D,

#INSP #HCS #STORYBOARD

askin's soul flinches at the performance. he wishes it did not, but hollows are hollows, and he cannot exorcise that deep-seated fear that triggers whenever one is near—the other knows, in the same way all predators know things. he wonders if a bite from him would kill him sooner than his body would adapt to it, and that question pools darkly in his gut, challenging him to find out. focus, damn it. can't let his majesty down, can you? he tells himself. taking on some feisty arrancar can't be the end of the world. better than handling kurosaki and his group, askin assesses.

“that's ungenerous.”

the stitches pull. if his new heart spilled out of his chest and fell at her feet, askin would, at the very least, attempt to laugh. neither is pleased to meet each other again, if this can be called meeting—they were ill-matched enemies, and would still be, though the woman makes no attempt to reprise their little sparring session. the quincy is thankful for that. he would probably die for good, the notion appealing to some darker pit in his gut that'd get him to tear his stitches with his bare nails and feel the blood ooze out, but he would not die effortlessly. and he feels way too weak to even fight an ant. a pained whimper escapes him as he slumps into a chair.

“i just happen to be very good at not dying.” the smile he directs at her is slant and droopy, as if he just woke up from a dream. as if pulling the butt of a joke he doesn't remember. things may not be over, but they will be different, askin thinks. yoruichi shihōin might kill him now—it would be a fitting end, if a little underwhelming. but she is not a woman that leaves loose threats unchecked, especially if she has experienced them firsthand. but the quincy can't bring himself to care. “with a little extra help this time.”

he throws his head back, and waits for the blow.