[INCOMPLETE]
Who: Ulquiorra, Grimmjow.
When: not long after he arrives.
Where: where Grimmjow ended up.
Rating: TBA.
Warnings: LOL VIOLENCE, MOST LIKELY. ♥
Summary: Ulquiorra's in a bad mood. Grimmjow's still himself. That shit don't generally go down all that well.
Purgatorium, was it. With its rusted gates of molten steel that closed the only exitway to the city, the only possible means of escape. Rusted, and rotting, and old, and covered with the pretty dressings of disguise that could have been mistaken for Hueco Mundo if one kept his eyes closed for long enough. Las Noches, too, maybe, but they were all the same, weren't they? All the same, and it didn't matter where Ulquiorra was. It didn't matter if he had his abilities or not -- if he was fully intact, completed, and whole. An arrancar's essentials never changed. The basics of who he was, of what he had been created out of, remained the same. Untouched by time. Unmarred by gods.
Espada number four. Cuatro Espada. In Las Noches. In Purgatorium. He didn't give a damn about those who told him otherwise. They had no knowledge of the reality he chose to wrap himself up in. They had no possible understanding of what it was, exactly, that he happened to be. Not human. Not ever. Even when he was stripped down until there was nothing left. Until there was only pale skin, and slender limbs, and dark hair, and a fragmented mask that held its place. They could not make him human. He would not be human. Not again.
And, yes, maybe Grimmjow had been right, for once. Maybe it was considerably more difficult to find the blue-haired arrancar without the precious abilities that he once held. In the end, however, it didn't matter much. He was still quick, and quiet, and he made fast work of the little city, fast work of crumbling buildings of brick and stone. Brushed past the people on the streets, cold and hard, and they'd turn a little. They'd turn sometimes and cast him a look from over their shoulders, and he'd continued, sharp eyes scanning and watching. Entirely predatory and analytical in their observations.
Espada number four. Grimmjow was still Espada number six. Wouldn't change. Couldn't change. He'd seek him out only to remind him of that little piece of information, of that particular detail he seemed to constantly ignore. Arrogance, and confidence, and. Well. Ulquiorra was all too used to crushing those beneath the tips of his fingers until it was only dust, until it could be carried off by a frozen breeze that did not touch him otherwise.
In all respects, finding Grimmjow hadn't been all that tiring of a task. No matter what the other arrancar said otherwise, he knew him all too well, knew his characteristics and all of his little traits, and Grimmjow. He always had a habit of leaving a trail right behind him, littering the streets with blood and gore and angry words sworn into the dirt, into the soil beneath his feet. It had only taken him twenty minutes to reach his doorstep, finally, bright eyes flicking from one corner of the building to the next, before quietly resting on the dead animal not far from the frame.
One pale hand went down, fingers flexing over the hilt to his sword, and his foot slid upwards, up over a step, closer to the door.
"Interesting." Quiet, and barely audible, but deafening in the silence about him. Another step, and he was breaking the barrier, moving into the dark and dirty house, watching, careful. "Sexta."
When: not long after he arrives.
Where: where Grimmjow ended up.
Rating: TBA.
Warnings: LOL VIOLENCE, MOST LIKELY. ♥
Summary: Ulquiorra's in a bad mood. Grimmjow's still himself. That shit don't generally go down all that well.
Purgatorium, was it. With its rusted gates of molten steel that closed the only exitway to the city, the only possible means of escape. Rusted, and rotting, and old, and covered with the pretty dressings of disguise that could have been mistaken for Hueco Mundo if one kept his eyes closed for long enough. Las Noches, too, maybe, but they were all the same, weren't they? All the same, and it didn't matter where Ulquiorra was. It didn't matter if he had his abilities or not -- if he was fully intact, completed, and whole. An arrancar's essentials never changed. The basics of who he was, of what he had been created out of, remained the same. Untouched by time. Unmarred by gods.
Espada number four. Cuatro Espada. In Las Noches. In Purgatorium. He didn't give a damn about those who told him otherwise. They had no knowledge of the reality he chose to wrap himself up in. They had no possible understanding of what it was, exactly, that he happened to be. Not human. Not ever. Even when he was stripped down until there was nothing left. Until there was only pale skin, and slender limbs, and dark hair, and a fragmented mask that held its place. They could not make him human. He would not be human. Not again.
And, yes, maybe Grimmjow had been right, for once. Maybe it was considerably more difficult to find the blue-haired arrancar without the precious abilities that he once held. In the end, however, it didn't matter much. He was still quick, and quiet, and he made fast work of the little city, fast work of crumbling buildings of brick and stone. Brushed past the people on the streets, cold and hard, and they'd turn a little. They'd turn sometimes and cast him a look from over their shoulders, and he'd continued, sharp eyes scanning and watching. Entirely predatory and analytical in their observations.
Espada number four. Grimmjow was still Espada number six. Wouldn't change. Couldn't change. He'd seek him out only to remind him of that little piece of information, of that particular detail he seemed to constantly ignore. Arrogance, and confidence, and. Well. Ulquiorra was all too used to crushing those beneath the tips of his fingers until it was only dust, until it could be carried off by a frozen breeze that did not touch him otherwise.
In all respects, finding Grimmjow hadn't been all that tiring of a task. No matter what the other arrancar said otherwise, he knew him all too well, knew his characteristics and all of his little traits, and Grimmjow. He always had a habit of leaving a trail right behind him, littering the streets with blood and gore and angry words sworn into the dirt, into the soil beneath his feet. It had only taken him twenty minutes to reach his doorstep, finally, bright eyes flicking from one corner of the building to the next, before quietly resting on the dead animal not far from the frame.
One pale hand went down, fingers flexing over the hilt to his sword, and his foot slid upwards, up over a step, closer to the door.
"Interesting." Quiet, and barely audible, but deafening in the silence about him. Another step, and he was breaking the barrier, moving into the dark and dirty house, watching, careful. "Sexta."