Chapter 1: Waiting
-F-
"It is the secret of the world that all things subsist and do not die, but retire a little from sight and afterwards return again."
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
"Kill me. Make it quick. I no longer have the strength in me to even walk"
Had he not been clear enough with the substitute shinigami?
"If you do not cut me down now, then this will go unsettled for eternity."
Ah, no. He could not possibly have been clearer. With-what should have been-his dying breaths, he had explicitly commanded the loud mouthed boy to strike him down, and the shinigami had disobeyed.
How...tiresome.
He blinked into the swirling abyss of sand and darkness.
Or, he supposed he blinked, though he could not be sure as his all-seeing eyes could not currently make out his own form, or even discern the flash of an eyelid.
Amorphous, consciousness floating along the current of the desolate winds of Hueco Mundo.
How long had he been here? Where exactly was here? He was certainly nowhere near Las Noches, the infamously large domed structure did not mar the expanse of the horizon. Without a body, without a kingdom, what was he?
A failed soldier with no master to serve, with nothing left.
Was it not nothingness that he had craved, surrounded himself with? From the beginning of his existence as an arrancar nearly a century ago, did he not choose to immerse himself in the calm oceans of apathy, to embrace the emptiness, to carve out any feeling that may have remained in his being to create an even create void within himself?
Yes. That had been the entire point in joining Aizen, accursed shinigami though he may be. He offered each prospective arrancar what they most desired: power, camaraderie, purpose, an escape. From hunger, pain, violence, or even the tedium of existence. This nothingness was what Ulquiorra had always strived for, devoted himself to; it was the single most defining trait of his being.
So why did this non-act of drifting cause such an acute ache to develop?
"Are you afraid of me, woman?"
The woman.
"No. I'm not afraid."
The infuriatingly stupid woman.
Facing the deaths of her friends at the hands of an impossibly strong modified army, helmed by a mad traitor with over a century's worth of planning, and she...not afraid.
What else was there for her to feel but fear? Desperation, hopelessness, a crushing sense of defeat; any of these would have been appropriate reactions to the situation. Fear was a survival instinct meant to be felt by all creatures in the face of danger.
But she had been so firm in her answer, so quietly resolute and self-assured, not even glancing at her precious Kurosaki-kun to confirm his presence before giving her answer.
The woman had stared into his eyes, into his very being, and reached out. To him.
"I see. This is it. This here, in my palm. A heart."
A heart.
Is that what was missing in this moment? Amid the desolate sands, was that what he would require to finally be at peace in the void of nothingness he had once desired?
"This here, in my palm."
But it had not been in his palm. So close, nearly touching, reaching with the final seconds of his existence, he had been unable to claim it.
The woman stood, arm extended, fingertips reaching out, almost brushing his own, a look of desperation in her eyes. A different desperation than the one she'd worn when rushing to heal the substitute shinigami, for the desperation in her eyes as she had reached towards him held a certain longing that her eyes had lacked when healing her nakama.
Those eyes, filled with an emotion he had yet to see from her, held him there.
For the briefest moment he saw a flash of a new life, one where he was whole, where he could look upon those eyes and all the emotions they held whenever he so chose.
"I see."
And the foolish boy had stood, unwilling to finish the battle and cleanse his soul, leaving him adrift, as ash, unseeing in an empty void.
-F-
"The thing you let Die within when you are Alive, will be carried with your Soul after Death."
― Usha Cosmico
This was bullshit, absolute, utter, bullshit.
He would've growled if he could have beared the pain the movement would cause.
"They're all cowards, every damn one of them. Whatever. I'll just consume them. As they become my flesh and blood, they will see beyond. I... I am the king!"
Tch. Yeah right. King of getting his own ass kicked. He couldn't even beat the goddamn substitute.
"Those eyes. You're always like that. No matter how much I beat you up, you've got this sense about you that you're going to beat me. You think you're freaking stronger than me! I can't freakin' stand it!
Well, apparently that mangled apricot had been able to best him in battle-once-but that was hardly relevant. The issue wasn't the defeat itself, but the refusal to let him die with some goddamn dignity. As if losing to that orange fucknut wasn't degrading enough, he had to go and leave him alive.
Seriously, waking up face-down in the sand just to realize the entire war was over was just plain embarrassing; being nursed back to health by a whiny kid's saliva was altogether un-fucking-bearable.
If he wasn't going to be handed the crown and accepted as the new king, he was supposed to get a clean slate, a do-over as a living being-er, spirit-in the Soul Society. Following Aizen was always going to result in victory or death, that was the basic truth that had guided Grimmjow's actions for the better part of 70 years.
Only total pussies spared opponents in battle; it was such a disgustingly human act that the blue haired arrancar was having to hold himself back from physically retching the longer he thought about it.
And just what exactly was he supposed to do now? He'd sent the disappointingly childish form that Neliel was trapped in away immediately after she had healed his most life-threatening injuries, unable to tolerate the tears, spit, and other disgusting fluids the girl so readily spewed on her surroundings.
If only he'd had enough foresight to stop that thrice damned substitute shinigami from leaving without having that human woman heal him; it was the least that asshole could've done, considering he'd been too stubborn to just finish Grimmjow off.
Ah-ha! The woman, as that emo-spada Ulquiorra had called her, could reject reality.
But how much of it? Could she be the one to finally fix whatever it was in him that his inner beast raged at, the thing that forced him to fight, seeking either his own destruction or that of everything within his path?
He damn well planned to find out.
…
As soon as he was able to stand, that is.
-F-
"One does not attempt to escape death, but accepts it as one's due, and allows life's cycle to continue, not allowing that death to bring an end to one's own existence."
Ha, as if.
It may have made a good speech, but accepting death was the last thing Szayelaporro Granz planned to do. He had died enough times, thanyouverymuch, and was looking forward to actually getting to live.
"Eternally repeating that cycle of death and rebirth, an existence such as this... truly, mine is what may be called a perfect existence!"
Okay, maybe he deserved some amount of the pain that wretched shinigami scientist had wreaked upon him. Some. Just as a bit, as a reality check. After all, "perfect existence" was a bit of an overstatement, given how things had turned out.
But! The past is in the past, the future stood before him.
"For one such as me, the concept of 'death' as an end to life simply holds no meaning. You may kill me, but in defiance of the finality of death, I will simply arise once more."
Or, at least, he would arise, if he could actually die. As it was, he had been impaled upon that maniac's blade for an eternity. Or two. It was hard to tell.
He had moved the unbearable pain and the hysteria it brought upon his supercharged nerve endings into the back of his mind several lifetimes ago-or was it hours? It was hard to tell-, ignoring it for the most part until it would rise up and overwhelm him again.
Regardless, it was time to enact his back-up plan.
His mind was still clouded by the ever-present pain, pushed to the edge of his consciousness but still distracting nonetheless. Faintly, he could almost make out the presence of another espada, though he struggled to identify the spiritual pressure.
Was it Grimmjow? No, this presence lacked the bloodlust Szayel knew to associate with the Sexta.
Harribel? Starrk? There was that laziness to the presence, that deceiving air of calm associated with both of the high ranking espada.
It was growing more distant now, moving away from Las Noches and the various zones of destruction left behind in the wake of the numerous battles fought in the area.
It must have been Harribel, for Starrk would not have returned to Hueco Mundo alone.
Vaguely, he hoped the Primera had survived, if only because he was one of the few espada the younger Granz had deemed significant enough to share his plans with. Well, perhaps not significant, but necessary. Even he had not been so narcissistic as to convince himself he could do this alone. Considering his own state of incapacitation, he thanked his own foresight, though he still regretted having to rely on outside forces to carry out his will.
Perhaps Starrk was alive, and would proceed as instructed. Szayel had impressed the significance of the details of his plan unto the Primera, but could not be sure that the unmotivated man would follow through with his end. If the battle had gone as poorly for everyone else as it had for Szayel, perhaps the Primera would have no choice.
Though Starrk was not his only hope. Maybe Ulquiorra had survived; he had been the only one observant enough-or cautious enough- to notice the scientist's sporadic absences from Hueco Mundo, and Szayel was sure that the Cuenta had pieced together his plans. Surely he, ever the good soldier, would take action to resurrect his comrades, thereby gaining another chance to advance their cause?
Ah, but Ulquiorra Cifer was impossibly closed off, and despite hours of research and observation, Szayel could not even chance a guess at would that particular espada would do next.
If he could do anything at all, that is. Maybe he was dead. Maybe they all were. It was hard to tell.
-F-
"They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time."
—Banksy
"I'm not alone. I'm not alone. I'm not alone any more."
What was this awareness?
It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had done his job, followed orders, fought to avenge his comrades. Fought to avenge his other half.
After that, there was supposed to be nothing. His consciousness would fade, his souls would split from the many, many weaker souls he had consumed over the past several centuries, and they would all be released unto the afterlife.
He would find the part of himself that was so scared of being alone she was willing to die, if only to prolong his life for a short while longer. She left him, but he couldn't resent her for it, for that solitude was a part of them both just as much as their fear of it was. And besides, they both knew they would find each other again.
Maybe they would reunite automatically, maybe they would stay physically separated but would find each other in their new bodies within the Soul Society. It didn't matter, as long as they found each other.
That was the plan. That was fate. The kid had believed it, he had believed it, hell, even the shinigami that killed them had believed it.
"The weak can always find others to be around."
Ah, it wasn't just the vague awareness of having an independent consciousness; he was aware of a body-his own-filled with a disconcerting amount of strength.
"I want to be weak."
His eyelids fluttered as he struggled to open them, aware of a bright light immediately above him and too close to his face.
"I'm not alone anymore."
He tried to expand his reiatsu, searching for anything, anyone familiar. The energy snapped back into him with a harsh shock, jolting his body and forcing a groan from his lips.
She wasn't anywhere near him. He was used to being so closely attuned to Lilynette presence that, with the barest effort, he could tell if she occupied the same plane of existence as him. But there was nothing. She was nowhere. Whatever realm he was waking in, she was not in it.
His eyelids were heavy, and, never one to willingly rise from bed, he struggled to find the will to force them open. But, he supposed, if he could not sense his female companion, he would have to begin his search for the girl eventually.
With great effort, his eyelids fluttered before opening into slivers. Somewhere nearby, he heard a distinctly feminine gasp, then quick steps opposite his position.
Then, distantly, "Doctor, the comatose patient is awake." A pause followed, then an indiscernible male voice replied, before the woman continued. "No, I'm unsure of his level of awareness, I wanted to alert you before proceeding."
The lights in the room were too bright, and Starrk's eyes struggled to adjust enough to make out his surroundings. He recognized the quiet beeping of medical equipment and knew he was no longer in the world of the dead.
Finally, his pupils contracted, and he could make out his own form, reflected in the large light fixture used for the close examination of a patient's injuries. His eyes widened as they took in his now unfamiliar face.
His face was slightly fuller with a youthfulness he was unaccustomed to facing in his own reflection. His hair, the same wavy brown it had always been, fanned across the bed he laid upon, slightly longer than normal. His eyes, too had changed; no longer were they a light blue-gray, rather, they more closely resembled the flashing purple of his partner.
No. No no no.
He had not agreed to this, had not consented to participate in the mad scientist's futile scheme to evade death.
He was supposed to live with Lilynette, die with her, and be reborn.
The steps of the woman closed in upon him, followed by who he assumed to be the male doctor she had spoken with outside the room. He moved with a clipped purpose, all business, while she approached with the more genial countenance of a nurse accustomed to providing bed-side comfort to confused patients.
The woman was speaking to him now as the doctor gazed at him with hard, critical eyes, sweeping over his form and back to the charts he held.
Starrk couldn't focus on them, his own eyes flailing wildly about the room, trying to find something to anchor his emotions.
"Let's be together. Until the very end."
But they weren't, and they couldn't be, because while he was quite certain her life as an arrancar had been ended, he was equally certain that his own existence has persisted.
-F-
Bam, boom, chapter 1 done. I have a vague idea of where I'd like this story to go, but generally, I'm as unsure of the plot at this point as all of you are. I haven't written anything other than school papers for the past few years now, so I'm not sure I managed to nail the different tones I'd like each espada's perspectives to have.
R&R, helps me know if I'm headed in the right direction. Look forward to Orihime's introduction sometime late chapter two or three. Romance to follow later, after all of our characters have been appropriately assembled.