now that he was mentioned…

"Go fuck yourself, jackass, I ain’t Granz." If the copycat knew his mannerisms so well, then Grimmjow had no need to introduce himself. Eyeing the cero the other had so easily generated, he mirrored the gesture, shifting his weight to angle Pantera’s hilt for easier access.

"Gonna hate to blow it off?" he mocked, tone climbing.

If the fake wouldn’t give, Grimmjow would burn the flesh mask off for him.

Who the hell did this asshole think he was? Only Grimmjow was allowed to bear the 6 tattoo on his back, only he was allowed to speak like that, walk like that and look like that. Some asshole was trying to steal everything that made him who he was, everything that he had worked hard to get, that he’d fought for with tooth and nail.

Now he wasn’t confused. Now he was just mad. No one was replacing him, not now. Not ever.

"I didn’t steal your damn face. You stole mine. I was here first. If you seriously think you can fuckin’ walk in and make yourself at home, you’ve got another thing comin’.”

Grimmjow’s eyes widened at the red ball of light that lit up his clone’s palm. Whoever this impersonator was, he meant business and had Grimmjow’s mannerisms down to a T. Anger boiled inside of him. There was only room for one Grimmjow in Hueco Mundo and that was him and no one else.

So Grimmjow used sonido to appear directly behind his clone’s head, his sword out and ready to take off the imposter’s head. “Get the fuck off my turf.” Grimmjow seethed and he slashed at the back of his imposter’s neck with the intention of cutting his head clean from his shoulders.

"Ha! Your turf? What, this fucking scrap of wasteland?" Whether he was loitering or not, the Sexta bore no intention to get off save for at his own goddamn leisure.

Ripping free of the clash, Grimmjow spun, returning the assault with a rapid lunge forward, blade aimed to slice into the other's ribcage. The instinct to unsheathe his sword had been automatic, though he loathed to have to have drawn so early on--this joker was nothing to be trifled with.

Unsurprisingly, he found his blade stopped, the force bearing down against him exhaustively strong. Where had such a powerful creature been holing up, undetected?"

"Che, ain't bad. What shithole d'you crawl out of?"

Normally, a quiet night was something he enjoyed. It meant no hollows, and more importantly, no victims. But right now, he was just restless. In the mood for a good fight or anything really. He would settle for having some idiot try to mug him, but it seemed like even criminals were taking the night off.

Heeled boots crunched violently against the frozen maze of telephone wires, breaking off shards of ice as Grimmjow positioned himself leisurely on the strands, far heavier than any birds they had previously withstood. Boredom had driven him out of the stifling marble corridors of Las Noches; boredom was far graver a punishment than any Aizen could mete out.

Karakura was his playground of choice--if he was lucky, maybe he could scavenge out a midnight snack for his troubles too, appease the bloodlust superficially. Flaring pesquisa with arrogant apathy, Grimmjow sussed out the menu.

Flicking his hand with unnecessary force, Grimmjow loosed his grip to drop his former superior to the floor, before leisurely allowing the stray strands wound about his fingers to drift after their owner.

"Spit it out, Jiruga, I ain’t got all night." He was in no hurry, and the inflections of his voice betrayed mounting excitement; the Fifth reeked of fear and resentment. For all his crooked glares and dirty mouth, Grimmjow would relish seeing him reduced to a mess.

Was only a matter of how hard he could push.

"Ain’t gonna sing?" Nnoitra had been silent; it wasn’t hard to piece together his stature and bloodied mouth to conclude that the silence wasn’t necessarily by choice. Grimmjow did not care.

He’d take off down the hall, ducking into an empty room, thank the gods it was. But the Quintoknew he would only besafe for so long until someone stumbled in on him. More than likly Grimmjow at any moment.

His heart was racing, nerves alight with fear, ears ringing as he brushed the rubble from within the dark tresses that ran down his back. Nnoitra’s mask would crumble further, only a few thin pices remained left behind to surround the hollow hole that took up a portion of his face.

Their world was not one of honor. 

Finishing his count to twenty, Grimmjow kicked aside some of the rubble that had splayed across the arctic tile, listening to the hollow echo as it tumbled to a halt. To his credit, Nnoitra had retained his stealth. Not that it would negate his spilling reiatsu, dripping free like sand from a broken glass.

"Ready or not, Jiruga," he hissed through a leer, feeling the Fifth's presence as clear as day, just beyond a few walls.

Before the echo of his words had settled, Grimmjow had torn through the wall into Nnoitra's shelter, the crimson scarlet of bala ripping cold air.

Contorting his spine with feline verocity, Grimmjow lashed out for the other's throat and found it. Seizing hold of the slender neck, the Sexta turned his grip iron as he held the other up, in taunting mimicry of their position only minutes prior.

"You ain't run very far," he commented, airily. "Waitin' for me to catch up," he dropped him, "are ya?" The metal heel of his boot drove into Nnoitra's leg, pinning him there. "Masochist." Squatting down, Grimmjow drove his knee hard into Nnoitra's throat, leaning over him until his face was mere centimeters from his former superior's. Wisps of blue closed the distance between them as Grimmjow greedily drank in the sight of sheer terror before him. Ought he let his plaything go, and have a longer game of cat-and-mouse? 

Before he could offer chase, the Sexta found himself faced with a visage he’d only ever seen in reflection.

Now here it was, in flesh, harsh brows and sharp eyes, contours his fingers knew by memory.

"Hollow? The hell do you think you’re talkin’ to?" Grimmjow snarled, curling his lip. "You’re a fuckin’ "parlor trick"! I’m the real me, here!” Or was he? What the hell was going on!? Grimmjow snapped, “The hell do you think you’re playin’ with? Take off that fuckin’ wig, Szayel!” That had to be the answer, Szayel was pulling a trick of some kind. And to show he was serious, Grimmjow readied a Cero.

He grinned, expecting he’d have his answer in a moment. “That’s a real pretty face I’ve got, Szayel. I’d hate to blow it off!”

"Talkin' to some lowlife dipshit who thinks stealin' my face'll somehow save his skin," he spat, grudgingly intrigued by how coarse the other's voice sounded; the faker knew his trade well. 

"Che, 'course you're you. Plastering that shit on ain't gonna change--" Szayel? What was the moron on about, drawing the Octava into this? Grimmjow had not fingered the younger Granz for this: the man would hardly waste his time lurking deep in the forest for a joke. But now that he was mentioned...

"Go fuck yourself, jackass, I ain't Granz." If the copycat knew his mannerisms so well, then Grimmjow had no need to introduce himself. Eyeing the cero the other had so easily generated, he mirrored the gesture, shifting his weight to angle Pantera's hilt for easier access.

"Gonna hate to blow it off?" he mocked, tone climbing.

If the fake wouldn't give, Grimmjow would burn the flesh mask off for him.

Grimmjow couldn’t help the leer that cracked his face in two, almost painful with glee when he noticed all the little nuances that Nnoitra hadn’t even bothered to conceal. Or was it that he couldn’t even do that? As the distance closed and the Quinta’s height shrank further still, vivid blue eyes danced between them, to the bottomless pool of blood dripping from Nnoitra’s lips, to the tremors in exhausted tendons as the other buckled beneath even the kept spikes of the Sixth’s reiatsu.

"Hell happened to you?" It was plenty obvious what had gone on, from the smeared blood around the higher Espada’s mouth, but Grimmjow found wicked delight in tonguing those words through a vicious smirk.

He stilled, the toes of his boots mere centimeters from Nnoitra’s knees. Tempting, so painfully tempting, to just flare his spiritual pressure in such close proximity, see his former superior slam to the ground in outrage, but Grimmjow denied himself the temporary pleasure, already tasting phantom copper in his mouth. 

No no no— Nnoitra could read that look, the ego that burst through his words was stronger than it had been in quite some time. He wouldnt be able to get himself out of this— being only four feet tall now, Grimmjow towered over him. Scared for his life, yes. 

The Quinto could do nothing but swallow the blood that would fill his mouth, that or spit it in the Sexta’s face— but decided against it just to keep his ass as safe as he could manage. The hand in his hair hurt, pulling some strands loose from his head.

Slowly, he would shake his head in order to answer the Panther, both hands reaching up to grasp firmly around the wrist of that muscled arm that held him above ground, toes barely able to touch the stone floor. A single, nervous drop of sweat rolled down the side of his jaw, dripping onto the floor between them. He knew Grimmjow could smell his fear as well as see it.

Flicking his hand with unnecessary force, Grimmjow loosed his grip to drop his former superior, leisurely allowing the stray strands wound about his fingers to drift after their owner.

"Spit it out, Jiruga, I ain't got all night." He was in no hurry, and the inflections of his voice betrayed mounting excitement; the Fifth reeked of fear and resentment. For all his crooked glares and dirty mouth, Grimmjow would relish seeing him reduced to a mess.

Was only a matter of how hard he could push.

"Ain't gonna sing?" Nnoitra had been silent; it wasn't hard to piece together his stature and bloodied mouth to conclude that the silence wasn't necessarily by choice. Grimmjow did not care.

Before he could offer chase, the Sexta found himself faced with a visage he'd only ever seen in reflection.

Now here it was, in flesh, harsh brows and sharp eyes, contours his fingers knew by memory.

What he got upon contact, however, was not the face full of lead he’d been expecting. Little witch had a different sort of metal wrapped around her knuckles, but Grimmjow had no time to humor her. His hand darted up, sinewy grip closing around the delicate bones of her wrist, allowing the cold ice of her weapon to barely brush the skin of his left cheek.

Leisurely, tauntingly, he flicked his eyes over to the limb in his hand.

Brass knuckles. 

He spat out a laugh, half mocking, half indignant. “Try again, bitch. Steel’s stronger than brass.”

And he closed his fingers down harsh around her forearm, grasp tightening with a strength reminiscent of constrictor snakes, until he was nearly certain that the fragile bones of her arm were hairs from touching.

Though if he was expecting her to lay down and cry for mercy, to be spared, he was going to sorely be disappointed. Elena had not done that both times when she’d been tortured by the three remnants, she’d stubbornly refused to let them cripple her with fear and their cruelty. There would be no exception with this….being. His strength alone told her he was no regular human man.

His actions elicited a sharp hiss of pain from the blonde, her face contorting in a pained wince, that she spat out her own retort to. “Both of which are still easy enough to destroy, fucker…” It was a mistake for him to let her go, a bigger mistake for her to follow up her first punch with her right fist. Only this attack was charged with her favorite elemental magic.

Whether or not the Ice enforced punch would have any effect on the man (other than pissing him off further or even entertaining him) she was uncertain, but she was sure as hell gonna give it a go. If worse came to worse, which it most certainly would at this point, she was going to start hurling the grenades.

Ice, like that half-pint shinigami--Grimmjow caught the blow with his hand, feeling the crystallization of frost against his palm, and shortly discharged a round of bala into the chill. In a hiss of steam the ice dissipated, only to roar back to life with a vengeance, completely swallowing half of his forearm.

"Tch--" The chill in his arm had gone further than skin-deep this time. The Espada crooked his fingers in irritation, testing the fractures in the ice as he clenched harder around her knuckles. 

Recognizing the spread, Grimmjow swat the blow aside; he'd underestimated her. The layer of ice cracked away as he flexed his fist, sorely reminded of the shrimpy soul reaper he'd nearly ended twice. Probably come again in another form to haunt him for his error in letting her live.

He wouldn't be making the same mistake.

"Ain't bad, jackass, but it's gonna take more than some pretty snowflakes to do shit." Metal might not have been indestructible, but alongside human skin they were as good as diamond. For now, he hung back, re-pocketing both hands. The rat had yet to prove itself worth mauling, but he had room for a snack.

He turned his steps towards an even larger block of marble, grabbing onto its edges with a firm grip before easily tossing it aside. A cloud of dust rose up from the sand, clearing up after a few moments and allowing the blond a view of what lay beneath. He saw nothing of any particular interest, save for the corner of something sticking out from the granular terrain. Yylfordt leaned his tall frame forward, a hand placed upon the discarded stone for support as he reached out for the item buried in the sand. But just as his wiry fingers had brushed against the item in consideration, he caught the sound of footsteps coming to an abrupt halt. His arm froze in place and his head immediately snapped in the direction where the noise had come from.

"—…"

Was it…? That unkempt mess of azure locks was unmistakable, as was everything else about the person who stood not too far from him. The Fraccion gradually straightened his posture; his attention no longer on the material possessions he sought for, but on the man—on his King. How long had it been since he’d seen anyone from their group? How long had he searched, only to give up on the possibility of their survival entirely? With Grimmjow, however, there had always been a part of him that knew that somewhere, wherever it might have been, he was still alive.

But Yylfordt had died with the rest, the Sexta was certain. He had shepherded them like lambs to the slaughter, intentionally blind to their tiny fangs and blunted claws. That had been his lapse, his mistake to trust in their prowess, and he'd stood, watching them die in cold disappointment. He would not deliver a final insult to interfere.

It burned, though, seared him in hindsight. Anger, merely anger, that the fuckers he'd allowed into his shadow, that he'd squandered lightless centuries alongside, had amounted to no more than warm flesh for soft-sworded shinigami to wet their weapons. His pride stung with indignation, but Grimmjow had never taken it upon himself to forgive them. And he would never have to, or even think of them at all; they'd died.

Yet this was Yylfordt, down to the silvery inflections of his speech and the crown of flaxen blond he wore so long. The content of the words fell on deaf ears, their owner distracted by the familiar pitch of the voice cocooning them.

Grimmjow hesitated, then stood, paranoia dictating that his hands never stray too far from Pantera's hilt. Three steps was enough to place him within a stone's throw of his former fraccion. Dry lips parted, wrenching in puzzled irritation.