El Que Llora
The train pulled into the old, dilapidated station with a violent squeal as jets of steam belched out from the brakes. The giant wooden deck rattled as the mastodonic locomotive roared forward and rolled to a stop, the old planks threatening to splinter under the earth-shaking power of the steam-engine. A creaky old windmill stood at the head of the long platform, the battered tin sails reflecting the harsh desert sun upon the monstrous black vehicle. Down the long stretch of cracked flooring, tall against the tail of the dock, was a derelict water-tower with an open top, its long shadow stretching across the station in the mid morning sun.
Another shadow grew out from the side of the water-tower's and began to move alongside that of the tall tank, its dark silhouette moving like a living growth on the neck of the structure before snapping away from it, the smaller shade now connecting to the feet of a man. Another man stepped out from under the creaking windmill, the ends of his solid black duster whipping around his legs as the massive train pumped out steam and wind along the surface of the stilted floorboards.
The man that stood beside the water-tower squinted slightly against the sunlight that was reflecting against the sails of the windmill as he tried to see to the other side of station, to make out the face of the man opposite him. He only knew the last name of the other man. Kira. Though the two of them had ridden together for almost three years now, that was all Hisagi knew about his partner's past. He knew that Kira was a damn fine shot and could blow the head off of a rat at twenty paces, but he didn't know a damn thing about the blonde gunslinger otherwise. Not like it really mattered— Hisagi was never much one for conversation or bonding anyway. As long as they were able to claim their bounties and get paid, he was happy.
And Hisagi and Kira were damn good at getting their man.
A single door slid open along the side of the train facing the station, the iron plate banging loudly against the rest of the car. The two assassins snapped to attention, their eyes jerking away from each other and to the train. Hisagi's hand was at his waist in half a second, his calloused fingers whipping his own black duster aside to touch upon the warm handle of his six-shooter, Kazeshini. He couldn't see him out of the corner of his eye, but Hisagi knew that Kira had probably already drawn out both of his irons and had them stayed on the open door.
It took all of his willpower and control to not shoot at the pallet of grain that suddenly came flying out of the car and onto the wooden deck below. Dust flew up from the cracked floor as the metal door slid closed again with another crash and the train began to pull out of the station. Hisagi turned to Kira and nodded from across their distance, his blonde-haired partner casually spinning the grey pair of revolvers on his fingers before popping them back into their slings. The clicking and hissing of the crawling steam engine engulfed their senses once more as they made their way towards one another, the space between them closing as the noise faded and the train began to slide closer to the horizon ahead.
They stopped with the width of five planks between them and looked at each other sternly, Hisagi's black pupils glaring into Kira's green irises. Their target hadn't shown. Hisagi could see the small bit of irritation in his partner's normally melancholic gaze; Kira hated when he came all the way out on a job and it ended up being a damn goose-chase. Hisagi knew the feeling all too well, and could easily commiserate. With a smirk, he cocked his head to the side and began to walk toward the pair of horses that would lead them to the nearest saloon.
He stopped suddenly as a rare scent drifted into his nostrils, Kira also halting at the appearance of the smell. Hisagi turned and gave his partner a perplexed look, the blonde gunslinger returning it in kind as the pungent smell of Indian tobacco wafted around them. The duo turned around slowly, looking for the source of the aroma on the empty deck of the train station. Hisagi had shot all the workers when they'd arrived an hour earlier, so it couldn't be from anyone inside the station. Hell, even Kira had cut open that Indian girl's throat when she'd tried to get away from them. The only person smoking that stuff had to have come from the train, but... Hisagi's eyes widened slightly as Kira cut his sights back at the accelerating vehicle, his slack face turning slowly to watch as the tail of the locomotive began to roll past the dock.
In a second that felt like aeons, the two of them watched as the caboose car slid away from the deck and sped off into the distance. Another platform stood on the other side of the rusty tracks, its wood just as dilapidated as their own. And on that platform stood a man that hadn't been there before the train had arrived, a smoking cigarillo hanging from his thin lips. In an exact perversion of their own, his duster was solid white as it fluttered in the gentle breeze that blew across from the desert. The man was younger than both of them, his otherwise smooth and adolescent features marred only by a scar that ran from his left eye to his chin. A thin sword rested on his left hip, but the older gunslinger couldn't see any sign of a pistol on this young man.
Hisagi traded a look with Kira and smirked.
"Well lookit, Kira," Hisagi called out in recitation, more to the young man across the tracks than to his partner. "It's the man that smokes injun tobacco and wears himself a white duster. Might that be you, stranger?"
The youthful man on the other platform maintained his silence as the other two men each stepped a bit closer to their side of the gap. The wind kicked in a bit harder from behind the youth, small twisters of yellow sand dancing across the desert behind him as dark clouds rolled atop the edge of the horizon.
"Now you ain't gotta keep quiet around us, boy," Hisagi called out with a smile, swaying on his heels slightly as he held his hands behind his back. "That was a ree-torical question after all; with that tear-mark fallin' down yer cheek, you look just like we was told." His grin stretched a little further. "They call you 'the man that cries' don't they? Ulquiorra?"
"I assume you were sent for me?" Ulquiorra responded in a cold and deadpan voice, finally breaking his silence with that always lethal question, the aromatic cigarillo dangling from his lips.
"Yessir."
"Then is one of them horses for me?"
"Well, I'm afraid it…" Hisagi said before losing his sentence in a chuckle as he looked back at the two steeds posted behind him. Kira began laughing at his side as he continued. "I'm afraid it looks like we're shy one horse."
"No," Ulquiorra responded sharply, his statement cutting through their laughter like a knife. "You brought one too many."
Hisagi's grin descended slowly as the hands he'd kept locked behind his back began to slowly slide along his black duster towards the pair of leather holsters on his hips. He wanted to look to the corner of his eyes at Kira, but he fought the instinct. If the report on this young man was true, he'd need every fraction of a second at his disposal to survive this gunfight. He heard Kira's weight shift on the wood next to him, the grey planks creaking under his feet. The stone-faced young man in front of him didn't even flinch as the two assassins slowly reached for their guns.
It was already over.
Hisagi's hand had finally broken free from its crawl and had wrapped around the grip of his iron when he'd felt the bullet rip through his chest. He staggered backwards for a few steps, the sight of Kira hitting the ground emerging from the furthest corner of his sights. His mind reeled with impossibilities as his back slammed against the wooden deck beneath him and his vision was taken up by the clear blue skies above. He couldn't understand how the boy had shot them both before either of them had been able to fire a single round. Kira was one of the fastest draws in the desert; the sound of his partner's Wabisukeduo hitting the ground was almost as painful to him as the hole in his chest.
His vision began to blur as his body grew colder, the pounding of blood in his ears growing fainter and fainter as the cloudless sky began to grow dark. He could feel as a pair of hands grabbed at his belt and slid off his ammunition and his coin sack. He tried to reach up and grab at the white duster that was lingering at the corner of his eyes, but everything was growing heavy and fuzzy.
The last thing he saw was a pair of forest-green eyes looking down at him through a thin wisp of smoke.
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The horse's hooves clopped on the sandy ground as Ulquiorra steered the animal to the small hitching post in front of the saloon. The place was called "The Black Cat" and it was hailed as one of the finer establishments in the Honshu region. The short gunslinger stepped from his horse and reached into one of the saddlebags on the right side, his nimble fingers reaching blindly for his newly filled coin purse before grasping onto it and sliding a few pieces of gold into his calloused palm. He didn't figure that he'd need the coins, but he was looking for information after all; a single piece of gold would loosen up a man's tongue faster than any other metal in the world.
With the exception of lead.
At that thought, he checked the chambers of his twin hand-cannons to ensure that they were loaded. While he hoped that things wouldn't come to gunfire, he wanted to benefit from his Murciélago being at the ready. A shooter is only as good as the gun that he shoots— a three year old can always out-shoot the man with a rusty gun. Or worse, the man with no bullets.
Ulquiorra slid his long coat off and draped it over the saddle horn atop his horse. He knew that the owners of this saloon were two of the more knowledgeable people in this area of the world; his number-emblazoned white duster would give him away long before he could ever ask a single question. It wasn't so much that the duo inside this tavern would know who he was, as much as they would recognize who he worked for. After all, only ten people in the whole world were allowed to wear such a coat upon their backs:
The Espada.
Sosuke Aizen had collected himself the best of the best, and anyone outside of those elite ten wearing a white duster would be shot on sight. No man was foolish enough to don the ivory jacket of the Espada unless he could shoot his way into one. And there were a precious few souls in the whole universe that could outshoot one of those gunslingers. Ulquiorra made sure that his duster was secured around the saddle horn, the white sleeve covering the blackened 4 on the back, before stepping into the saloon.
The smell of whiskey hit him in the face as his brown boots clocked on the wooden floor, their harsh tips brushing aside small piles of yellow sawdust. A young girl with black bangs looked up at him with sad eyes, the broom in her hand stopping as he carelessly marched through her day's labor. Without a single word from either him or her, the girl darted off into the bowels of the saloon, rushing past a snarky looking youth with red hair that was leaning against the wall. Ulquiorra made brief eye-contact with the boy before the child blinked and looked away, spitting out a stream of brown tobacco into a nearby bowl and walked back into the shadow rear of the room.
"Hello there, darlin'" came a smooth voice from behind the bar, bringing Ulquiorra's green eyes away from the boy in the back and upon Yoruichi Shihoin. "What can I do ya for?"
Upon being unrecognized, Ulquiorra relaxed slightly and slid himself onto a barstool before looking past her at the selection of bottles behind the bar. Dozens of brands leapt out at him as he looked at the liquors that sat in front of the filthy mirror, the glass of the bottles glimmering at the faint light cast by the moveable oil-lanterns that hung from the ceiling.
"A shot of tequila. Chilled if you got the ice." he said as his emerald eyes returned to her amber ones, his irises looking above the area that her blouse was so obviously advertising as he took off his black hat and placed it on the bar. "And a lime if it pleases ya."
A look of confusion crossed her perfect face before she turned to the shelf and grabbed the only bottle of tequila in the house. From the looks of the bottle, not too many customers had inquired about the golden liquid before. But when she turned around again, her brilliant smile had returned as she poured the liquor into a tin cup. With ice, he noticed thankfully.
"No limes I'm afraid. I gotta say, none too many people drink this swill," she said with a smile that was far more polite than her comment. "You must not be from these parts, huh stranger?"
"No, ma'am," he replied softly as she placed the small glass down on the teak bar. "This is in fact my first time 'round this area."
"That so?" she inquired as he knocked back his head and gulped down the burning shot. She immediately picked it up to pour another one, eliciting a small nod of thanks from him. "Then from where does a young man like yourself come from, if it ain't from 'round here?"
"Somewhere I can't rightly say," he replied shortly as he pulled out one of his hand-rolled cigarillos. "Do you mind if I burn this in here, ma'am?"
"Accourse not," she said as she leaned down and grabbed an ashtray and a book of matches from one of the numerous shelves by her knees. Ulquiorra thought about how many pistols were stored down there as well as she lit his smoke for him, leaning forward as she once more presented her chest as though it was for sale. While some of the women in this establishment did have a price tag on their behinds, Ulquiorra knew that this particular female was betrothed to another. Perhaps this was her bait and switch technique? Lure the men in with her perfect physique only to have them pay for a much lesser grade of entertainment.
"Thankee," he said as he leaned back from her match and dragged deeply from his aromatic tobacco.
"So then," Yoruichi asked sweetly as she shook out the small flame. "If you ain't allowed to tell me where you come from, could you tell me just what a sword-wieldin', tequila drinkin' youngster like yourself is doing here?"
He took another deep drag from the cigarillo as he inspected her tone for any notes of suspicion; either this woman was far cleverer than he'd read, or her reputation greatly exceeded her. How she hadn't placed a stranger that drank tequila and carried a sword as a man that hailed from Hueco Mundo was beyond him.
"I'm lookin'," he said as he blew out the smoke that was in his mouth.
"Lookin'? For who?" Her voice dipped and her eyes bored into his. Ulquiorra smirked inwardly at her question; she hadn't asked 'for what'. She knew he was looking for a person, and he was willing to put gold on the line that she knew exactly who he was looking for. Yoruichi Shihoin was finally starting to live up to her name.
"A boy," he responded coldly, his voice mimicking the look she was giving him as he finally downed his second shot. He watched as her hand began to slide down to the shelves below the bar, her upper body positioned to pull back and fire within a second.
"That so?"
"Ayuh."
A thin whistle emerged from the back of the building and broke through their impasse like a blustering wind tears down a tree in a thunderstorm. Ulquiorra's eyes remained on her for a second longer as she brought her hand up from behind the counter, a fresh lime in her fist. He smirked at her harshly as she began to slice it on a cutting board, her perfect lips curving devilishly as she leered at him. He was almost pleased to see that her reputation as "The Black Cat" was wholly deserved.
Ulquiorra turned to look for the source of the whistle, his emerald eyes straining to see into the darkest corner of the empty saloon as the whistle held itself in the air. The single note hung for a moment before it bent down slightly, the new pitch clashing with the echo of the previous one. As the dissonant ringing ceased, the whistler dropped the note even further as Ulquiorra walked around to the other side of a set of tables, his eyes peering into the opaque shadows.
The notes began to repeat themselves in a cycle, the first note followed by the dissonance and then the resolve. Ulquiorra came to a stop at the furthest end of the saloon, his cold features trained on the blackest area of darkness against the wall. He slowly reached up and wrapped his slender fingers around the base of the nearest hanging lantern, his green eyes having seen that the wire-track that it was attached to would lead it straight into the murky corner. After a gentle rocking motion with the light to warn the invisible musician in front of him, who was still whistling away in seclusion, Ulquiorra slung the lantern forward along the wire.
The lamp banged against the wooden wall as it illuminated the face of Kisuke Urahara, the Red Prince. He was leaning back in a chair, his shoulders resting on the wall behind him as he continued to whistle. Ulquiorra slowly walked forward, his boots creating a metronome for the saloon proprietor's incessant whistling as he approached. Ulquiorra's eyes drifted down to the long table in front of Urahara, his sights locking on the single pistol that was resting upon the dark teak slab of wood. His sights rose again as he closed the distance even more, the two pairs of eyes locking as Urahara continued to whistle.
His simple melody didn't even falter as Ulquiorra reached out and slowly took the pistol, his thin fingers wrapping around the white and red grip. The man from Hueco Mundo looked over the gun, his green eyes trailing over the intricate design upon the ivory handle. Every gunslinger's pistols were special; it was an extremely rare occurrence when one man could look so closely at his opponent's irons while they were both still breathing. He slowly rubbed his thumb over the blood-like markings on the handle before turning around and walking back to the end of the table with Urahara's weapon still in his hand. He placed the iron back down on the table and turned back to the whistling gunslinger, the eyes of the saloon's employee's burning into his back as he stared at their manager.
"So ya know how to whistle," he said calmly to the man sitting in front of him. "But do ya know how to shoot?"
He slid the pistol along the surface of the smooth table, the gun clattering as it shot across the polished wood before slowing to a stop. The barrel had jetted out over the edge of table and was pointing directly at Urahara's chest. The blonde-haired gunslinger continued to whistle his tune as he looked into the eyes of his assailant.
"Did ya forget how to make music with that?"
Urahara stopped whistling then and reached out to the pistol in front of him. The newfound silence was almost deafening as the seconds ticked endlessly by, the sitting man's movements taking ages as he took the gun in his hand. He looked at it briefly before placing it back upon the table top, the business end not pointing at Ulquiorra. Urahara leaned back in his chair once more and began to whistle as the two gunslingers continued their staredown.
Without warning Ulquiorra spun around, pointing a long finger at the red-haired boy from earlier. The kid had made his way behind the intruding man and was reaching for the broom handle that the girl had left leaned against the wall. He hadn't even gotten his fingers on the stick when Ulquiorra had spun around and pointed, the quick movement shocking the kid into paralysis. The invading gunslinger's hand turned over and his protruding digit curled up slowly.
"Come here, boy."
The red-haired youth stood deathly still for a moment, his small black eyes shaking slightly in their sockets as he looked into the intense green irises in front of him. Slowly and forcefully the boy stepped forward, his legs moving as though he'd been possessed by Ulquiorra's glare; his small face was taught with fear and bitter anger, but his body wasn't about to refuse the demand of the gunman in front of him. His small feet were practically dragging themselves across the sawdust littered floor in defiance as he slinked his way to Ulquiorra's side.
"Reach inta my shirt pocket," Ulquiorra said without nonsense, his eyes boring into the boy's. "And grab me one o' them smokes."
With a trembling hand, the kid did as he was told and retrieved one of the brown cigarillos from Ulquiorra's pocket. He pulled it out and stuck his hand forward in offering to the strange gunslinger. The taller of the two youths simply glared at the boy before opening his lips slightly. He maintained his line on the boy's eyes as the kid understood his purpose and placed the stick of tobacco into the awaiting mouth. Slowly, he reached down and picked up a matchbook off of the nearest table and struck up a flame. The small fire danced as the kid lifted the match with a hand that was all but shaking itself loose from his shoulder.
Ulquiorra dragged against the light until the flame ate its way down the stick and extinguished itself upon the boy's fingertips. The kid dropped the extinguished match onto the floor without so much as a glance down at his singed flesh. Ulquiorra held his fierce look for a moment longer before a thin smile worked its way across his mouth and his stare softened.
"Bravo."
He turned back to Urahara as the kid scrambled away and hid in the nearest room he could find. Kisuke stood slowly as he picked up his gun and holstered it, his eyes staring into the ever-intimidating green ones in front of him. He smiled brightly as he walked up to Ulquiorra, extending a weathered hand.
"Now that you've gone and scared poor Jinta half to death," he said as Ulquiorra ignored the offered handshake, "who're ya lookin' for exactly?"
"Ichigo Kurosaki," Ulquiorra responded sternly, eliciting a small and theatrical hiss of disappointment from Urahara.
"I had a feelin' it was gonna be him," he responded while running a hand through his light, hay-like hair. "An' I reckon you won't be leavin' here without some information on him. then?"
"'Fraid not."
Urahara's grin faded slightly as he stood a mere two feet away from the young gunslinger. His eyes trailed down to the pair of silver irons that were hanging from this man's hips, his thin fingers prepared to snatch the green and white handles out from their holsters in under a second. Urahara looked back up into the cold and ruthless emerald eyes of Ulquiorra before averting his gaze to the woman behind the bar. Despite the fact that her usually flawless face was twisted with worry, he couldn't help but smile at the dark-skinned hand that was thoughtlessly resting over her slightly enlarged stomach. He sighed and looked back at Ulquiorra.
"Last I saw him, he was headed to the old synagogue to the west o' here," Urahara said calmly.
"Kisuke!" Yoruichi hollered from behind the bar, her brows furrowed.
"Settle down now, Yoruichi," he said with a tone that got her to quiet herself almost immediately. "I don't like doin' it, but I got my own son to worry about now, not Isshin's." He looked back to the tear-marked face of the young gunslinger in front of him.
"And if Ulquiorra's reputation is as well deserved as I've heard it is, not tellin' him would put my family at risk."
"Kisuke…" Yoruichi said in a voice that was barely above a whisper, her other hand coming to rest on her belly as well.
"Ya know anythin' else?" Ulquiorra's sturdy voice rang out, reclaiming the conversation between him and Urahara.
"After they stop in at the synagogue," Urahara said calmly, "they'll be headin' after Richiki's gang, The Silver Dragonfly."
With a curt nod, Ulquiorra turned to leave. He was rather thankful that things hadn't come to violence. As proficient as he was at killing, he detested shooting down a woman; putting a bullet into one that was with child was nearly unthinkable for him. But if he'd been left with no other alternative, he would have done it in a second and reviled himself afterwards. He stepped back up to the bar and grabbed his black hat and placed it on his slightly matter hair. He placed three gold pieces on the teak countertop before tipping his hat at a stunned Yoruichi Shihoin.
"Congratulations, ma'am."
Without another word, Ulquiorra stepped out into the harsh afternoon sunlight of Karakura, leaving the batwing doors to swing noisily at his departure.
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The coyote walked forward swiftly with its head slung low as its small paws padded through the desert sand. It stopped suddenly and crouched behind one of the numerous small bushes that littered the floor of the gulley, its silver and orange fur bristling slightly as it looked at the decaying body that was ahead of it. The feral dog sat and waited patiently, its golden eyes watching the still and putrid body for a few silent minutes. A large buzzard appeared out of nowhere, its black wings folding inwards as it landed upon the rotting man's chest. The coyote blinked slowly before it resumed movement, its head staying low as it snuck closer to this new target.
Ulquiorra looked down on this with a passing interest, his green eyes lazily following the coyote's stealthy attack from his vantage point at the rim of the gulley. He pulled a cigarillo out of his left breast pocket and placed it between his thin lips without lighting the end. He had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to be unable to smoke the miniature cigar at the moment; he still needed a minute to catch his breath and get some fresh air into his lungs.
Hence the reason he was sitting above the small canyon of death.
Richiki's camp had been burned to the sand back near the mouth of the gulch. Ulquiorra could immediately tell that it had been a sloppy massacre and that the torching had been accidental. There had been several sets of horse tracks exploding away from the embers, indicating that the intruding forces hadn't been intent on killing the entire squadron of cowboys. Had that been the purpose of their mission, not a soul would have been left alive; if these young gunslingers had become worthy in the eyes of the Red Prince, surely they would be able to slaughter a band of thieves. At least he hoped so.
Many of the outlying tents and supplies had been left perfectly intact and not harmed by the attempt at arson. The nocturnal assailants hadn't even attempted to take any money or ammunition or supplies from these bandits. Nor had they even attempted to cover their tracks after their departure from the gunfight; every set of tracks had a starting point leading out of the camp. The evidence was beginning to stack up in his mind – their attack on Richiki's gang carried the stench of poor planning and panic.
Ulquiorra slowly pulled the unlit cigarillo from his mouth and licked his lips in thought. Perhaps these kids weren't as skilled as he'd assumed. He was very rarely incorrect in his assumptions and more evidence was in the realm of Ichigo Kurosaki being a far bigger threat to his ambitions than not. As the son of Isshin Kurosaki and the student of Kisuke Urahara, Ichigo should possess a universe worth of potential within his hands. Perhaps the people he was travelling with were more to blame for the sloppy assault.
Ulquiorra sighed and turned his full attention to the slinking coyote once more. He placed the cigarillo into his mouth again and removed a match as he kept his green eyes on the unsuspecting animals below. He wanted to wait for the hunter's attack to be over before he alerted those further down the gulley to his presence with the sound of him lighting the match. He didn't want the prey to be scared off before his fellow killer could catch its dinner.
The shot rang out a moment later and the coyote fell to the ground as the buzzard flew off in a flurry of black feathers. Ulquiorra then struck his match and watched as the hunter stepped out of his hiding place in the bushes adjacent to the now deceased desert dog. Ulquiorra squinted his eyelids in the early morning sunlight, straining to see the gunman that was now reaching down to the body of the dead canine. He couldn't make out much from this distance, but he could see a brand on the man's forearm and that was more than enough. Ulquiorra stood from his spot above the gulley and casually brushed the sand from his black denim pants before leaping off the rim of the small valley and into the pit below.
He whipped his right pistol out in mid air and fired downward, the bullet tearing into the left knee of the man below. Without even a second of hesitation Ulquiorra knocked back the hammer with the heel of his hand and fired again, the second round demolishing his target's right kneecap. He quickly spun the pistol on his index finger before slipping it back into one of the tan holsters on his hips. He then reached down to his left side and grabbed the sword that was hanging there, the colichemarde's bladeshining in the sun as he gracefully slipped it out of its scabbard before he finally landed.
The man in front of him had fallen onto his back and was trying to crawl backwards on his elbows as Ulquiorra approached him. He was muttering and groaning to himself as he inched away, leaving two lines of crimson blood in the sand as he went. Ulquiorra walked right over his struggling legs and pressed the tip of his blade against the right side of the man's throat. The gibbering softened slightly as the man looked up fearfully into the deep green eyes of the gunslinger above him. Ulquiorra looked down at the brand and confirmed his initial thoughts – a silver dragonfly. This was one of Richiki's men.
"E-E-Espada," the man stammered out as his eyes darted to the white duster that was hanging around Ulquiorra's shoulders.
"The men that burned down your camp," Ulquiorra said coldly, ignoring the title. "Did you see them?"
"Y-yes," was the fear-soaked reply.
"Which way did they ride?"
While the young gunslingers hadn't covered up their tracks, they hadn't exactly made their current whereabouts easy to determine. A group of a dozen men could easily split up and follow the largest paths, but Ulquiorra didn't have the time to waste following dead-end trails. Hopefully, his time spent here would prove to be worth his wait.
"They gone towards Junrinan," the man said with a shallow breath.
"Ya sure on that?"
"Yes!"
Ulquiorra looked down at the trembling man before glancing back at the dead coyote behind him. He let out a single sigh and turned back to the man in the dirt below him as he pulled his hand from his right side to his left, the tip of his blade following through the flesh of the man's throat. The bandit reached up quickly and grabbed at his neck as a confused look spread across his face and dark, arterial blood began to spill through the cracks of his fingers. Ulquiorra looked back down into his face as he slid the colichemarde back into its sheath.
"I'd always heard that shootin' a coyote was bad luck," he said as he turned around to fetch his horse, "but I never believed that it was actually true."
Ulquiorra climbed his way back to the top of the gully and looked west to Junrinan. The short gunslinger frowned as he saw that the dark storm clouds that had been lining the horizon since he'd arrived in Honshu were beginning to grow bigger. With a quick slap on the rump, his horse started to pull away as Ulquiorra slung his leg over its back and threw himself into the saddle.
He had no desire to confront Ichigo Kurosaki in the middle of a thunderstorm.
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He pulled another cigarillo out of his pocket as his horse trotted under the hanging wooden sign that proclaimed he had arrived in Junrinan. He lit the end of it and dragged deeply, enjoying the flavorful and biting smoke that filled his lungs. He took in the small town that was bathed in the midmorning sunlight, his emerald eyes sweeping along the buildings that stuck up out of the desert earth like painted teeth.
The wind had kicked up slightly and was blowing his white duster forward around the backs of his calves. It was a cooler wind than he had felt in a long time, probably coming from the brewing storm behind him. And he certainly wasn't about to complain is it cooled of the dark green shirt he wore under the coat. The path that lead into town had curved around to the south so that the face of Junrinan faced east and back towards the more bandit-ridden lands in Honshu.
As he began to truly get into the town proper, a pair of batwing doors exploded outwards as a trio of people stormed out of the saloon. Ulquiorra looked at them silently as he pulled his horse to a stop, his brows furrowing slightly as the three figures began to banter with one another. There was no doubt in his mind that the one with the loudest voice was Ichigo Kurosaki. He fit the description perfectly – youthful and tall with a shock of bright orange hair atop his head.
One of the two people with him began to walk down the street, a young man with jet black hair and adorned with a blue and white duster that distinguished him as a member of the Jewish faith. Perhaps he even came from the torched synagogue that Ulquiorra had camped at the night before.
The person that stayed with Ichigo was a young woman with dark hair and big eyes. Ulquiorra looked down at her hips and saw a pair of ill-concealed revolvers that were as white as desert-bleached bone. His eyes travelled back to Ichigo and noticed that he, too, possessed a pair of oddly-colored pistols. The orange-haired youth's guns were as black as the night and larger than most revolvers that Ulquiorra had ever seen. The only way that they could possess such unique guns would be if Kuukaku Shiba had made them, and considering the group's ties with Kisuke Urahara, he wasn't about to rule that out as a possibility.
Ichigo suddenly spun around and pulled both of his irons out and leveled them at Ulquiorra. The boy's quick movement had surprised him, even if the green-eyed gunslinger could have shot him twice before the boy had even taken aim. Still, he hadn't made any indication that he was even watching the orange-haired youth, so Ulquiorra found himself a bit pleased that this kid would end up being worth his time.
Yet something about the fierce look in Ichigo's eyes made Ulquiorra a bit apprehensive to straight up approach the kid. It was one thing to pull pistols on someone that snuck up behind you. It was entirely different to keep them trained with hatred in your eyes. But Ichigo's brows were twisted into knots and his brown irises were flicking back and forth between Ulquiorra's face and his white duster. Ulquiorra dragged on his cigarillo slowly and exhaled, a silent curse escaping his mouth inside of a spear of grey smoke.
It looked like someone had gotten to Ichigo Kurosaki before him.
"Ya sure ya want to be so hasty on the draw," he said in a calm voice, "Ichigo Kurosaki?"
He stepped down from his horse slowly and walked a few paces towards Ichigo before stopping and taking one last pull from his cigarillo. Slowly and deliberately, so as not to spook the boy into firing at him prematurely, he reached up to his mouth and plucked the brown wrap from his lips before flicking it off to the side. The cool wind kicked again, catching the small roach and carried it further than it should have gone. Ulquiorra looked back at this young man before him, his cold and calculating eyes taking in everything.
The girl was practically frozen in fright, her violet eyes wide and shaking as she looked at him from behind Ichigo's torso. The Jew was also standing still a yard behind the other two, his body twisted as if he'd solidified in mid-turn. Both of them were also eyeing his white duster, their eyes looking at his coat while sneaking an occasional glance back at Kurosaki.
As Ulquiorra glared into Ichigo's hate-filled eyes, two things became crystal clear to him: the first was that it was painfully obvious that someone had told the boy about the Espada and that Sosuke Aizen was involved with his father's death; the looks of recognition and fury on his face were unmistakable.
The second was that it was extremely unlikely that this altercation would end without shots being fired.
As if his thoughts had been spoken aloud, Ichigo's hand-cannons each fired off a round. In the blink of an eye Ulquiorra crossed his arms over his waist, his left hand grabbing the pistol on his right hip as his right hand wrapped around the grip of his colichemarde. He pulled them both out simultaneously and immediately pulled the trigger of his Murciélago. The two bullets clashed in midair, sending each of them plummeting to the sand below.
His right hand swung upwards, the sword in it screaming toward the dark clouds that were beginning to roll in over the town. Just as Ichigo's second bullet came close to Ulquiorra did the blade of his rapier cut the round completely in half. The two pieces of lead split but continued their forward trajectory, each half flying past one of Ulquiorra's cheeks close enough to blow his hair back.
Ichigo's hands lowered slowly as his eyes widened in absolute shock and his mouth dangled open slightly. Ulquiorra spun his revolver and holstered it before slipping his blade back into its sheath before walking forward slowly. He knew that Ichigo had another ten bullets he could unload, but he also knew that the boy wouldn't be firing them. The look on the orange-haired youth's face spoke volumes to Ulquiorra; this boy now understood full and well the gulf of ability that stood between them.
Ulquiorra was now less than ten paces away from Ichigo and could see the shock beginning to ebb away from his features. The glare was beginning to return, but it was devoid of the fire and hatred that it had held for him earlier. Ulquiorra kept his peripheral vision locked on the two figures standing behind Kurosaki, ready to kill either of them if they even so much as made a move against him. Though he needed to leave Ichigo alive, that same immunity did not apply to his companions.
"Calm down, boy," Ulquiorra said as he stood almost toe to toe with Ichigo, the Espada's green eyes boring through his brown ones.
"I just want to talk."
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a/n
that was fun. this is a companion piece to Jazzpha's Guns of Karakura. it's also chapter 10 in his story. he and i are gonna be collabing on the rest of that story, so if you liked this little oneshot, head on over and check out the rest of it. then +story alert it so you'll be able to read all of our awesome updates. (reviewers of the plotline we've created have hailed it as "THE BEST FANFIC IN THE HISTORY OF EVAR.")
andyhoo, i hope you guys enjoyed. drop me a review if ya did. drop jazz one, too.
jta