They looked through what could nominally be called the nursery window at what a few had heard in the living World should be termed a bundle of joy.
Conversely, a bouncing baby, the new addition, the pitter-patter of little feet.
Ulquiorra preferred the term great ball of hate, leading him to think Grimmjow was the father.
Grimmjow was of the mind it was Ulquiorra's offspring, given the unusually soulful expression sometimes found on the child's face.
Starrk hadn't seen past the bubbly cherubic face the child turned on him -- when it wasn't taking its inordinately long naps. And indeed, the baby did not bounce. At least, not for long, and not very well. Fortunately, it was a resilient child and hadn't managed enough words yet to tattle on him.
But given the young child's penchant for inflicting pain, worry, and not a little trepidation as to their own senses, the consensus was that Aizen had found a way to stick his fingers in yet another pie, and the child's innocuous looks that concealed a devious will had to be spawned from the ruler himself.
Hands and faces were pressed to the nursery window as they three stared at the baby swaddled in soft blankets in its crib.
"Nigh on to nine months," Starrk said, sighing. "It's outgrown its need for an infant crib. Got to move it up to something bigger. One of those pens with no gate. Don't want the damn thing getting loose."
Ulquiorra gave him his best stoic look. "I think you're trying to refer to a playpen."
Starrk nodded. "Maybe that's it. Get it out from under Szayel's influence."
As if on queue, they three looked to where a pink aproned Szayel pranced through the nursery door with a flourish and smiled gibberishly at the sleeping child.
Grimmjow growled down a curse. "The sooner the better. Szayel's a bad influence. Not a father figure."
"Mother figure," Starrk said with a nod.
"More likely," Ulquiorra said, green eyes glued to the scene in the nursery.
They'd seen no sign of a mask coming yet, and they'd looked in all the pertinent, highly visible spots. No one had checked all the spots. The child's built-in defense system had kept the Espadas at bay when it came to diaper changing. Losing at Rock, Paper, Scissors had never been taken so seriously before in Hueco Mundo.
Under the bright lights, Szayel gave them a glib smile and a wave, then cast his eyes downward to the sleeping child.
As if feeling the very grating weight of the pink-haired attendant, the child awoke, opened its eyes and pegged an already-irritated look at the scientist. Its chubby face bloomed as pink-red as its fire-orange hair.
Out its small mouth came an ear-piercing wail of about four hundred decibels that threatened to split the two-inch thick pane of glass window.
All three Espada took a step back.
While they'd all been arguing, boasting and making the most of the child's looks to claim paternity issues, none of them wanted to be alone with it for over a few minutes.
It was learning to bite.