Hah, my first fic, and I forgot my Author's Note on the prologue. Pfft. Anyways, this is inspired by a conversation with Aceidia, who mentioned how little of a personality Zommari had in the canon. Then this spawned when I was thinking about his conflicting character aspects, and what would have happened if he'd been a little more... intoxicated. I'll leave it at that. Obviously, Tite Kubo died and left me Bleach in his will, so I do in fact own it.
Not.
And he's not dead either, fortunately! That'd make me sad.
Seven was an odd place to be, no pun intended. Technically, four on up was considered powerful, but every lumped Nnoitra in with the top, splitting them in half, essentially. Grimmjow was the backup Quinta. Number six- poor Grimmjow.
So seven wasn't strong. But with the likes of Yammy and Aaroniero below him, he couldn't really be classified as weak. Right? And of course there was mad, mad Szayelaporro. An interesting set of powers, but let's be real here. Definitely not a fighter. Weak, for an Espada. Let him lord over the test-tube Fraccion and one-man drama classes. (That one man being Szayelaporro himself, of course.) So where did that leave seven? There was definitely a wide gap between his powers and those of the Sexta's. Did that make him weak? Probably, he conceded, but nobody's perfect. Close as he came. Not.
Zommari frowned at the blank wall across from where he sat cross-legged, its emptiness distracting him from his musings. "That will not do. This wall exists for my personal use, and so I shall express myself a little. With… uh...Dangit, Aizen-sama….. This dreary place is sapping my creativity." He sighed deeply."And now I probably sound like Szayelaporro." Well, it wasn't his fault he couldn't focus. He would just have to decorate the wall, and then he could continue his meditation.
Glancing around his room, his gaze fell on a set of paints, complete with a rather dried and frazzled-looking paintbrush. He picked up the brush and looked at it for a moment. "
It looks like it's been electrocuted or something." Shrugging, he dipped it into the cold mug of tea he had smuggled out of the last meeting when he didn't feel like drinking it, and wet the paints. Seriously, they were like turtles! Really dry turtles, that was. Wait, that barely made any sense. Well it did… but it didn't. Gosh, he really needed to sit down and meditate for a bit before he got lost in his own ramblings. Back to the wall.
He looked at it with a critical eye, judging distance and proportions, visualizing the dimensions. When he was done, it would be a masterpiece. A glorious work of art, one that put to shame the great painter of the human Renaissances! Yes, it would be spectacular! He could already see the beautiful colors and depictions, already feel the depth of emotion it would evoke. He would be accomplished, a professional, an artist! It would be amazing, superb, sublime! It would be-
He reached out with the brush, marked two short lines, and a quick curve below them.
It would be a smiley face.
Satisfied that the wall was no longer blanker than Ulquiorra-sama's face (because at least the face had stripes and stuff), he settled back on his bamboo mat, crossed his legs and closed his eyes. Already he could feel his jumbled, slurry mind settle into a place of peace. A sense of calm settled over him as he rested in his cool, organized mental sanctuary. Breathe in. Out. And in again. Okay, keep breathing. Don't think about anything else right now. This is my time…. No one can take it away from-
His eyes snapped open as he sensed another presence outside his door. Making no move, he allowed the Número to enter. The Arrancar knelt to bow and Zommari waited rather impatiently- calm down, calm down… take the time I need...it's mine… mine…. Don't let him bother me…. I can… He didn't realize his eyes were closing until the Número began speaking.
"Zommari-sama?" he asked cautiously.
The Septima arranged his features into an expression of politeness, like he was listening gravely. "Speak." He nodded to the other. Wow, he really liked giving one-word commands. Aizen didn't know what he was missing, the way he rambled on. Aizen-sama. Sorry. Wait, it's not like he can hear me anyways. Hmm, I wonder if I actually care? Or am I just correcting myself out of habit? He shrugged mentally, then nodded seriously as the Número finished delivering his message. "Mm," he said, trying to appear as if he had been listening. Of course, he already knew what it was, so why bother listening?
"Another meeting," he sighed, though it sounded more like an affirmation of the fact coming of his mouth. Turning to the other Arrancar, he decided to get another opinion. "Do you like my wall?"
"Um," the Número swallowed. Clearly, he was nervous in the presence of greatness. Or something. "What about the wall?" Okay, so maybe he was just obtuse.
"Do you like what I did with it?" he inquired further.
"..." Perhaps he was searching for words with which to describe the sheer beauty of it. "I don't see a difference, honestly, Zommari-sama."
The audacity! How could he not notice? And he was clearly not one of the brighter few, saying such a thing to Zommari's face. Well, sometimes people need chances.
"The smiley face," he explained, pointing. "See? I thought the wall was too plain, and I couldn't focus, so I wanted to decorate it. And then the paints were like really dry turtles, so I couldn't paint it as big as I'd originally wanted. But I think it gives it a nice touch. Some brightness to an otherwise depressing wall." He turned expectantly to the Número, who was standing there with his mouth hanging open partially. Hmm,now why was that?
Oh, right, because he always acted all calm and collected around the other Arrancars.
Well, he could talk how he wanted when he wanted, dangit! He was an Espada, after all! He could do whatever he liked. And the wall was supposed to help him express himself, and he seemed to be doing a pretty good job of it! "Well?" he demanded.
"I-I like it. Very much. Zommari-sama," the Número added hastily.
"Good!" said Zommari brightly, and then ate him.
Another day, another meeting, he thought, fastidiously cleaning the blood from the corners of his mouth with a scrap of the Número's clothing before heading to down the hall to the conference room.
I should really stop being such a workaholic.
That last line from Kimblee, in Fullmetal Alchemist! I love that line, and it seemed so appropriate in this case. Remember to read Zommari as the stoic guy we all know and ignore! He needs more attention, guys.
Thanks if you read this and bother to drop a review!
