"Alright Mr. Jaegerjaques, stand facing the right please."

Snap!

"Left, please."

Snap!

"And face the front for me."

Snap!

"Okay Todd, you can take him back."

As Grimmjow Jaegerjaques was escorted to a holding cell from the booking area, his face appeared to be almost so apathetic that if he cared any less he may stop vital bodily function. The officer who held a loose grip on one of his cuffed wrists slid open the gate to the bleak cell in front of them and gestured for Grimmjow to enter. He did so and, knowing the drill by now, turned quickly and put his hands to the small opening in the bars behind him, waiting for his bindings to be released. With a few clicks the cuffs were gone and Grimmjow reflexively rubbed his wrists as the officer, "Todd", gave him a quick nod before stalking back to his post.

This is why I fucking hate people, Grimmjow thought, mildly irritated at his predicament. Just for the hell of it he attempted to recall all the charges listed to him when he was laying with his hands behind his head on his apartment floor. Disturbing the peace, destruction of public property, inciting a riot, assault, assault with a deadly weapon, aiding and abetting, possession of an unregistered firearm, and finally, his favorite, engaging in organized criminal activity. More than one of those were felony counts, and though there was the possibility of some being reduced or dropped, the odds were not in his favor.

Grimmjow sat on the concrete slab jutting out from the wall and leaned back against the cool concrete, slipping a hand into his bright blue hair. He listened to the ranting of the mentally ill and most likely high man staying three cells down, as he beat a hand against the bars and screamed something about Jimmy Hoffa. Across the hall was another man who was wailing and calling for his mother, seemingly so drunk that he probably didn't even know his own name.

It was going to be a long night.

He sighed quietly and moved to the stained floor, hooking his toes under one of the bars of his cage and placing his hands behind his head for the second time in the evening. Then he began doing the only thing that really ever seemed to make sense to him: working out. Over and over he laid back down and sat back up, his abdomen contracting and releasing in smooth motions, evenly paced with his breaths. The even, monotonous action numbed him into a dull state of comfort that allowed him to think.

He tried to identify the exact moment that caused everything to go to shit.

The most obvious answer was when he decided to get a drink two nights ago. After working his menial office job that consisted of filing, making copies, filing, getting coffee, and filing, he decided that without alcohol he may kill himself. This decision is what spawned the last forty-eight ours of sheer pandemonium. The moment when he opened the door to his usual waterhole, the Granz, receiving a knowing sneer from the pink haired owner and bartender, is when it all fell apart.

First was count one, disturbing the peace. After a quite a bit of goading from the people who flocked to him in the bar and at least four too many shots of hot amber liquid, he accepted a fight in the alley out back. For whatever reason, people (mostly delinquents) seemed to be drawn to Grimmjow, which was the root cause of the majority of the problems he had experienced in life. Because of this unwanted attraction, his street fight and turned from a wager between associates into a spectacle viewed by at least half of Karakura's miscreant youths who made quite the racket, leading to a call to the police for a noise violation. Hence his disruption of the peace.

Next, destruction of public property. In the midst of the fight, without meaning to, Grimmjow placed a well-aimed kick to his opponents chest, which sent him flying into the side of a dumpster. In his own defense Grimmjow argued that the dent made buy the other man's back was barely larger than a tire, and moreover it was a trash receptical anyway. But apparently someone then decided to light the contents of said dupster on fire, which Grimmjow could not rationalize away. So, destruction of public property.

Inciting a riot, assault, and assault with a deadly weapon all occured simultaneously once the police arrived. Grimmjow was destroying his opponent with ease, as usual, when a few burly men appeared, streaking down the alley and yelling, commanding the fifty or so people who were present to freeze. At this particular moment in time, Grimmjow had removed his knife he carried from his back pocket, looking to put it on his belt so no one could say he was trying to hide it. Of course he had been chosen out of the crowd, and the officer who saw him concluded that he had been stabbing the bloody man on the pavement in front of him. Again the officer screamed at him to freeze, and without hesitation Grimmjow said exactly what first came to his mind.

"Fuck that, man," he scoffed, and he turned and ran into the familiar labrinth of alleys that was behind the Granz. Apparently these words became some sort of inspiration for the other fifty hooligans who were present, and they broke out in a frenzy that could only accurately be described as a mosh pit. Thus, counts three through five.

Aiding and abetting occured without his own consent. About six of the idiots who called themselves his followers showed up on the stoop of his apartment, seeking refuge from the police that were looking for people from the altercation the night before. He told them no but somehow they all ended up on his floor. Then when the police raided his place after getting a tip on Grimmjow's address from one of the assholes unfortunate enough to get caught in the alley, they decided that he must be harbouring the six idiots spread out in his living space. One of said idiots had a small revolver on his person which had been removed earlier in the night and deposited on Grimmjow's kitchen table. One of the friendly officers screaming at him was kind enough to explain to him that this meant it was his gun, tacking on possession of an unregistered firearm.

Lastly was engaging in organized criminal activity. This was really the root of his problems. As previously mentioned, for whatever reason people had a tendancy to cluster around Grimmjow which caused him nothing but grief. Grimmjow didn't particulary like people and he wished desperately for people to feel the same way about him but for whatever reason it seemingly could not be so. Even more unfortunately, one of Grimmjow's deepest passions was also something that called attention to himself: fighting. Particularly street fighting. Since he was a mangy teenager he had loved brawling for no other reason and the high that came with pain and adrenaline. When he came to Karakura he discovered that his favorite pastime gained a bit of following, and he quickly became a regular in the groups of hoodlums who gathered in dimly lit, dirty alleys to watch a couple of guys beat the hell out of each other.

It was awesome.

But Grimmjow was good at fighting, and because of that people paid attention to him. After two months, he had a handful of guys who showed up to watch his fights. After six, he had been given an name by his fans, Pantera, the explanation being that he was so quiet and smooth and undeniably lethal in his fights that he resembled a large jungle cat. After a year, he had a group of guys that were devoted to him, and somehow the notion occured to someone that he was their leader. One of the idiots who watched him for awhile mused that becasue they were a group, they should have a name.

"C'mon, Pantera, we guys are a group aren't we? What should we go by? 'S gotta be something cool," the toothless fool slurred. Grimmjow was at that point mildly drunk and in a surprisingly charming mood, so he decided to pull something out of his ass to humor the idiot beside him.

"Fine, what about...the Espada, or something like that." This single foolish exchange became a nightmare in the months to come. Now two years later, the Espada had somehow become a gang that caused the police quite a bit of trouble. Drug trafficking, prostitution, racketeering, assault, and a myriad of other offenses started to be associated with the Espada, and each idiot that was caught who claimed affiliation said that Grimmjow was there fearless leader. Grimmjow had also learned that all members were given numbers, ranking them. Grimmjow was six, or sexta keeping with the romantic spanish theme, which was also the highest rank of any member. Apparently someone had seen one of his tattoos during the course of his fights, a large gothic six on his back, and decided to give it some meaning.

None of that made any damn sense to Grimmjow. All he wanted to do was fight. He just wanted to sweat and feel his libs crash into someone elses body and feel the rush of adrenaline that was better than drugs and sex combined. But he had always been unlucky, and this was just another entry in the journal of his life proving that he was born to take on misfortune.

By this time he was sweating heavily, his muscles screeching in protest as he sobered from his train of thought. He continued the grueling pace regardless, looking out the bars at passing figures each time he returned to a sitting position. And that was when he saw him. He rose up again and gripped the bars in front of him instead of returing to the floor. He saw a boy standing at the reception desk about ten metres in front of him. As was the town itself, Karakura's jail was very small, and thus Grimmjow had a view of the entryway of the building through a short hallway connecting the two areas. Standing at the reception desk, talking to the woman seated there, was a boy probably a few years younger than himself. He was tall and not bulky like Grimmjow was, not because he was weak but instead because he was clearly made be that way. His jaw was clamped tightly and his eyebrows pulled together, making him look more than a little irritable in the most attractive way. His skin was slightly tanned and he had bright hair, a flaming orange that appeared to be natural. But what Grimmjow noticed most was his large eyes the color of cinnamon mixed with rust and flecks of pure yellow gold that he saw when the boy turned his head in the direction of his cell.

He was quickly distracted from Grimmjow's direction when the receptionist mentioned something to him and then the boy truned again towards the row of cells and walked down the narrow hall before he noticed the now standing Grimmjow, peering at him from between the iron grate. The bright haired youth stopped and his brow unfurrowed, lips parting just slightly to reveal that they were a little fuller and pinker than Grimmjow first expected. Slowly the teenager started walking again towards the cell, his pace grueling to Grimmjow for some reason, who realized that he couldn't help but want to see this boy at a much shorter distance. Finally he stopped a few inches from the bars, appearing capitaved by the blue eyes that were locked on his.

"I typically tell kids to avoid convicts, but you don't seem like the kind to take advice," Grimmjow said quietly, surprised at the fact that he said anything at all. A pink blush fanned over the boys cheeks, dulled under his tanned skin.

"Uh yeah, uhm – I – well...," the kid stuttered, obviously uncomfortable as he became aware of his staring. Grimmjow found himself smirking at the boy's reaction.

He's kind of cute, Grimmjow thought deviously, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Believe it or not that was a compliment," Grimmjow said, letting a few sharp, white teeth be seen from between his lips. The younger man was clearly at loss, looking like he had a couple of circuits fried by their simple exchange.

Suddenly he blurted, "I'm Kurosaki," making Grimmjow's small smirk extend into a slightly more menacing grin. "Uh, thats my name, I mean," he continued, blush even fiercer. Grimmjow found himself leaning forward on the bars, his mouth now spread into an all out feral smile which most people would probably cringe at. His voice dropped to a whisper, deep and heavy.

"Well, its been a pleasure, Kurosaki," he said, watching the boys blush creep up all the way up to his ears and his lip part again. They stared at each other for a few more seconds, before the boy, Kurosaki, took another slow step towards the cell, so close that Grimmjow thought he could smell the heat of his skin and the slightly sweet savor of his breath. He was mystified as to why he was so fascinated by the oranged haired boy in front of him but for whatever reason he was incredibly interested. And Grimmjow typically wasn't interested in much of anything.

"Ichigo!"

A voice suddenly rang out from Grimmjow's right side and he saw a red head jogging from the juvinial detainment center down the hall. Kurosaki's head whipped in that direction and Grimmjow saw him step away from his cage, frowning in displeasure at the increased distance.

"Renji," he said, "I've been waiting for your dumb ass. Come on, we need to go." And with that the incrediby interesting orangette turned with his now collected compnion and headed for the door, Grimmjow watching his back like a hungry animal as he went. He looked away as the boy finally reached the door, thinking the exchange was over, but when he glanced up again he saw those lovely red-brown eyes peering over a slim shoulder, looking back at him. Grimmjow felt his lips curve into another Cheshire grin tilting his chin up in a nod to the boy, who gave a small smile in return before being pulled out the entrance by his friend. Before a few minutes ago, Grimmjow had not once thought about how long he would be confined, but now he felt himself wondering if he would be out in the world again sometime soon. Now he had something on the outside that might be worth his time, something he might like to play with.

Kurosaki Ichigo.