Before we begin...
Apologies for the (very) late update. The writer's block dragged on much longer than I expected. In return, I'm presenting you the longest chapter yet.
Also, a quickie warning. Rating for this chapter will be M. So those under 18, shoo (says the author who watched Kill Bill when thirteen).
Enjoy :)
Chapter Thirteen
Scream
Naherin remained in a glum stupor for the next few days. Her gray eyes didn't sparkle like they used to and her hair hung limp. Everyone wondered what could have possibly happened to their cheerful "Princess."
"What's the matter?" the bespectacled nurse asked.
"I," Naherin searched for her tongue, "I finally changed Oberst Schiffer's bandages." She closed her eyes. "I was hoping to see his green eyes..."
The other nurse shook her head sadly. "You should've known better," she said in a rather chiding tone. "You read his report. You knew he was blind."
"I did," Naherin croaked. "I..."
The nurse frowned. She tucked her clipboard under her armpit and curling her fingers into a fist, knocked Naherin on the head. "Wake up!" she snapped. "What's the point of you getting depressed over your patient? How do you think your patient will feel? If you let your emotions get in the way, you aren't fit to be a hospital personnel."
Naherin stared at her, momentarily dazed. "I'm sorry." She lowered her head and mumbled, "Thank you, Nana."
The nurse smiled. "Anytime," she said. She shook her hand, revealing bruised knuckles. "My god, your head is hard."
Naherin grinned sheepishly.
Back when Reynolds was alive, Grimmjaw once told him to suck it up and take the pain. That pain was good for him, that it reminds him of being alive.
I take that back, Grimmjaw thought. Pain's a fucker.
The door to his cell creaked open.
His ears twitched when he heard the barking order of a guard, a nervous squeak, then a hurried shuffling of feet. This wasn't the fox-face or the greasy bastard. Based on what he heard from the footsteps, this new visitor was short and skinny; a petite frame on the whole.
"Er, excuse me. I'm here to...see your wounds."
Even the voice was high-pitched and timid. But what caused Grimmjaw to turn and face the visitor, chains rattling as he did, was the fluent English he heard.
"You're not a Nazi," Grimmjaw said.
It was a boy who looked just out of his teens. He was a seedy-looking kid, as if he had grown in a cupboard, never once exposed to the sunlight. His droopy eyes, his small nose and mouth, and the way he jumped at the smallest sounds, made him seem like a mouse. A mouse Grimmjaw would've squashed at any other time.
Now wasn't the right time.
The boy sheepishly lowered his head. "I'm not even a soldier," he said. "I'm a medic."
"A doc?"
"Uh, no." The boy cleared his throat. "Technically, a nurse."
Grimmjaw sat up gingerly, but looked properly at the boy with a strange expression. "You're a nurse?"
The boy turned red. He opened his mouth to stutter when Grimmjaw interrupted, "Shit, how old are you? Do you even have hair down there?"
The boy's jaw dropped open. "You're not…making fun of me for being a male nurse?" he asked tentatively.
Grimmjaw snorted. "Nurse, quack, they're all the same. You think I'm in the right state to be a tight-ass here?" His eyes narrowed. "But if you were a Nazi, that'd be different. I'd have chewed your hand off the wrist bone if you even tried to touch me."
The boy widened his eyes frightfully.
"Stop being a wuss. And you didn't tell me your age yet."
"Twenty-seven."
"The fuck?! I thought you were thirteen!"
"My growth spurt was a bit too early," the boy mumbled, his voice getting smaller by the second.
"Or you never had one," Grimmjaw said under his breath. "Anyway, the Nazis sent you to look at their artwork?" He squared his shoulders and flaunted the rainbow of injuries spread across his body.
The boy blanched. Whatever he'd been expecting, this outstripped anything he had in mind. It was a miracle this rough-looking man hadn't keeled over and died already. Without wasting further time, he quickly opened the medical pack on his back and began disinfecting the more serious gashes.
While the boy worked hard to treat him, Grimmjaw grew bored. He blew his hair out of his face, he fidgeted, he turned this way and that, he rattled his chains, anything to drive his nurse up the wall.
"Please remain still," the boy said, wiping sweat off his brow. "I need to attach a tourniquet to your arm. If we leave it the way it is now, you'll have to amputate it."
Despite acting nonchalant when he showed off his injuries, Grimmjaw winced as gauze was applied on his brand. He shot a resentful glare in the boy's direction, as if it was he who had taken a glowing iron and shoved it against his skin.
Life was a bitch. It was the all-time low point in Grimmjaw's twenty-one years on Earth, when he felt downright shitty. Shitty wieners not worth his time were spitting and stomping on him black and blue. Shitty fox-faces were poking branding irons into his bare skin with delighted giggles. And shitty bastards were visiting him afterwards, with that smug face only an arrogant, greasy bastard could pull off.
This was the shittiest it could get.
He scratched that comment when there was a weird sound. The boy-nurse looked up with alarmed eyes. The alarm melded into a strange look as he stared at Grimmjaw.
"What," Grimmjaw muttered. He avoided the boy's perplexed eyes.
There it was again. A smudge of red painted across Grimmjaw's face as his stomach—his fucking traitor of a stomach—growled in hunger. And damn, even the growling hurt. It was a slow ache that clenched his abdominal muscles as his body groaned for food, nutrients, anything.
Sure, he's had it rough even before the war. But Grimmjaw was a man who indulged in pleasure. Food was one of life's pleasures. He rarely missed a day without it.
He gritted his teeth, making an irritated "tch!" as he looked the other way. The piteous groans of his belly made him sound pretty fucking pathetic.
"Erm," the boy dared to speak. He paused in his ministrations, nervously trying to catch the disgruntled soldier's eyes. "I can…get you…something to e-eat…"
Grimmjaw sat up instantly, probably reopening most of his wounds in the process. "You're not fucking with me?" he demanded. "'Cause that's what they all do. Mocking and taunting and fucking around." He narrowed dangerous eyes. "You wouldn't do that now, would you?"
"No!" the boy blurted out. "I'll-I'll try to sneak something next time."
"If there is a next time," Grimmjaw grumbled. "It's not like they sent you to heal me cuz they got a sudden change of heart."
The boy didn't know what to say. He glanced down at his lap, where both his hands were in tight fists, wondering if there truly was going to be a next time. The chances were slim. From what the wounds had shown him, it was more likely this man was going to die during the next few days of torture. It all depended on General Aizen. On a whim, he had sent the boy in the first place. "Fix the toy before it breaks," was all he had said to a confused, somewhat terrified male-nurse.
Now he understood the meaning behind those words. He wants to break his toy all over again, the boy thought dully.
Rather miserably, the boy returned to bandaging the soldier's brand. And yet, he secretly envied the man to some degree. This man had been punched, kicked, starved, and tortured in unimaginable ways. He'd been reduced to a subhuman level, exposed to the degradation of being branded like some kind of cattle. And yet, he still had the gall to be smart-mouthed and cocky like this. Swaggering like he owned this puny, peanut-sized prison cell.
"…How do you do it…?" the boy said softly.
The grave look behind Grimmjaw's blue eyes swirled with untapped emotions and veiled pain.
"I grind," he said.
Ulquiorra was an observer.
Not a participant, a player in this game of life, but merely an observer who stood on the sidelines—watching, listening, and dissecting the information he retained.
He used to be good at what he did.
Used to be.
Despite his tepid response to his sudden change in circumstance, inside, Ulquiorra was in turmoil. He was a man who valued order and structure, and believed it was crucial for one to know exactly where his place was in society. Unfortunately, this was a society that valued perfection over all else and cast out its Jews, gypsies, and scum. He knew his current place. As of now, he was at the very bottom of the social ladder. Trash.
He raised his arm, bed sheet rustling as he did. Very gently, he pressed his fingers over his bandaged eyes. They no longer hurt like before, but there was a strange ache that pulsated through.
Someone shyly knocked on the door. He was bombarded by that sticky floral scent.
"How are you doing today, Oberst?" Naherin asked.
He decided to go for a "no comment."
She approached his bedside. "Eh, I-I wanted to apologize to you for my thoughtless behavior last time," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.
Ulquiorra would've given her his usual impassive glance if he only had the eyes to do it. Instead, he decided to voice his mind. "There is no need for an apology. Involving emotions will only complicate matters."
"Yes, I should have acted more professionally. But as your nurse, I must also consider the patient's feelings."
He turned as if to face her. "What are these 'feelings' you speak of?" he said.
Naherin stared at him, at first unsure of how to respond. "Feelings," she began carefully, "are what everyone has. They're what everyone needs."
"I disagree."
The dissent fell heavily. It felt as if the oxygen was being slowly sucked out of the room. She had never experienced such a leaden conversation before.
"Pardon?" she said, keeping the trembling out of her voice.
"Emotions are unnecessary," he said. "They cloud our reasoning and reduce thinking capabilities."
Naherin face blanched. "Is that…what you truly believe, Oberst?" she asked. "That what our hearts feel is nothing but a-a burden?"
She gave a small gasp when Ulquiorra shot his hand forward and grabbed her by the collar, pulling her closer to him. How he knew her exact location despite his blinded eyes, she would never know.
He leaned forward and whispered, "What is a heart? You speak of it as if you know it very well. Then tell me, where can I find it? Can I dissect the emotions out of it? If I were to rip open your chest and search through the organs, would I find it then?"
Though covered with bandages, it felt as if his green eyes were drilling a hole through her.
"…Or are you lying to me?"
SLAP!
Naherin stumbled back, released from his grasp. Her lower lip quivered, as angry tears coursed down to her chin. She clasped her offending hand and took a slow, shaky breath.
Ulquiorra didn't move. He didn't lift his hand to touch the slap mark that marred his cheek.
When he heard the sound of running footsteps and the slam of the door, and when he could no longer smell the sweet odor of flowers, he knew he was alone.
Like Grimmjaw had predicted, the Nazis were far from finished with him. They visited three times a day now (not to give him food).
Some German soldiers came at their own time and free will. After all, these were bored young men with pent-up anger and stress. They were cautious at first. Grimmjaw was infamous for his temper and brute strength. He had already maimed quite a number of torturer-to-be's, despite being chained hand and foot. But gradually, the Nazis began to find amusement in his vicious attitude. They saw him as a challenge, as if he were some wild stallion that needed to be broken. Apparently, there was now a huge bet on who could make the "piece of American scum" scream first. So far, Dietrich was in the lead. Rumors about the branding incident had already spread.
Yet, Grimmjaw would gladly hand the "Creepiest Bastard of the Year" award to the head poncho himself. It wasn't the beatings or the clever new ways to inflict pain that freaked him out. In fact, General Aizen rarely touched him. The asshole preferred to step back and watch with a placid smile, as if he was at an opera and not a torture chamber.
What scared (yes, scared) Grimmjaw was that strange feeling that accompanied Aizen's visits. The more often the general came, the more he became aware of another presence in his cell. It started out as a chill that spread across the prison walls. But now he could even hear a rattling breath, unintelligible whispers, a low groan.
Today it was a duet. Both Dietrich and Aizen were here. Dietrich wanted to play, while Aizen was content with being the audience. In fact, nowadays Aizen brought his own barstool to sit on and watch.
Dietrich fiddled with a crowbar with his unnaturally long fingers. White, long fingers that reminded Grimmjaw of a disgustingly pale spider. Sometimes he felt like a moth in a spider web, waiting to have his innards sucked out.
Dietrich slammed his foot onto Grimmjaw's back to keep him in place. He yanked at the chain to Grimmjaw's collar, twisting his head back painfully. "Is the kitty hungry?" he asked. "Would the kitty like some milk?"
"Kitty would like to claw your face off," Grimmjaw replied.
Dietrich grinned. He raised the crowbar, positioned himself like a baseball player, and swung with all his might. It connected with the side of Grimmjaw's skull with a sickening crack!
"Shit!" Grimmjaw yelled. Whenever he was caught off-guard and couldn't grind, he opted for swearing. It was better than screaming and exciting those little fuckers.
His world tilted, as everything became a blur. The blood that trickled down his face and onto the stone floor kept getting smaller then bigger, as if they were synchronizing with his rising heartbeat.
In the midst of all this, Dietrich's gleeful face floated into view. "Language, lil' kitty," he said. He kicked Grimmjaw over and laid him flat on his back. Taking the blood-soaked crowbar, he drew a circle on Grimmjaw's stomach. It looked like a crude finger-painting.
"'Cuz if you're hungry, I can make a hole in your belly," Dietrich said sweetly. "'Cuz then you won't be hungry. You'll just have a nice hole right over here. How 'bout I take this crowbar and twist your intestines into a bunch like spaghetti and feed that to you? Sounds tasty, doesn't it?"
"Bite me," Grimmjaw said.
Dietrich put on a face of mock hurt. "I just wanted to know if you were hungry, kitty, cuz we found a lil' Jewish boy sneaking around the kitchen, ya know." A horrible sneer unfolded. "Ungrateful rat, isn't he? After we brought him here cuz of his medical skills."
It took Grimmjaw a minute to take in the meaning behind the words. He spat in the Nazi's face. "You sick son of a bitch," he hissed.
For the first time ever, the smile vanished from Dietrich's face. Eyes in slits, he stared at Grimmjaw thoughtfully, twirling the crowbar in his hands. Grimmjaw gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, bracing himself for another blow. Dietrich raised the crowbar once again with both hands, but everything was interrupted by a scream.
It was the most horrifying thing Grimmjaw had ever heard. It caused his stomach to plummet, as every fiber in his body shook with the realization that for the first fucking time in his life, he was terrified.
The scream was pure anguish. It was a concentration of unleashed rage, bitter hatred, and, most of all, grief. He had never heard something that could raise every hair on his body (right down to his pubes) and break his rock-hard heart like that.
"…What…is that?" Grimmjaw mumbled.
He jerked when Aizen stood up from his special seat. Despite this unreal situation, the general was all smiling and calm as if he was on a picnic.
Grimmjaw widened his eyes when he saw Aizen draw something out of thin air. It was a sword. The kind he saw Japs wielding on the battlefield. Is this some kinda new form of torture? he wondered.
Aizen expertly held the sword. "So you can hear a hollow's scream?" he asked. "Interesting."
"To think he has that much spirit energy," Dietrich added.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Grimmjaw snarled, trying to sit up.
Aizen pressed the blunt edge of the sword against Grimmjaw's chest to push him back down. "A hollow," he said, "is a restless spirit that could not depart. It's a spirit with a hole right over here." He thumbed at his chest. "War is the perfect breeding ground for them.
"It seems this one was following you around quite a bit," Aizen continued, raising his sword. "A friend, perhaps? A fellow soldier? But I can't have him consume you. No, you're still necessary for my plans."
Without another word, Aizen thrust the sword into thin air. There was a ripple from the impact and Grimmjaw was met with the most curious sight. As another hideous scream ripped through the air, for a split second, he thought he spotted a blurred apparition of some sort of huge creature. A creature with a mask that shattered as it faded away, revealing sad hazel eyes.
"You…" Grimmjaw choked.
A worn cross hit the floor as the hollow vanished.
After the last visit, Ulquiorra wondered if he would be abandoned and left to rot.
So he was mildly surprised when he heard the doorknob turn. His surprise melded into something else as soon as he realized the body scent of the person who entered the room did not carry flowers.
"What did you say to Naherin?" came the disapproving tone.
It was the bespectacled nurse with the no-nonsense attitude. Ulquiorra decidedly turned his head the other way, choosing to ignore the question.
The nurse frowned. "You must have been real scum. I rarely see Naherin get angry."
He parted his lips to make an odd noise. It could have been a chuckle. "Perhaps."
The nurse raised an eyebrow. "Are you sorry for what you did?"
"No," was the immediate reply. "But…I am sorry for hurting her."
The nurse smirked. She opened the door and said, "You hear that, Naherin? He apologizes. Kind of."
Naherin shuffled her way in, eyes downcast. There was a light blush that painted her cheeks.
"Well then, I'll leave you two alone together." The nurse quickly snuck out and closed the door behind her.
The lingering awkward silence was broken by Naherin's small but firm voice. "I…am also not sorry for what I did. But I am sorry that I hurt you."
He dismissed it.
"No, it was very unprofessional of me," she insisted, leaning over to change his bandages. When she bent forward to untangle the wrappings behind his head, her huge breasts pressed against his face, smothering him.
"Woman, I can't breathe."
She leaped backward, face burning red. "I'm so sorry, Oberst! Please excuse me!"
While Ulquiorra caught his breath, Naherin tried to redeem herself. "Is there anything I can get you?" she asked.
He paused. His original plan was to let her stew in her guilt, but he wondered if he could play with her a bit. "Strawberries," he said.
She jumped in surprise. "Eh? Strawberries?" she said.
"I ate strawberries during my childhood," he lied smoothly. "Now that I can never see my hometown, I wish to recollect the lost memories by tasting them."
Perfect. The exact amount of nostalgia to garner pity (but not overdone) and the rare exposure of his supposed "soft" side would be enough to…
"Where will I find strawberries?" she murmured.
"Use the brain you have," Ulquiorra said, not meaning a word. "Figure it out."
She bit her lips, but then raised them to a smile. "Will I get something in return?"
He raised his eyebrows. But he was in a generous mood. "In return, you can drop your formalities. Call me Ulquiorra."
Naherin looked shocked. "I possibly couldn't, Oberst Schiffer!"
Ulquiorra looked bored. "I said to call me Ulquiorra."
She blushed again. "I'm sorry, Oberst Schiffer." Determination glinted in her eyes. "But I'll find the strawberries. If it's for Oberst Schiffer, I'd be glad to!"
Foolish woman, he thought. He wondered if there was an ounce of affection in his thoughts.
Probably not.
The ambush was abrupt.
As the war dragged on, both sides were getting desperate—desperate enough to launch impulsive attacks. The only reason why they might have attacked this particular vehicle was the sight of an escort accompanying Nurse Naherin. Perhaps they mistook her as an important officer, not a valuable hospital employee.
There wasn't even time to scream. Machine guns peppered the jeep, filling it with bullets. Shouts in Russian rang in the air as clouds of dust flew into the air.
The inside of the jeep was dyed red. Red from the trodden strawberries, red from the splatters of blood. It was a bittersweet scent.
Only a whisper was carried by the wind.
"...Ulquiorra."
After that out-of-the-world experience with Aizen and Dietrich, Grimmjaw decided these Nazis weren't just bastards. They were crazy bastards. He began to construct a list that ranked the craziest of his torturers when, as if on cue, the door opened. Only one man entered the cell.
It was Craziest #1. General Aizen swaggered forward, leaving behind a throng of soldiers right outside the cell, most of whom Grimmjaw recognized from previous "visits."
"Grimmjaw," Aizen said. His voice echoed off the prison walls.
When Grimmjaw didn't reply, Aizen was suddenly at his side. With one harsh movement, he jerked Grimmjaw's chain, almost snapping his spine in half when his head was forced back. Stunned by this unexpected show of violence, Grimmjaw didn't even have a retort ready when Aizen began to speak.
"I'm beginning to lose patience," he said.
Oh joy, Grimmjaw thought. But he didn't dare voice his thoughts out loud.
"I'm a patient man, but I'm also a busy man," Aizen said. "So let's speed things up a bit. After all, wouldn't it be better for you if we ended things more quickly?"
"I…" Grimmjaw said slowly, "…have no fucking idea what you're talking about." He couldn't stand this anymore. All this wordplay and mindgames were driving him to the edge. He had half a mind to just bite off his tongue and hope to die. The downside was if he didn't kick the bucket, then he'd lose his only weapon.
"I thought I had made it perfectly clear," Aizen said mildly. "I ask for your loyalty."
Speechless, Grimmjaw stared at the SS general. He laughed. His loud laughter bounced off the walls, surrounding the only inhabitants. He abruptly stopped. "Go fuck yourself."
Aizen smiled. "As I expected. But I'm not asking for your loyalty right now. Not in this life. No, you're going to die. I will do nothing to stop that. Instead, I ask for your everlasting loyalty after death."
"You're mad," Grimmjaw said. "I never thought I'd meet someone crazier than me, but you're one fucked-up son of a bitch."
"So your answer is?"
"Go. Fuck. Yourself."
Aizen sighed. "It seems it will take a while to tame a beast," he said. "I will return to see if your answer has changed."
He stood up. Opening the door, he called the waiting soldiers inside. At the doorway, he talked to the group in a murmur. A grin appeared on the soldiers' faces. They leered as they stepped into the room, one of them licking his lips.
Grimmjaw stared at them, the color draining from his face. He began to struggle madly against his chains. The shackles cut deeply into his wrists.
"I'LL KILL YOU!" he bellowed. "I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU! DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!"
"Remember," said Aizen. "This one is feisty." He closed the door behind him.
For the first time, screams rang through the torture chamber.
Ulquiorra awoke with a start. He was crying. No, that couldn't be right. He never cried.
When he pressed his fingers against his wet cheeks, blood clung to the tips of his fingers. Blood coursed down his cheeks, leaving twin trails.
Never one to be concerned about his physical appearance, he didn't bother to wipe it off. Instead, he concentrated on the footsteps approaching his room. They weren't the silly skipping that belonged to that woman or anyone he recognized.
It was a new nurse. She opened the door too loudly and faked a cry of surprise. "Oh my, you're bleeding!"
"Who are you?" he said, a menacing tone barely veiled.
"I am your new nurse, Oberst," said the unfamiliar voice. High-pitched. Whiny.
Already, he detested her.
"Where is the old one?"
A sympathetic tsk-tsk. "She died a few days ago!" the nurse said overdramatically. "She was riding in a jeep when it was ambushed. Apparently, she left the hospital to find strawberries. Imagine! Strawberries during the war? She must have been out of her mind!"
"Get out."
Ulquiorra's quiet words sliced through the air. The threat in his voice was no longer hidden.
"Huh? But, O-oberst, I—"
"Don't make me repeat myself," he said. "Get out."
The temperature in the room dropped so low, a chill had seeped into every corner. The nurse could barely breathe.
She ran out of the room, bristling with indignant anger but far too terrified to say anything.
She closed the door with a loud slam.
Silence settled in the room.
...once again, Ulquiorra was alone.
Reflections...
I had the hardest time writing this chapter. Even now, I'm very unsatisfied with it :(
For those who are hella confused, let me clear things up a bit. Although this fic is an AU, I'm trying to correspond it with the actual manga as much as possible. You could almost say I attempted to make a "prequel" to the manga that focuses on how Grimmjaw and Ulquiorra became hollows and how Aizen began making his army before the events in Karakura Town and our lovable Ichigo.
So though Aizen and Gin/Dietrich may appear as Nazis here, they are still technically the same shinigamis from Soul Society who came to the living world during WWII. With Aizen's bankai of "ultimate hypnosis," I figured he could skip a few days in Soul Society and get a head's start on gathering his army. And considering how selective and meticulous Aizen is, I played with the idea that he'd personally go and pick his "potential" espadas.
After all, war would be a perfect breeding ground for hollows.