(no subject)
[The first thing to go, after he'd figured out how the place worked, was the uniform. It wasn’t necessary, and Grimmjow felt no loyalty to the bastard who’d given it to him. Getting rid of it left him at something of a loss; much as he disliked human things, the clothes they wore were the only ones he knew, and after fighting with it for too long, he'd been forced to swallow his pride. Whatever. Clothes were clothes. And lacking the appropriate imagination, he'd opted for wishing up the sort of things he'd seen humans wear on the few trips he'd taken to the living world.
Today is no exception.
Unfortunately, after about a minute and a half of wearing them, Grimmjow decides that he hates jeans. Granted, he doesn’t know what they’re called, but after wearing the loose, flowing hakama of his uniform, he finds the strange blue trousers of humans too tight and too coarse. Still, he gets the damn things on; some miracle of ingenuity allows him to figure out the zipper and the button without breaking or tearing off either in a fit of frustration. The shirt’s an undertaking, too many little buttons for too little patience, and he gives up halfway through it, but it’s on too, even if it isn’t done up properly.
It’s not as comfortable as the uniform. It doesn’t convey quite the same level of power and strength. But it’s also doesn’t reek of the false civilization of Hueco Mundo. It’s enough. At the moment, enough’s the best he can do. At least until he’s more familiar with the nexus.
Suitably attired and not particularly caring if making an attempt at blending in just makes him look more conspicuous, Grimmjow heads into town. He’s bored, he’s got nothing to do, and walking is an activity that affords him the chance to observe people without having to actually deal with them. He may not like them, he may not want anything to do with them, but if he’s got to live with them without, regrettably, killing them all, then he’s damn well going to learn what he can about them.]
Today is no exception.
Unfortunately, after about a minute and a half of wearing them, Grimmjow decides that he hates jeans. Granted, he doesn’t know what they’re called, but after wearing the loose, flowing hakama of his uniform, he finds the strange blue trousers of humans too tight and too coarse. Still, he gets the damn things on; some miracle of ingenuity allows him to figure out the zipper and the button without breaking or tearing off either in a fit of frustration. The shirt’s an undertaking, too many little buttons for too little patience, and he gives up halfway through it, but it’s on too, even if it isn’t done up properly.
It’s not as comfortable as the uniform. It doesn’t convey quite the same level of power and strength. But it’s also doesn’t reek of the false civilization of Hueco Mundo. It’s enough. At the moment, enough’s the best he can do. At least until he’s more familiar with the nexus.
Suitably attired and not particularly caring if making an attempt at blending in just makes him look more conspicuous, Grimmjow heads into town. He’s bored, he’s got nothing to do, and walking is an activity that affords him the chance to observe people without having to actually deal with them. He may not like them, he may not want anything to do with them, but if he’s got to live with them without, regrettably, killing them all, then he’s damn well going to learn what he can about them.]