AN Wow, new chapter! I'm really, really excited for this story to actually get rolling, and I hope you are, too!

Grimmjow jerked upright, body tense. He looked around, utterly confused. He was...beside a train track. Out in the country, with big sky, stretches of fields and a lovely haze of smog so characteristic of large cities hanging on the skyline under the clouds. He glanced down at himself, wondering what on earth had happened.

Distant and rather blurry memories came to him, vaguely explaining that the scientists had changed him. That was about it, other than someone roughly carrying him and a whole lot of hallways.

He was wearing ill fitting clothes, but at least they weren't that awful white uniform of Haven. He had a t-shirt, jean over shirt and baggy jeans. But no shoes.

For a moment, Grimmjow let the relief that he was out wash through him, he was out of Haven, really out, back into the free world. But why had they left him in the middle of nowhere?

Grimmjow got to his feet, deciding that when it came to other people having humor suspiciously similar to his, it really pissed him off.

Grumbling to himself, he brushed the worst of the dirt off him, stretching. Grimmjow knew there was a big city nearby, but he was really hoping that, one, he was still in England, and two, that the big city was London.

He started walking towards the smog, scowling at the rocks digging into his feet. He tested the train track beside him, and after making sure it wasn't going to cook his feet, started walking along it. Grimmjow sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He had noticed right away that it had been cut from that long and probably unsightly mess it had been in Haven. Not that he could be sure just how unsightly it had been, as he hadn't been allowed to have mirrors in his cell.

Prisoners were allowed basic privileges, so long as they weren't insane, homicidal to every breathing thing, or a criminal genius. Haircuts, relatively nice food, and if they were especially good, time to play some sports or take a handful of what Haven considered 'benign classes'. These were only supplied, however, if the convicts behaved themselves.

Grimmjow, predictably, had not behaved.

The first time he'd gotten pissed at something, the attitude of another prisoner, the food, whatever, he'd managed to keep himself in check, aside from a few nasty words that made some people go white as a sheet. The next time, he'd ended up flipping something. The last time, however, he'd been honestly provoked. Some idiot had been talking tough, baiting him into a fight, and Grimmjow very kindly told him to back off before he was hit over the head with a baseball bat, but the idiot hadn't listened to him. He even dealt the first blow, a sissy smack to his mouth that Grimmjow was pretty sure was supposed to be a punch, then Grimmjow knocked him to the ground, grabbed a nearby lunch tray and gave him a sample of his promise. Only, he was tackled by a couple guards, so it didn't have the effect he'd intended. The guy still had a mild concussion, which was something.

This little stunt stripped Grimmjow of all his 'creature comforts', leaving him with no haircuts, nice food or time with other inmates.

He hopefully pulled his hair down to look at it, then swore. It was still that stupid dirty dishwater color, not blue. How was Grimmjow supposed to be Grimmjow without his trademark style? The gelled blue hair, eye makeup and expensive street clothes, they were all just as important in intimidating people as letting them know he had a gun in the back of his jeans.

The countryside was becoming more and more familiar, which was a rare good sign. If his memory served, he was only a few hours from London, at least, only a few hours from London by car. He was walking along a train track with no shoes.

Grimmjow continued grumbling to himself, swinging a fist. There were more things on his mind, other than what he looked like and how long it'd take him to get to London. What was the date, how long had he been in Haven? Convicts weren't allowed to see newspapers or calendars, or really anything with outside information. It was supposed to be part of their punishment, a weird psychological thing some crackpot shrink had come up with. Though, admittedly, Grimmjow had heard stories of people snapping at not being able to know what was going on outside Haven's walls. But then, they had been con artists or people who depended on being utterly in control. Everyone else didn't care. The way he saw it, they were going to be stuck in there until they rotted anyways, what did knowing who married whom or what new movie came out matter?

Mood deteriorating, he shoved his hands in his pockets, then yanked them back out, right hand clenched around a piece of paper. Grimmjow opened it with a frown, and saw the words 'Your account will be reactivated.' It was folded multiple times, and he opened it a second time, reading 'Find some friends. We can't do this alone.'

Unfold again.

'Don't lose your head. Make sure you call,' followed by a number. He frowned a little harder. Grimmjow checked his back pockets, and was surprised to find a wallet. It contained several large bills and a credit card with a sticky note on it.

'It's yours, but set up under a government account. Use it to get started. We'll know what you buy with it.'

He grinned, glad to finally have a really good piece of news. Grimmjow put the wallet back into his pocket, thinking that there were suddenly a lot of things he wanted to buy.

He kept walking for a while, until he reached the road. Grimmjow squinted, wondering how it'd take him to get into the city. If he could hitchhike, hopefully he'd be able to get back and find his place before it was pitch dark.

After a few minutes of walking, the sound of a car motor came up behind him, and he glanced around, hopeful. A small van was a ways behind him, and he stuck out his thumb, praying the person would stop.

It didn't, seeming to go faster as it passed him. He swore loudly, angrily flipping the person off.

The next car that came by did stop, however, which was a blessed relief. He may have been fit and durable before Haven, but he'd started getting soft, especially since his solitary confinement.

"Where're ya headed?" the man driving the car asked, rolling down the window. He was driving a large truck with several planks of lumber strapped to the back.

"London," Grimmjow said, praying he wasn't heading the opposite direction.

"You're in luck. It's straight ahead. Hop in."

He grinned and opened the door. Grimmjow climbed in, and the man raised his eyebrows when he saw the lack of shoes.

"You sure are packin' light, for a hitch-hiker." Grimmjow shrugged, trying to look sheepish.

"I was going to try backpacking across the country. But I started off late, and then someone stole all my stuff in the middle of the night, my bag, my clothes, my shoes..."

"That's rough," the man said, running a hand down his greying beard. "It's a sorry state, having people steal from the homeless. Or the adventurous traveler who's sleeping," he added quickly, glancing at Grimmjow, probably hoping he hadn't offended him.

Grimmjow guessed he made a suspicious enough character, with bad hair and bad clothes and a rather shady cover story, but at least he didn't have the blue hair and eye makeup that he so favored. That would hardly make this man want to trust him.

I already look like a felon, he thought, then smirked, because he actually was. Just one with higher tastes than most. If only grandpa knew his failed backpacker was really one of the most dangerous men in England, he thought, then frowned.

Used to be one of the most dangerous, anyways. Now he was a convict, playing puppet for the government without so much as a clue as to the state of the criminal world, or the normal one, for that matter. He didn't even know the date.

The ride was quiet, and a little awkward, but he couldn't bother himself with making small talk.

How was he supposed to catch 45? Sure, he was in London, if he thought about it, which was a huge help, yet at the same time was a royal pain. It wasn't like London was freakin' huge or anything. It was possible to hide from everyone for months in that place, even without marvelous and shady connections.

The truck slowed, and Grimmjow blinked, glancing around.

"Well, here ya go," the man said, and Grimmjow stared at an unfamiliar sprawl of shops and apartments. In the last few years, London had spread out, engulfing the surrounding suburbs, and he supposed that this area had popped up while he was imprisoned.

"Thanks," he grunted, hopping out and setting his shoulders, trying not to succumb to the dark feeling in his stomach. It was never good to see a city you knew so well change on you the moment you leave.

It was slow going, walking down the streets, but it gave him time to adjust. London's look may have changed, but deep down, it was still the same.

He paused at a convenience store, glancing at a paper stand. He flicked his eyes down the front page, ignoring the bold headline of a politician being in an affair and a feel good piece about the community, then froze. He snapped his eyes back to the top of the page, feeling sick.

'March 16th, 2014.'

2014? 2014?

He shook his head, feeling suddenly angry. Everything was a mess, and he really just wanted to punch someone's lights out.

It had been two years since he'd been arrested. He, Grimmjow Jeagerjacques, had lost two years of his life because of his own stupidity and because of 45 being a psychopath and setting him up for some stupid, unfathomable reason to anyone except for him.

He paused as the thought hit him- he was now twenty-seven. That suddenly seemed old to him, especially since just a few seconds ago, he had been twenty-five. He turned away from the paper, shoving his hands in his pockets. This...this was absolutely ridiculous! There was no way...how could he get that time back? There were no surgeries or medications and bought half lives could never really compare to the real thing.

He walked faster, chewing his cheek to keep from exploding. The area was becoming more familiar, which was a comfort mostly lost in the face of his rage. He let himself be swept away in the impossibility of the task, sulking as he settled back into the city. Eventually, he perked up enough appreciate the city, and the people inside it. Big cities always had this affect on him, whether it was New York, London or Istanbul, with the noise and the vast resources and the rude, short tempered people who were ready to stick a shoe between your legs if you irritated them.

Essentially, Grimmjow's kind of people.

He sauntered through the place, glad no one really care that he looked like a vagabond, or that he had no shoes, or that his expression was a feral snarl. They simply slogged on, not giving him the time of day.

He paused in front of a store, shrugging as he went in. It was a shoe store, specializing in not especially classy tennis shoes. A bored looking woman stood behind the cash register, her tag saying 'Hi, I'm Claire! Glad to help you!' pinned to her vest. When he walked in, she blinked in surprise, then frowned.

"Uhm, sir, we can't serve you here." She had a rougher accent, and when she said 'sir', it was laden with sarcasm. Grimmjow turned to her, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.

"Why?"

"No shirt, no shoes, no service." The woman chomped her gum matter of factly, and he tried not to get himself thrown back into jail for assault.

"But it's a shoe store," he said, grinning and turning on his long since used charm. Hopefully, it would have still serve some effect, even though he looked frightful.

"Yeah, so?"

"Surely you're gonna let me buy myself a pair of shoes. I mean, that's the point, right?"

She pressed her lips together, looking away. Her large earring swung, and he listened to some annoying pop song for a second before she sighed.

"Alright, then. Just be quick."

He flashed her a smile and headed to the back of the aisles before she could get a good look at his rumpled clothing. He grabbed a pair of slip-ons that looked about his size, then pulled them on, cursing when they pinched his feet.

"Excuse me," Claire said, making him turn sharply. She was a little farther down the aisle where she seemed to be straightening boxes, but it looked more like she was trying to gape at him. "Are you French?"

"Uh, why?" he said, feeling suddenly worried. Had the papers done an article on his when he'd been taken in? Could this irritating woman have identified him from two year old papers?

"Well, you've got a slight accent, and, you know, you just said something in French."

He blinked, not having realized he had done either.

I've gotten sloppy, he thought, trying not to scowl.

"Uh, yeah. Born 'n raised," he said, shrugging. She nodded, looking interested, and he turned back to the shoes, grabbing a pair of brown sandals.

"So, are you, like, one of those super earthy types?" Claire asked, edging closer. He closed his eyes, stood up, tried out the shoe. Grimmjow just did not have time for this.

"Nah, I just had a problem with my shoes." He gave an 'end of story' type of smile, and considered the sandal. It wasn't exactly the best fit he'd ever had, but it'd certainly do, considering he'd not be wearing them for very long, and he had a shop clerk becoming far, far too friendly with him.

She took another step towards him, and he slipped the shoe off, putting it back in the box before she could get closer.

"I'd like these," he said quickly, and was satisfied to see her disappointment.

"Oh. Well, I better go, uh, ring you up."

Claire totalled his price, and he handed her the bills, exhaling as he took back his change. He put the shoes on, put the box back in the bag she handed him and headed out without so much as a smile.

He sighed, glancing around, glad that he was only a few blocks away from his old flat.

The sky started to darken into a sultry grey, and Grimmjow stuck his head down, scowling. His hair was in his eyes, and the crappy over shirt the doctors had given his wasn't doing much to cut the wind. He was headed to a slummier district, where the graffiti was more expansive, and the once prim white paint had started to crack on the building walls. Grimmjow reached a break in the walls and turned, heading into a small alleyway. A metal set of stairs lead up to an apartment. He smirked at the dull black address, which was both an old joke and an old kick in the teeth. 366 Bromes.

Six times six, six, and then six letters, Grimmjow thought, followed by Man I was a nut.

He climbed up to the second landing, pausing halfway up. He checked a loose panel in the wall that he had personally made, and if no one had disturbed it, there would be a key he'd copied years back. And under the false bottom of the paper box, a gun Grimmjow had used many a time.

Good times, he thought wryly, casually opening the door, gun in hand.

He thought he heard a rustle, and edged towards the bedroom. The apartment hadn't changed much, the awful sofa was still pressed up against the front wall, though the cheap table had been moved to the center of the room. New chairs had been added, and a few papers were on the fridge. He paused, catching sight of a person's shadow before turning into the tiny bedroom. A woman stared at him, freckled face blank with shock.

It looked like she had been in the middle of getting ready when he walked in, considering the rumpled state of her blonde hair and clothes, but upon hearing him and thrown herself onto the bed in an effort to get something. She glared at him fiercely, a look of pure disdain, irritation and reproach replacing the surprise.

"What?" she snarled, and had to admit, he was a little impressed. She straightened, indignant. "I asked you a question! You storm into my flat, point a gun in my face like a freakin' neanderthal, and I want to bloody know why!" Grimmjow laughed, keeping the gun leveled.

"A guy just barges in here, pointing a gun at you and you just yell at 'im. Talk about balls."

"Yeah? You know what else takes a lot of balls?"

"Squatting in a dangerous man's house?" he asked evenly, and the casual way he said it made her pause. She looked a little taken aback, blinking with her mouth open for a retort that wouldn't come Obviously, she was furiously running through her list of dangerous people.

Grimmjow raised the gun a little higher, so that it pointed between her eyes.

"Now, get out."

"What?"

"Get out of my apartment," he said slowly, trying to not grit his teeth.

"Whaddaya mean 'get out? This place is mine! I pay every month for this place-"

"Then I applaud your legality. Grab your crap and go before I toss you through the window."

"What, you want me to just run out into the street?"

"Preferably with your stuff. It saves me a trip to the dump."

"What!" she squawked, jumping to her feet, which wasn't very impressive. She was much shorter than him, though the rage billowing out of her was enough for two people twice her size. "

"One minute," he growled, gun still in hand. "One minute to pack up and leave."

"You can't-"

"Fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six..."

With a loud curse, she stormed to the closet, hissing obscenities and growling under her breath. The woman grabbed what few objects were the in closet, shoving them in a large bag. She grabbed her shoes and then hurried to the bathroom. He counted aloud to irritate her, which seemed to work as she became more and more frenzied as she worked.

When he reached zero, he pointed the gun to the door.

"Now, get out," he snarled, and she glared at him.

"I haven't even gotten all my stuff yet!"

In the minute he'd given her, the woman had managed to fill two bags and sling several things over her shoulders. He noticed that she had a pair of dress shoes and a power suit hanging out the bag in her hand, and wondered why she was living in this dump if she could afford such nice clothes.

"Sucks for you, mate," he said, and she scowled, shoving past him.

"Pig," she snarled, and he responded with "Cow". In the moment before the door closed, he caught the vicious glare she sent him, which kind of impressed him. She certainly was rather fearless. She had to know that most other people who stormed into a woman's home, looking wild with a gun in hand would hardly have given her the chance to live.

He locked the door, turned back to the room for a closer inspection.

Thankfully, the woman had kept it clean. There was hardly even any dust, which was a pleasant turn of events. There was also some food in the fridge; milk, eggs, some yogurt, apples and a pack of ham, as well as some bread, peanut butter and pretzels in the cupboard. The bathroom had been stripped of all toiletries, with exception of a bottom of shampoo, which he found to be excessively irritating. He hadn't figured in getting a brand new set of soaps, washrags and the like when he planned for settling back into his previous routine, though he had prepared himself for the chance that he'd have to get more clothes.

Grimmjow walked back into the bedroom, sighing slightly, feeling waves of exhaustion start to flood him, now that he was back in his old place. It had been a long day, full of much more physical exertion than he'd been used to. Sitting around in a cell with absolutely nothing to do for weeks on end kind of did that to you.

He stripped down the bed and tossed the used blankets and sheets to the side, wondering how that woman had gotten into his apartment, and why she'd said that she was paying for it. He had set up a special account that automatically paid his rent every month when he first bought the place, as he could easily spend weeks in other countries at the drop of a hat, and didn't like the hassle of having to find a new place every time he came back to London. Grimmjow had actually be renting out the apartment for four years now, no, he corrected himself after a pause, six years.

The landlord may not have been the most honorable person Grimmjow knew, but he certainly wasn't about to sell an apartment out from under someone who had faithfully been paying rent for years. And who might just come after him with a baseball bat and knock all his teeth out when they found out.

A flutter of irritation and anger worked its way through his exhaustion as he moved over to the window, not sparing much time for his lovely view of the opposite wall of the alley. He opened it then moved back into the main room, opening the cabinet and grabbing a spare blanket. Grimmjow carted it back to the bedroom then flopped onto the bed, tossing it over him.

As Grimmjow drifted off, he felt a small smile on his face. Finally, he was released back into the city, into the chaos.

AN Oh, Grimmjow, what lovely people you invariably meet. XD

So, as usual, tell me what you think! Your comments always help~