A/N: I do not own Bleach. Tite Kubo does. He gets to be obscenely rich making a living doing something he loves. I get to be obscenely poor making a living doing something I hate.
Hey, guyz, it's me, back from my hiatus! Sorry about that, but my Gramma had Ovarian Cancer, and I had to choose between this and family. Sorry.
Anywho, I am having writer's block concerning my other fic, Undying Love, so I am starting a new fic to work any kinks outta my head…and there are a lotta kinks…trust me…hehhehheh…
This particular chappie is dedicated to a good friend of mine, a pretty redhead named Claire, who got me off my duff and told me to write. Thanks, Claire, you're such a sweetie! Sorry about the language, but certain characters are just foulmouthed…
Also, I am keeping certain names in their old English spelling. I think they work better in that way
Anyways, here we goooo…
CH 1
A Good Day to Die…
It was a good day to die.
At least, that is what Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez supposed.
From his vantage point, bleeding out on the white sands of Hueco Mundo, he could not see anything but night sky. At least, the small sliver of sky he could see was night. Being face-down in the sand did funny things to one's vision.
He reflected on the saying. A good day to die. He thought about that; the way he considered it, there was no really good day to die. A person could die on a bad day (like a rainy one; he hated the rain), or on a superb day (like a day where the sun, artificial or otherwise, was warm and he could grab a pillow and sunbathe outside), or even on a mildly mediocre day (when it was partly cloudy and kinda humid).
It was an old saying, he knew that. Older than dirt. Older than Baraggan, who really was older than dirt. It probably stemmed from the time the very first war was fought, when young warriors would say that to each other to pump adrenaline through their veins and send blood to the old manhood to stiffen it up a bit. It went along with those other sayings about death and glory, like "the first to die lives forever!", and "cowards to the rear, and the Devil take the hindmost!".
It also probably served to make the young bravos not seem chickenshit, but, whatever…
Well, maybe it really was a good day to die. The weather wasn't the only thing to make a day good. Events shaped your life as well. A party among friends, really great sex, sharing a drink with a friendly acquaintance. Even the final chapter of a book years in the making could make a day great.
Maybe that was what made this a good day to die. The final battle was more than likely over, and, win or lose, his part in it was finished. He had come, he had seen, he had kicked some ass, and then had his ass handed to him. He, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, SextaEspada, the very embodiment of Destruction, had been beaten, fair and square.
Well…
Perhaps fair and square was a bit much.
With an enormous force of will, Grimmjow turned his head, sand scraping his cheek raw, and considered the corpse on the next dune.
Nnoitra Gilga, Quinto Espada, was no more.
The bastard.
The pathetic form of the Arrancar lay, broken and bloodied, exactly where that freakish giant with the bells in his hair had left him. A look of shock adorned the body's features, as if it could not quite believe that it was now a husk.
Grimmjow snorted painfully in partial disdain and semi-amusement.
Served the weirdo with the spoon motif right.
"Dickhead…"
Well, if that Soul Reaper hadn't gutted him, Grimmjow would've.
The bastard had interrupted his fight with Kurosaki.
THE BASTARD HAD INTERRUPTED HIS FIGHT.
Grimmjow clenched his eyes shut as a familiar old friend, Rage, bubbled up in his chest, leaving a sour, bitter taste on his tongue.
He, the great Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, had been laid low in the middle of his fight…
BY SOMEONE WITH NO BUSINESS EVEN BEING THERE!
"D-D-DAMN you to fucking HELL, Nnoitra…"
In his anger, the Sexta tried to raise himself from his prone position on the desert floor. He succeeded in pushing his torso off of the sand until the pain washed over him.
He gave a choked shriek of agony, and flopped back onto the sand as the numerous wounds and slashes on his body protested at the movement.
"D-d-dammit…"
He scowled. Even his voice was weak. Gritting his teeth in impotent fury, Grimmjow allowed a single tear of sheer, helpless frustration to escape his eyes.
A weak resonance broke him from his self-pity.
…Master…
He snapped his eyes open, searching frantically for the source of the disturbance, and located it not five feet away, on his left.
Pantera.
He could not remember allowing his ultimate form, his Resureccion, to dissipate…but he supposed Pantera had done it on its own. While an Arrancar's Zanpakuto were not sentient beings like the swords the Soul Reapers had, they did have some form of basic intelligence, and preserving the lives of their wielders was always at the forefront of their…semi-thoughts.
More than likely, Pantera had dismissed their combined might in order to spare its master from burning through too much reishi. Smart sword.
He grunted in approval.
At least somebody was on his side.
How long had he been lying here? It had to have been some time; his spiritual energy was dangerously low, the lowest it had ever been, even with the reishi-saturated air of Hueco Mundo. Nnoitra's corpse, while not in good shape in the first place, had decayed to the point where only a little more than his top half remained, the spirit particles that constituted all spirit beings, Hollow, Whole, or otherwise, dissipating.
Given the rate of decay, they had been lying there for at least a week, maybe a little less.
He needed food. The reishi in the air wasn't sustaining him, but only prolonging the agony of Eradication.
There was no rebirth for Eradicated Souls.
It was simple dissolution into Nothingness.
The Death of No Return.
Grimmjow narrowed his eyes at the thought.
'Fuck. THAT!'
Exhaustedly, painfully, he brought his uninjured arm up in front of him, moved it a few degrees to the left…
And pulled.
He fought through the pain…
And pulled again.
Pull…
Pull…
Inch.
By.
Agonizing.
Slow.
Inch.
As he picked up speed, he began to feel better about his prospects, and began to criticize himself for his negative thinking earlier. A good day to die? What a load of crap! He was Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, the Panther Lord! There WAS no good day to die for him!
His mind began to race.
'First things first; Heal Up. The Menos Forest should still be full. That's like a buffet for an apex predator like me! A few days, maybe a week in there, and I'll be right as rain! Then, I'll find the rest of us. Those idiot Soul Reapers couldn't have got them all. Stark's still alive, probably. He'll be a good start; he doesn't give a damn about being a leader! Yeeaahhh…Halibel's probably kicking too, she's smart enough and strong enough to cut her losses if she needs to…I'll convince her to let me take the lead somehow. Baraggan will be harder to convince…ah, well, I'll get Tia and Stark to team up with me to kill him. Old bastard's had it coming, anyway. Then, we rebuild the army from the ground up! Aizen won't care; he's either dead, or doing his "God" thing…'
His mental maunderings had occupied him until he had come within reach of Pantera. It was just six inches from his fingertips…
When he felt it.
He was no longer alone.
He froze, instinct automatically taking over.
This presence wasn't Hollow or Arrancar.
It wasn't Human.
Not Quincy, either.
Soul Reaper.
A powerful one.
It had noticed him, he was sure. Impossible not to, rally, not in the middle of a barren desert. He kept still, waiting…
Nothing happened.
He clenched his teeth so hard that the mask fragment on his face creaked.
Six inches.
Six measly, stupid inches…
And in his current state, he didn't dare make a move for Pantera.
Curiosity got the best of him. He allowed a bit of what was left of his spiritual energy to leak out in pesquisa, searching for the presence, finding it, and then feeling the entity, touching, probing, poking…
The Soul Reaper.
Poked.
Back.
A tidal wave of spiritual pressure washed over him, crushing, smothering. In a last desperate attempt, he forced his body into motion, diving for his blade, hoping upon feeble hope that he'd be…
"So, you can still move quickly…" A high voice. Female. Hoarse, like she yelled too much.
What had been behind him was now, suddenly, impossibly before him. A foot stamped down upon his fingers, splintering the bones. He grit back a bellow of pain, and looked up.
The first thing to catch his eye was a white haori trimmed in orange.
A Captain.
Well, shit.
Crossed arms over a modest bosom. Jet black hair, with two ridiculously long braids ending in golden hoops on each. Marble black eyes, glittering with malice and narrowed in angry scorn.
Grimmjow was screwed. He knew it, his wounded body shrieked it, and this woman's dead eyes promised it. His options were nonexistent; he had no juice left in him to burn in flight, let alone a fight. Hell, he could barely breathe normally.
He was as good as dead.
Considering all this, Grimmjow decided to pull out his last weapon.
He raised the hand the Captain was not standing upon…
Her eyebrow went up.
He made a fist…
Both eyebrows raised up.
He turned the back of his fist to her…
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
And he finally raised his middle finger in an elegant salute.
"Fuck you, bitch…"
To her credit, she did not seem angry in the slightest. Instead, a semi-amused smirk crept across her face, and she leaned down ever-so-slightly. "Not even if you weren't a freak, Arrancar." She then raised a hand.
"Take him."
Suddenly, he was surrounded by a score of black-clad warriors. The Captain disappeared, and they descended on him. Grimmjow did his best to fight back, but his state was hindering him in the worst way. He struggled in the iron grip of the assassins until something crashed into the side of his head.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The last thing he heard was Pantera frantically pulsing at him, begging him to grasp its hilt, to lay slaughter upon the shoulders of the aggressors…
And then he knew no more.