He tapped the glass body of the syringe in his hand and stared at the pale, motionless body on the metal table before him. He breathed deeply, closely examining every inch with his eyes, observing every nick and sore from his endless work he had done on the lifeless shell. He almost touched its skin one last time, but he knew it would be cold. It was always cold. Dead. Hard.
He checked the clock hanging on the wall, and scribbled down the time, his hand nearly shaking with excitement. He calmed himself down reminding himself of the steady hand he would need to properly inject the subject. He swallowed as he wiped the cold flesh of the corpse with alcohol again. If this didn't work, he had no idea how he could get the fluid out. If he was successful, he would be able to claim he had made life in a humanoid image, an arrancar, fracción, as beautiful and functional as any Espada.
"Please work, my girl," Szayel sighed as he pushed the needle into her skin and emptied the syringe into her vein. He took a deep breath, opened her mouth and forced breath down her throat and quickly beat down onto her chest. A strange vibration echoed through her body cavity, the air he had breathed into her escaped from her weak chest.
Her chest thudded with a weak beat. She inhaled a shallow breath. Szayel grabbed her wrist—under his fingertips fluttered a young pulse.