Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach
Because Always, We Are Monsters.
Grimmjow
Grimmjow doesnʼt fucking reflect on things. Dammit.
He doesnʼt reflect on his travels, or the things heʼs killed, or the damn gods he serves. He shouldnʼt fucking care. An actionʼs, an actionʼs, an action. Thatʼs how life is meant to be. Dying is a game of strength verses Death. (The Death of oblivion, not that imitation death-shit shinigami live by.) And it is a game that Grimmjow cannot lose, and one that those he fights against so rarely win. Ultimately, he knows, hell has no room for the reflection of such topics - dumb ass thoughts like wether an opponent deserves the ending he receive, and shit like that - because reflection has a lot to do with regret, and hell doesnʼt care about any damn regret either.
Hueco Mundo is hell.
.
For some reason, Grimmjow finds himself sitting on the gray sand of Hueco Mundo, staring at some freak of a puppy-like hollow as it runs around him, white mask showing eyes of playfulness and Grimmjow is fucking regretting his hollow life.
In these types of places there is blood everywhere. It runs trails across the floor, up white walls. . . on his clothes. It is slick, and it is reflective and it is so fucking red. A deeper crimson then most living things would be comfortable being coated in. A decent color thinks Grimmjow, a color he can relate to (and at the same time, cannot even bother to understand) because red is symbolic, but all Grimmjow knows is red is the color of blood, and heʼs seen more than enough pools of blood to assure himself that thatʼs itʼs main residence as far as colors go. Red belongs to blood.
It drips off the blade of Pantera as Grimmjow pulls it from a weakling arrancarʼs chest. ʻItʼs just so easyʼ Grimmjow notes bitterly. These arenʼt even fights anymore. Theyʼre slaughters. But then, heʼs a hollow, so why the hell should he care? It doesnʼtdirectly affect him. He kicks the body and notes with grim satisfaction that the stupid thing couldnʼt even draw itʼs zanpakuto before the battle ended. Which is pathetic all on itʼs own, so, hands in the pockets of his white pants, Grimmjow strolls away, fervently ignoring some weird tingle in the back of his mind that cringes at red and zanpakutos and Death. This part of him almost seems like it is connected to something beating. Something equally red. Something alive.
Stupid fucking tingle.
Grimmjow stands, looking at the puppy. It stops for a moment, wags itʼs tail and bounces from side to side, as if it expects Grimmjow to humor it with a game, but Grimmjowʼs eyes are far away with thought, and he doesnʼt notice this.
.
Ulquiorra feels it, too.
Grimmjow knows this. He sees him, occasionally, the most emotionless of all the espada, as he stares at the bleak sky of the desert-like lands they inhabit. He clutches at the hole in his chest, looking very confused and uncertain, which are two things Ulquiorra has never been known to show or feel before. Grimmjow can see it in his eyes at times like those. Ulquiorra values his eyes quiet a lot, and Grimmjow can see the dull gloss of murder reflected in them, and he just knows. They are hollows, though. Grimmjow remembers, they do. not. care.
Besides, Ulquiorra is very good at murder, and Grimmjow is very good at slaughter.
.
"How the hell did Neliel do it?" Grimmjow asks the dog-creature, who cocks itʼs head to the side, not understanding.
"Arf!"
Grimmjow is silent, kicking up a bit of sand.
"She hated fighting to start with." He remembers. "Mustʼve been easy for her, after that."
The thing barks again. Grimmjow hates dogs. . .
.
There are moments while Grimmjow is fighting that he just gets so happy. Before, he loved the thrill of murder. . .and sometimes he couldnʼt help it, when he fought, to feel pure joy at chopping off limbs; of killing opponents. Not enemies, because he rarely holds personal vendettas against anyone. He just liked to see pain, and terror, and he liked the screeches of surrender and "Mercy! Please, God, mercy!" Red. Splash.
"Are you satisfied Grimmjow?" Ulquiorra does not give opponents the opportunity to scream, and Grimmjow knows that Ulquiorra is not asking this question out of sarcasm or to be superior, but because he genuinely wants to know if Grimmjow still gets joy out of violence and the mutilation of others. . . Honestyʼs answer is ʻno,ʼ but Espadas do not have hearts. Hollows do not have hearts.
"Fuck off." Is Ulquiorraʼs answer. "On nights like these Grimmjow relives the gore and his emotions are no longer ecstasy. . . but terror.
.
Grimmjow draws his zanpakuto lazily and taps it against his shoulder, staring down at the puppy-hollow. It has no future, but it looks pleasant, happy even, with just existing. . . Which is stupid. . . So fucking stupid. . .
"Dammit!" Grimmjow yells.
In one fluid motion there is a swift cut and the puppy is no more. Red stains the bottom of Grimmjowʼs otherwise stark white outfit. Red stains the gray ground. Red stains Grimmjowʼs vision. The puppy-thing no longer looks pleasant. It looks very much dead. Grimmjow swings down several more times in blind rage, screaming "Dammit!" with each blow. Until he feels just as dead as the puppy looks. . . Which is also stupid, because Grimmjow has never lived. Breathing heavely, glaring at the bloody body at his feet, Grimmjow does not hear the footfalls.
"We do not exist for emotion." Ulquiorraʼs voice interjects Grimmjowʼs rampage.
In fury, he whirls around swinging Pantera at the other Espada, but Ulquiorra raises his arm and the zanpakuto makes contact with marble skin. "And yet. . ." He continues, "we feel it none-the-less. I do not understand." Ulquiorraʼs raised hand rests on the hole in his chest, and Grimmjow can almost imagine a heart occupying the space instead. Almost.
"Tch, doesnʼt matter." Grimmjow sheaths his zanpakuto and brushes past Ulquiorra. "This is how weʼre going to die. Fuck feelings."
.
Itʼs weird, when night comes and Grimmjow does not sleep, his mindʼs eye taunts him with images of the hollowfied puppy. . . And of red. For a moment he imagines the thing sleeping on the floor next to his bed. . . something like a friend, and then there is an uncomfortable ache in his chest that he cannot place.
It doesnʼt matter, he tells himself, he will die violently, because he is a hollow. There is no soul, no body, no heart to make the ache a pain.
I wrote this to enter in a contest over a dA, the theme was violence. Does it work?