Glossary In Advance:
Shinai – used in Kendo, meant to represent a katana and is made of 4 bamboo slats.
Kata-yo – a real sword used for display of kata – which includes fundamental techniques of attacking and counter-attacking in Kendo.
Kendo – everyone knows Kendo. The way of the sword!
...
Chapter 6 – Fight-O-Rama!
Ichigo was more than tired; he was hammered. Absolutely trounced by one larger than which Thor wielded. He was punched by fists of stone and sometimes bamboo. He was practically tossed about, with the perpetrator caring for neither left and right, up and down, then left and right, and up and down again. Beyond all forms of exhaustion was he, and dying for a brief respite of just seconds he was, and that alone he couldn't even have. He wanted to take it like a man, but his determination was on the brink of surrendering to his knackered body. He found it harder and harder to concentrate now; his knees were wobbly and joints hurting. He barely found the energy to lift an arm, much less wield a shinai, despite the relative lightweight it was.
It had been six hours since training began, and he was forced to go through a twenty kilometer run for warm-up, then fifty rounds of pull-ups, and two hundred sit-ups. Breaks were disallowed. The next two hours were spent being chased around the medium-sized hall by Zaraki Kenpachi, his personal trainer for the movie.
Ichigo's palms were made rough from the incessant gripping of the wooden hilt and calluses were set to form. Rivulets of perspiration continued to ooze out of his pores, occasionally dripping into his ajar mouth and he flinched at the saltiness of it. He hadn't a single drop of water since breakfast, much less some godly crumbs of whatever.
"Again!" A rough voice cackled. It belonged to Kenpachi, all gungho and ever ready to shed some unnecessary blood in the name of violence. "Come at me again you nasty little fucker!"
All Ichigo wanted to do was to dash past the monstrous, towering hulk of a brute, out the door, through the walkways, speed like a roadster down the highway, and back into the comfort of his room. But reality hurt; there was no way he could escape this madhouse. One thing for sure, he never seemed to outrun Kenpachi (even though in truth he was much ahead of the bells-wearing man), much less outfight him.
"OWW!" He winced in pain as a bamboo slat came loose from his trainer's shinai and slapped his back in aggressive repetition.
"You weren't paying attention!" Kenpachi barked. "Again!"
"W-WAIT!" Ichigo placed a palm before his trainer's face, blocking his sight. Sadly, it amounted to nothing.
"I can't hear you!" Kenpachi continued to beat at the spent young man. His strokes were ferocious and unyielding. They rained down on Ichigo's body like aimless arrows stained with poison at the tips. "Learn to speak the fucking up!"
"I need w-water," Ichigo gasped. "I really need water..."
"If you win me you'll get water!" Kenpachi said, eyes twisting into cruel lines. "Clean fucking water."
"I..huff...am...going to die..." Ichigo mumbled breathlessly, him being severely depleted of moisture that he couldn't speak outright. "I....r-really am..."
"You say this all the time, Ichigo! The day before today and yesterday and last week and the week before the last and the month before this! How do you expect me to believe you? And you haven't won me yet," Kenpachi growled. "Just fight me like a fucking man for once, you pansy brat!" Then with muscles tensed and breaking forth for a good fight, lips curved into a hellish snarl and orbs wet with frenzied violence, he charged at Ichigo.
...
"Swing it to the left," Stark moved his shinai to the left with lazy strokes. "Then swing it to the right."
Ulquiorra did as he was told, then stopped when he found it appeared ridiculous an action. "We can skip the basics, Stark. And we've already done this two weeks ago."
"Oh, my bad," Stark said, looking unapologetic. "Was it you who said you know a bit of Kendo?"
"Yes," Ulquiorra answered in his signature flat tone. "I know it very well too."
"Why didn't you say so earlier? Could have saved me a whole lot of trouble!" Stark raised his voice in unwarranted indignation. "I drew up all these training plans for nothing!"
"I told you right at the start. Your eyes were closed then, but you nodded and said 'Yes, yes, run along kid'," Ulquiorra replied without missing a beat, filled with disbelief that he actually played the fool alongside his trainer, who couldn't be bothered even if the sky was to suddenly collapse on him. He would prolly treat it as an additional cushy wolf-skin bed rug atop his comforter and snore his lonely life away. "Don't lie about the training plans. You obviously never plan anything in advance."
"Oops, you found out," Stark emitted a woeful smile. "Don't tell the Kuchiki man. I'll let you duel me for free."
"It's supposed to come with the package," Ulquiorra answered, almost exasperated.
"Really? That I wasn't in the know of," Stark feigned ignorance, and turned to the side so the green eyed man couldn't see through his dire act.
"Remarkable acting," Ulquiorra quipped. "Why don't you show me the action choreography, since there's no point in teaching something I already am capable of?" He asked, then walked to the weaponry shelf and tossed a kata-yo toward Stark. "For real."
"How troublesome. Can't we do something else?"
"What do you suggest then? I'm not going to repeat these menial activities."
"Yeah yeah, we all know how intelligent you are, Ulquiorra-san," Stark stifled a yawn, and put the kata-yo back on the stand. "I'm so against violence."
"Likewise," Ulquiorra admitted, placing his shinai on the floor and stepped over it. In all due honesty, he never fancied the idea of working up a sweat, and thankfully Stark shared the same mentality. He shuddered to think what the current situation would be like had he gotten the other fellow, loopy demeanor and all. Having a trillion tiny bells attached to one's hair easily spoke volumes of one's personality.
"Let's head out for lunch then. Stomach's rumbling."
Ulquiorra checked his two million yen watch. "It's only 10:30 now."
"We can come back at 2."
"Will Soi Fon know?" Ulquiorra asked, a little hopeful yet worried. It wasn't that he was afraid of the casting director, she was fierce oh yes, but then again he wasn't intimidated by nobody. He simply disliked being shouted at, especially when a loudhailer lay in her hands. That really spelt trouble. Trouble for the eardrums. He then rubbed his earlobes in precipitous concern.
"Nah," replied Stark, self-assured. "Anyways you're an actor, and a damn good one at that. Do the usual if we're caught. Cry, beg, run, whatever. She will buy it. Someone told me he saw her bawling her eyes out while watching the sad little movie you debuted in."
"I won't do that, Stark." Ulquiorra was slightly cross with the perpetually sleeping man who wasn't asleep at this point of time but appeared to be working on doing so with surety. "But I very much entertain the idea of an extensive lunch. And I know of a restaurant nearby that has quite a decent buffet spread."
...
"You're getting the hang of things huh, Ichigo!" Kenpachi grinned, revealing rows of white jagged teeth. "Fucking smart boy, ain't you. I love it when you hack wildly! Reminds me of my younger self. All brash and unrefined. It was fucking good then. Then that fucking old geezer interfered. Pisses me off. He ruined me. Fuck him and his fucking hair that grows on the wrong side of his face, ha ha!"
"I...huff...don't hack wildly! I do it with style!" Ichigo protested, groping at where he had been struck repeatedly. He liked to think himself as wielding the shinai with flawless grace, but the barbaric man swung his weapon at him with such unpredictability that he hadn't a choice but to block whatever moves he could make sense of. "And I'm not a boy, you hideous, deranged hedgehog!"
"Whatever the fuck you say, you girly little knickers-wearing wimp. Practise on your own. In that corner! Far away from this spot! No buts. Wake me up when you encounter any difficulties. And you'd better not because I don't like it when people fuck around while I'm asleep. I will kill whoever is involved," warned a sinister-looking Kenpachi, the bells in his thorny hair echoed his hellish threat.
Ichigo gulped like a clueless guppy.
Then, capping a humongous hand over his open mouth, the Fighting Man let out a thunderous yawn, flung his shinai on the floor with blatant disregard, and lay down in the middle of the training hall while releasing a belch that threatened to shake the foundations of Earth. As soon as he snored his way into a deep slumber, Ichigo hurriedly put his shinai down, crept soundlessly toward the huge man, and wagged a finger between his eyes. Having received no reaction from the sleeping man, he felt pleased that his life wasn't endangered in any way. Then patting himself on the back in silent congratulation, he snickered quietly and left the room for a much needed afternoon snack.
...
Crunch...
Ulquiorra nibbled away on a buttered corn cob, eyes skimming past vertical lines of fine print, completely oblivious to his orange haired co-star's frazzled stares of hunger and jealousy through the frosted glass panel on the door. The latter watched in envy as a yellow kernel, soft and squishy, was left out in the cold, it being stuck on Ulquiorra's upper lip. He sniggered to himself; it was similar to a moldy mole.
Slurp...
Ichigo's mouth watered out of its own accord. The drool dribbled down his chin and he concocted a brilliant plan for his galling co-star to hand over the scrumptious looking corn cob. It glittered invitingly on a plain Styrofoam plate, untouched, and emitted an aura so seductive and tempting. He wanted to nail it to the spot and ravish it silly. It worsened when he spied Ulquiorra's pink tongue darting out, flicked the obstinate lone kernel onto its tip, then gobbled it down.
"Oi pasty faced pig! I'm going to report you for slacking!" Ichigo shouted in all his obnoxious glory and busted the door open. "And for pulling that glum face all the time!"
Ulquiorra looked up from the newspaper, and eyed him frostily. "Go ahead."
"I really am! Unless..." Ichigo turned his attention to the corn cob on the Styrofoam plate.
"What?" Ulquiorra followed his gaze, and smirked in hidden gaiety when he understood what the bright haired irritant sought.
"You give me that corn cob! Then I will zip my mouth, 'cause it'd be stuffed with food, ha ha," Ichigo narrowed his eyes, attempting to come across as scheming. Ulquiorra thought he looked as villainous as a church mouse.
"Is that all? Alright then. I can't finish it anyway," Ulquiorra beckoned for Ichigo to enter the pantry, and pushed the plate toward the orange haired man.
"You sure? Is it poisoned?" Ichigo took a step forward, hesitant. He had expected Ulquiorra to downright reject him, or perhaps even snuff the corn cob down his throat, just so he could pique his fury. But the latter hadn't done that, to his credit, and Ichigo was confounded. He needed time to reason this lapse in logic, and in the cavernous hunger of the minute, he surmised it was because they hadn't seen each other for a while: two months to be exact. They usually underwent their respective trainings at different facilities, but the venue where Ulquiorra visited was currently undergoing renovation and hence the venue had been shifted. Perhaps distance rendered the mind forgetful, either of his failure to win his co-star at oral altercations or he really did push it to the back of his head, he hardly found him as reprehensible as before. Or maybe, Ulquiorra was a block of ice who needed time to thaw and let his better side emerge.
"Expect to see me lying dead on the ground five minutes from now," said Ulquiorra, emerald orbs fixed upon the other's warm brown ones.
"Gee, who would have thought? Me and the undisputed Chairman of Sarcasm sharing a buttered corn cob and not clawing each other's eyes out! The press would love it I say," Ichigo chortled. He dragged a plastic chair out and sat on it, massaging his sore knees in the midst.
"I hear you got it bad," Ulquiorra offered his brief condolences, and caught a glimpse of the many bruises and superficial injuries Ichigo had sustained. He supposed he could feel a twinge of sympathy for him, but the fact he was Ichigo (the pesky owner of blinding orange hair) canceled the probability entirely.
"That's unquestionable. Kenpachi's raving mad. Anyhow, why so kind today? It's terribly unlike you. Is this really you or your considerate clone? Or did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today, or better still, land on the floor with a spine cracking thud?" Ichigo grinned a grin with such despicable wideness that the green eyed actor wished for it to rip apart.
"I don't want you to swoon at my feet," he stated plainly, fingertips nudging the plate forward.
"Ha ha ha," Ichigo drowned himself in a sonorous bout of fake laughter. "Over my starved body."
"Eat it before it turns cold," Ulquiorra replied, making sure to carry a matronly tone between those lines, yet indiscreet enough for his masqueraded intention to not sail over Ichigo's presumably empty head. After all, he acted for a living. He continued to push the plate toward the latter, urging him to consume the corn cob at once.
The carrot top was truly naïve, and he took the devious act for real. He wanted to burst into tears then, be it out of rising waves of hunger or alarming surprise at Ulquiorra's compassionate, selfless display, but refrained from doing so. Suddenly he felt angry and upset with himself for cursing his raven haired co-star to several degrees of purgatory. Maybe the latter wasn't as deplorable as at first and second and third and many more other impressions. Heck that. He, Kurosaki Ichigo, poll-winning heartthrob of many, was supposed to be the sensitive nice guy under all that tough exterior.
Not Ulquiorra 'Pasty-faced Pig' Schiffer!
That man had been nothing but callous toward him, and generally everyone else he came across. It was even well publicized, but that never bothered him, because he was that cold-blooded, and now, the chilling, blue, placid blood was coursing through his very veins, causing him to become wicked and turn away from sanctuary!
To think he actually suspected Ulquiorra, the newly reformed man, of faking his Good Samaritan act. What was wrong with him? Had he grown so weary from the strenuous and Spartan-like physical trainings that he misjudged people? Or had his prejudice get the better of him? He had previously thought of a bile so acidic that it corroded the man's conscience; it seemed like he was the one in possession of it. He really ought to be hung for his thought crimes against Saint Ulquiorra, patron archangel of sweetcorn crops and famished young men.
"T-thanks," he mumbled in shame, red-faced from the revelation at how narrow-minded he was.
"No problem," Ulquiorra replied, fingertips still nudging the plate across the table, this time with more force, causing the corn cob to rock slightly.
Ichigo thought the theoretical possibility for them to forge a cohesive working relationship was at long last bearing fruit, and for the first time in his life of almost twenty-three years, he smiled brightly and sincerely at the green eyed man, who in return continued to push the plate forward. "You don't seem so mean after a while. I bet you still are, but not as mean as the mean idiot months ago."
"Really?" Ulquiorra quirked a brow. He badly wanted to smile too (though for an utterly antonymous reason), but held back the tug at the corner of his lips.
"Maybe we got off on the wrong foot, that's why. Clash of personalities. And I don't insult people all the time, for your information. Unlike you," Ichigo stuck a hand out to reach for the corn cob. He felt satisfied with his tactful handling of matters. "Although I was really pleasant at first and you were hella nasty. And then you turned me into a mean, impolite man. Luckily I'm self-conscious enough to bring myself back to earth."
"I see. I give you my corn cob, and all of a sudden you think I'm playing nice." The green eyed man applied greater pressure on the plate, making it jiggle in a volatile fashion. He watched in some concealed fascination as the corn cob tilted toward Ichigo dangerously, threatening to leap for freedom anytime.
Ichigo sneered at the comment, then when the object of his gastronomic affections was a mere millimeter from his desirous grasp, Ulquiorra saw it as a punctual prompt to give the plate a final shove. The corn cob jutted onward, slid past the table like a plane on the runway, flew freely in the air, broke through the chains of gravity, did a defying somersault, then gratified with its abrupt acrobatic performance, smashed itself against Ichigo's dirtied sweatshirt kamikaze style. At a pace an elderly tortoise holds with pride, it slithered down the front of his shirt, leaving a yellowish trail behind, before rolling away to some uncharted lands.
"W-what was that for?" Ichigo cried as he looked on in horror. He was hungry. Cold. Fatigued. He was wearing a dirty shirt made dirtier by a food he could be having now. It was the most ideal combination of things. It was the perfect recipe for mental collapse. He could feel a magnificent breakdown looming in the neighboring horizons. It was coming through any time, any second. He was starting to see a plethora of colors and galaxies, all at once. He was suppressing them. No he wasn't. He was practically a raging pit bull with balls of fire simmering under its taut skin, and Ulquiorra, the adamant flag-waving Matador.
"I'd rather dangle it over a trash bin or drop it down a rubbish chute then have you share my food, Kurosaki Ichigo. You don't deserve it."
"Bastard! You can insult me all you like, but you can't waste food! It's FOOD! My poor baby!" Ichigo wailed in bereavement for the contaminated corn cob. Elsewhere around the world, a ring of poverty-stricken children joined him in his vigilant cries for perfectly good food gone to waste.
"Your retardation is contagious."
That was it. The red flag had been raised. Enough was enough, and Ichigo decided at long last that he did have enough of the insufferable raven haired man. He could forgive, but never forget. At least he thought he could, but now he could do neither. Ulquiorra Schiffer was beyond forgivable, but it be ideal to cast his existence to sand particles and dust (or even atoms!). Barking at him didn't quite cut it, he would allow his limbs to do the talking this time, and put an apt end to the hurt heaped on his diminishing pride once and for all.
"Ulquiorra Schiffer! I really am going to wrangle the hell out of you!" The brash one strewn his ravenous hunger aside, and with a war cry, he leaped out of his chair, ignoring the numerous aches and pains he was nursing barely just, arms stretched out for his co-star's neck. The fragile body part looked so tantalizing then, Ichigo thought. All he could picture was him wrapping his fingers tightly around it and squeezing it lifeless. He thought a thousand thoughts while sailing through the air. Morbid, homicidal thoughts. The accomplishment of thoughts that would undoubtedly land him behind bars. He had heard of hideous activities being performed on men incarcerated by other men incarcerated. He was still young. He had a career ahead of him. He would like to visit New Zealand one day. He couldn't decide upon the course of action to take. The second he made up his mind was when gravity won, and he wound up sprawled across the small wooden table, which under the sudden weight impacted, began the buckling of its spindly black legs.
"You can't even reach me," said Ulquiorra, looking down upon Ichigo who was all shades of mess and irrationality. He got up from his seat, right before the table crashed in spectacular aplomb and sent an orange haired fool wheezing at his branded white sneakers. Snidely, he added: "Are the dust mites delicious?"
Ichigo ain't caring about anything no more. He momentarily had a change of heart seconds ago before he fell from his temporal flight in mid-air, but now, he could only think of seeking revenge for the corn cob (which rolled back to its hometown), for mistaking the man's malevolent conduct as the unthinkable opposite, and for all the ill treatment – of the mental, metaphysical and physical varieties, heaped on him by said culprit. He was truly embittered; a lone ranger on a warpath to destroy everything in sight.
"Oi to those two ugly fucktards over there!" Someone yelled brusquely. It was Grimmjow, and who else but him. He was on his way to the pantry for some biscuits and cola, and chanced upon two stray shinai lying on the ground of a training hall. Nobody was seen there, and he picked them up, thinking it to be his lucky day. Later did he spot Kenpachi all knocked out in a dark corner of the hall, and hastily made off with his scavenged items.
"Oi ya deaf pricks! Got biscuits? Got me some cola?" Grimmjow tried again. He failed at reading situations, even one with tensions escalating beyond stratospheric levels such as this. He was decidedly ignored by the pair who teetered perilously on the verge of tearing each other's limbs off, and he didn't like it. "Am I fuckin' made of glass or wut. Stupid shits." He then ran a hand through his freshly styled blue hair, smoothed the front of his leather biker jacket, and watched the ballistic scene set to unpack itself before him, thinking: 'Hooray for funny free shit!'
"Go to hell!" A murderous Ichigo - face dusty, sprung to his feet, fists balled, and threw a venomous punch in Ulquiorra's direction, but found the stone cold surface of the brick wall instead. It left him writhing in unbridled agony and involuntarily he let loose an explicit string of obscenities that transcended geographical and linguistic boundaries.
Grimmjow whistled like a hysterical wolf. "Hey kiddo me loves ya vocab! Damn fuckin' tight!" He more than enjoyed it and made a point of laughing noisily to showcase his delight, one that built upon the suffering of others. Again, he was ignored. Partly because he never quite showed his face, and that his blatant laughter was obscured by the rising volume of an incensed orange head.
"Don't make me dirty my hands, Kurosaki Ichigo," Ulquiorra cautioned, green eyes glinting mercilessly. He artfully dodged a blow aimed poorly at his face, then another at his chest. "What awkward moves you have. Can't even get a punch right. Training is indeed wasted on you," he remarked. "An otter would have done better."
"I'm going to kill you! I'm going to beat you into a bloody pulp! I'm going to do it! I really am! Just you watch, you evil-doer who ruins food and cosmetics and my appetite!"
"Try and try until you die, tangerine trash."
The two fueling stars continued to do what they did best to each other for what seemed like an eternity, according to Grimmjow. That said it did naught to subtract the high score of entertainment value he judged the 'skit' to be. Ulquiorra was relentless in taunting the carrot top with creative insults each time he missed, which in turn earned him a larger barrage of kicks and fists that nowhere found their target.
"Ya losin', shitty orange freak! Let me help!" Grimmjow stepped out from the corner and shouted for all to hear. "That boring bastard's gunna murder ya ass once he gets into it! He will fuckin' dice ya, ha ha, and ya wun even know until ya fuckin' cheap coffin made of discounted wood shavin' comes!"
Preoccupied as Ichigo was with busting ineffective moves, he remained ultra sensitive to caustic jibes referencing the color of his hair. It was a bizarre case of genes yes, but it was his nevertheless. His ears picked up Grimmjow's words like a pair of TV antenna, and immediately turned his head to glance at the offending man, and observed a knowing smirk spread across his handsomely rugged features. "What? Get lost! It's between him and me!"
Grimmjow shook his head. "Oi dumb kiddo! Ya need a goddamn weapon!"
"Don't give him the wrong idea, Grimmjow," Ulquiorra took a quick break from tormenting his co-star with knife-edged comments and targeted them at his relative, with whom he often wished he wasn't related to. "Don't bring his hopes up."
"Fuck off, cousin! Dun tell the great Jaegerjacquez wut to do. Look wut I got with me! IT'S THE SHINAI!" Grimmjow roared happily, and went on to toss the mysterious pair of shinai at the two men. Ichigo caught it smartly, but Ulquiorra simply let the shinai soar past him and into the wooden debris.
"Isn't this the shinai Kenpachi used during practice?" Ichigo wondered aloud. "Why is it with you?"
"Dunno! They walked toward me! What'm I gunna do huh? Take it of cuz! Any fucktard with half a fuckin' brain wud do that!" replied Grimmjow, a feral snarl in place. "Oi boring bastard! Dun ignore the shinai! I know ya wanna. Heh..."
Ulquiorra chose to delete the larger than life image of his cousin, and pondered with affirmation that yet again with flagrant flamboyance Grimmjow had proved what a retarded twat he truly was. He thanked his personal good fortune that they bore no resemblance to each other, and if it wasn't brought up by Nosey Parkers, no one would ever sniffed out the regrettable reality of their blood ties.
"Get off your goddamn high horse, Ulquiorra Schiffer! Take the shinai and fight it out with me. Because if you don't I'm going to batter you, and damn well I will."
"I can topple you even without moving an inch," Ulquiorra replied, bored. The staid countenance wore off speedily when he felt a jolt of pain assault his nerve system.
"Ha! Gotcha!" Ichigo smirked and withdrew the shinai from his co-star's shin. "One nil to me. Go on, take the shinai, don't you want to hit back at me? Don't you? Afraid you will lose to me? I don't want to boast but I'm pretty damn good at this already. Kudos to the lunatic hedgehog. Go on, here, your shinai!" He strode over to the decapitated table, plunged a hand into the debris and retrieved the bamboo-slatted sword, then flung it at Ulquiorra, who decided to catch it this time.
"After I avenge the death of my corn cob, I'm going to eat an entire field of it! Are you going to stop me by chopping off entire crops of corn? With your bare hands or shinai? Ulquiorra bloody Schiffer!" Ichigo goaded.
Adrenaline began to pump into his lean, sinewy limbs with every word that steamrolled off his hot-tempered tongue. His pulse was quickening. The heart was propelling like a heated engine. His spirit was becoming ebullient. He hadn't experienced such nostalgic vibes for a while, not since graduating from high school. He used to partake in fights (those were the days!), be it alone or alongside his friends. Those training sessions with Kenpachi didn't quite count; the latter was a professional, and gobsmacked in the head too. Moreover he was thumped for the majority of it.
'That insensitive pig has to be a newbie too,' Ichigo thought, 'although he seems oddly proficient at self-defense.'
"Today is the day you learn how useless you are in this field," said Ulquiorra, wielding the shinai with his right hand. He tucked the other into his pocket, projecting a look of nonchalant composure. "To think it's come so late. But nevertheless."
"Shut up and fight me, asshole! I'll never pardon your atrocities, especially toward starving children!" Ichigo took position opposite his co-star, fingers gripping the hilt and set it firmly before him. For a passing division of a second, amidst the noisy rumbling of his stomach, he felt Kenpachi's insane love for battle surge through his bones, then seep into the marrow, and plunge into his bloodstream. The fatigue he had been through earlier was totally eradicated. The adrenaline had since flooded his thews. He could sense fire aglow in his eyes, the piping hot waves roaring, torching the room and burned his frigid muscles. He was absolutely raring to go. "You know the score."
"I grant you first mover's advantage." The green eyed man took a step backward casually. He closed his eyes, and appeared to lament a leisurely afternoon gone past. "Come."
More than irked his orange haired opponent was at his manly pride being trampled on, that he ruined his chances by rushing forward too fast, with no strategy nor finesse, but an arsenal of frenetic slashes and classless hacks. He missed, not just once or twice, but time and again. Despite garnering the best of his efforts, the animated actor looked to fumble disastrously.
"Your lack of co-ordination is appalling to say the least," Ulquiorra stated, countering the gnashing blows with facility. "I assume you've never experienced a victory. You're set on maintaining this streak, that I can assure you of."
"People like you should die a slow and painful death with your cell phone almost at your fingertips but you never can dial a single number for help!" Ichigo shouted in defiance. "Then people like me will walk past and stick a kitchen knife into your guts for good measure!"
"Such tawdry attempts at wit." Ulquiorra sidestepped Ichigo with a languid turn of his ankles, then struck the tip of the shinai at the other's chest. "Score one. We're level now."
Ichigo grimaced. He could hardly believe it. He was on the offensive, but the other took only some stupendous seconds to hit a vital spot. He did see it coming - Ulquiorra's shinai, he absolutely did, and yet he couldn't avoid being pummeled. On top of that, the green eyed actor was handling the shinai with only one hand. One effing complacent hand! How did he become this skilful at Kendo in a matter of weeks? Was he a prodigy that Japan never discovered? What else did the pompous jerk ace at? Hence his superior attitude! Why not him then?
'Life's unfair!' Ichigo bemoaned his lack of outrageous fighting prowess, and was reduced to a slimy green blob of jealousy. "Take out your other hand! Fight me at full strength, and don't ever belittle me again, you snooty moron!"
"Do you think you're worth the while?" Clang! "More proof I should take your words with a hefty pinch of salt." Ulquiorra deftly blocked his bright haired co-star's blow with a clean maneuver and landed one against his abdomen, knocking him several feet backward. "Score two. What about you, cretinous apricot? What's your comeback this time? I just sailed into pole position."
"Shut your repulsive trap! You and your malicious slur! Don't choke on your venom and your horrible makeup skills, Ulquiorra Schiffer," Ichigo retorted. He staggered forward, and mustering what was left in his evaporating reservoir, he launched another attack, replete with an outcry of "I'm coming for your head, nauseating peewee bugger!".
Ulquiorra leisurely fleeted past him, then angled the shinai behind his back, locking Ichigo's in stagnancy. "Hard as you may try, you will never be able to come close. You and your kind. Teenage actors in pointless flicks trying to come good? Laughable at best. You're ten thousand light years away from the likes of mine and it is just an underestimation," he snapped. "Why don't you give it up. Not just this meaningless challenge, but the whole acting business. Saves everyone plenty of time and resources. I'm sure many would agree."
"As if I will let a lowlife determine the outset of my life!" Ichigo fumed. "Dastardly son of a gun!" The orange haired actor jumped and shinai raised high above his head, he brought it down on his co-star. Ulquiorra twirled his bamboo-slatted sword, then performing an immediate switch of hands and a sequence of nifty footwork, he successfully stepped out of harm's way. Ichigo's shinai slammed onto the ground, the resultant impact forming a dent on the carpet.
Ulquiorra scoffed at the impotency of his co-star's Kendo skills, and with a formidable surge of power, his bamboo-slatted sword ruthlessly whipped Ichigo's shoulder blades, first the left, then the right. The latter felt his shoulders droop simultaneously. Weakened, he sent his shinai clattering to the floor.
"Score three, imbecilic fool. We're almost there."
"Shit you and your heart of black crap," cussed Ichigo. He couldn't wrap his mind around the matrix: he was getting a sound bashing from Ulquiorra, who made everything appear as easy as breathing. He wasn't supposed to sit back and admire the green eyed man's fluid, albeit terse movements, but he did just that, and would rather be slaughtered by a butcher than admit that to anyone. It was exactly the manner he wished for himself to fight in. An apathetic sort of grace: lethal yet blithe. So enchanting the view of Ulquiorra moving in lackadaisical tandem with his shinai was, that Ichigo nearly ogled his eyeballs out. Then, in a bid to rid his head of rubbish thoughts, he bellowed: "You're as engaging as a pool of vomit!"
"If you were any slower, Kurosaki Ichigo, you'd be racing backward in time." Ulquiorra effortlessly moved past him and then behind him. In a time that rivaled the split of a hair's end, he swung his shinai across the air, them being incisive strokes, and smacked it against Ichigo's back, making him yelp in shock. "Score four. How long more are you going to keep this up?"
"Those who claimed your EQ to be negative could never be more wrong!" Ichigo hadn't the time to recover from the spanking he got, much less recover his weapon. When he shifted his pupils upward, the sight of Ulquiorra's implacable shinai swiping at his head greeted him. He bolted away instantly, the bamboo slats narrowly missing contact with his skull. "I checked your dictionary yesterday and realized it never existed in the first place!"
"Talk about rehashing senseless tripe. I suppose you are a champion of it," muttered Ulquiorra, displeased that he failed to up the score. He peeked at his expensive watch, and noted in panic it was nearing five. He had to finish this unofficial duel quickly, then scuttle home to feed his pet kitten. There was no more time to spend on his worthless co-star, Ulquiorra thought grimly. He struck his shinai out in one curt sweep, prepared to zero in on the kill.
"Ah shit!" Grimmjow cursed, before letting a conniving smile embrace his face. "I forgot boring bastard was the Kendo champion in our district! Too bad, kiddo! I guess I sorta miss watching cousin dearest fight. Now he's all rightly fuckin' mad, time to say my byes! Ya are really a gone case, freako."
"Not so fast!" Ichigo pushed himself off the floor, and made a free-for-all lunge at Ulquiorra, who was about to swerve around for a final square off with the thoroughly defeated carrot top. The former whizzed like a crisply fired bullet, and startled the green eyed actor was, he lost connection with his feet, and dived dangerously forward, then backward. Arms flailing, balance missing, the wind knocked out of his floundering sails, he managed to twist himself around, and haplessly, he felt himself plummeting toward Ichigo. Desperate as he was to shuffle himself away, the tips of his toes refused to obey, and with an astounding clangor he collided into the sole victim of both his shinai and verbal torture.
Falling on top of him wasn't the worst thing, it was the position they were in. To delve into specifics, it was the position he was in. Palms pressed atop Ichigo's chest, one knee jutting against his groin, whilst another was lined along the floor. Then the mouth. Where else it could be but mashed against the orange haired man's, whole. To top things off Ichigo's mouth was acutely open; he wanted to cry out in embarrassment - some bewilderingly agonizing sensation he felt in his loins (no thanks to his co-star's knee); he had lost the fight, no, he was dumbfounded by the skulduggery of life altogether.
So was Renji, who had decided to drop by for a refill of his water bottle. What he saw was one he could never ever pass it up. It made him chuckle like a greedy piglet. He regretted not being there earlier, so he could get into the thick of marvelous happenings.
So was Ulquiorra, and especially Ulquiorra. He blinked a few times in rapid succession to nudge himself out of this horrid nightmare. He blinked again, realizing he was anything but dreaming, and sighed indiscreetly against Ichigo's lips, which then quivered and moved, and ended up sucking on his imperious co-star's bottom lip for a few excruciating seconds. It tasted of buttered corn.
"I knew it! I just fuckin' knew it!" Grimmjow declared. "It's gunna end up in a smooch! Done openly! O-P-E-N-L-Y! LOL!" The leather clad man further purred in unfounded joy, breaking the horrific silence that settled in the atmosphere. He adored speaking in IM chat syllables - it evidenced the colossal levels of his awesomeness, and took utmost thrill in enunciating them separately. "Boring ol' bastard's findin' some love on the set! Fighters turn lovers! Viva viva viva! Now why dun ya take responsibility for ya perverted actions, ha ha, look where ya knee is, and flee to Holland! They dun fuck with gays! Just fuckin' go now! Get ya marriage cert and dun ever come back! The great Jeagerjacquez's all set to rule Japan, so fuck ya asses off, orange freakos and boring bastards!"
Infuriated and mortified at his plight, Ulquiorra snappily removed himself off Ichigo, his actions never gentle: an elbow knocking into the other's chin; a knee roughly scraping against a mightily touchy area. Then he stood up, kicked a fallen shinai into his grasp, and hurled it like a javelin at Grimmjow's legs. The vindictive act saw the latter's knees falter and then sink dramatically onto the ground like a dying swan.
"FUCK YOU!" Grimmjow shrieked, clutching at his legs as though a gunshot wound was afflicted on them. "Crazy bastard on the loose! Someone chain this fucktard up! Lock him away! I dunno this cunty loon!"
"What in the world happened, man? Ey Ichi, you okay?" Renji prodded his friend's soft tummy. Ichigo had no response. His face was deathly pale and somehow blue, he was breathing in irregular spasms, and he was totally out of sorts. His hands first swiped at his lips frantically, then shot to his lower region, and sluggishly, he keeled over to the side, bleating in mournful sputters about 'forgone crown jewels' and 'goodbye descendants'.
"Oi Nice Tats!" Grimmjow called out to Renji. "Be a pal and get me an ambulance wun ya. I'm fuckin' dying in here."
"Hey Edgy!" Renji slanted a look at him. "What are you doing here? You're injured too?"
"The name's Grimmjow, stupid! G-R-I-DOUBLE M-J-O-NOT A BUT O-W," Grimmjow rolled his azure eyes. Arrogance reeked aplenty in his words, and left Renji seething at being called some unjustifiable names. "Ambulance please. My legs are fuckin' broke. Because of that epic bastard standing there!" He jabbed an accusing finger at Ulquiorra, who came out of the situation smelling like a dainty bouquet of daffodils. "Mistah I-Can't-Fuckin'-Fight-To-Save-My-Nutsack suffered him too. That lousy fuckwit."
Ulquiorra promptly shot everyone in the pantry a supercilious glare, then focused on the carrot top whose cheeks were stained the shade of his hair. "This is what you get when you mess with me. Do you hear me, Kurosaki Ichigo?"
"Y-you..." Ichigo stuttered in rage and discomfiture. "G-go to h-hell, y-you bloody top g-g-grade asshole..."
"Kurosaki-kun, are you alright?" A foreign voice broke through amidst the horde of male octanes. It was female, and contained the first genuine traces of concern heard in the pantry. "You look funny."
"I-ino-" Ichigo realized he was in a room chock full of people (the pantry was no mansion), and made haste to correct himself. "Orihime. I'm f-fine. Just a bad day at work that's all. Why are you here anyway? I thought we agreed to meet at seven."
The young woman named Inoue Orihime fumbled with her pastel blue cardigan for a while, almost shyly, then replied, "I was filming at a location nearby, thought I might drop by for a visit. I brought you lemonade and some sandwiches, in case you're hungry or just wanting a bite."
"Oh My Fuckin' God!" Grimmjow cried in awe, temporarily dropping his pathetic rendition of a gunshot victim. "Galfren?"
Ichigo nodded, face flushed. 'Inoue has food with her!' he thought happily. 'No wait. She HAS FOOD with her?!'
"Ooh. Really?" The inquisitive blue haired man looked at Renji questioningly. "She's his galfren? Freako has a fuckin' galfren who's fuckin' him?"
Renji bobbed his head, feeling dumb. "Yep. Truly so." He wasn't too sure about the latter bit of the question though.
"I thought those are rumors spun by the fuckin' boogies and paps," Grimmjow scratched his leg like a tardy ruffian, then grinned maniacally at Ulquiorra. "Tch! Now I know, it ain't no more fun! Poor boring bastard. All alone again!"
"None of this concerns me," said Ulquiorra, coldly. "I'm leaving."
"Where to?" Grimmjow yelled, scrambling about from where he sat. Grouching, he retrieved the two shinai and tucked them under his arm. "Goin' home huh? Ya really are a boring bastard of the highest degree. I'm coming along! I wanna see kitty! Heh!"
"Stay away," Ulquiorra replied, lips pursed. "She doesn't want to see you." He cast a treacherous peep at his co-star, who was now getting to his feet with Orihime's aid. "I suggest you quit while you still can."
"What do you mean, you spiteful thorn in the ass," Ichigo griped angrily, and looked ready to lock horns with the green eyed man again. "I signed up for this, and I ain't going nowhere!"
"Wouldn't want to ruin the movie with your abysmal lack of talent, would you," Ulquiorra implored. He had a truckload of thoughts to pour forth, but time was running out. Any needless moment spent here equated the growth in hunger levels for his beloved pet kitten.
"Don't say bad things about Kurosaki-kun!" Orihime interjected, tender gray eyes meeting a steely green pair. "I don't know what transpired between the both of you, but I have faith in Kurosaki-kun's character and abilities! In my opinion he's the best actor, because he puts one hundred percent into what he does, never shying away from unpleasantries, he's kind an-don't turn your back and walk away when someone's talking in earnest!"
"Blah blah blah, shuddup bitch. Go play with Barbie. Auf Wiedersehen." Grimmjow gave a haughty wave of his hand, and trooped after Ulquiorra, his unzipped biker jacket flapping away in rebellion. They never looked back, not even once. They were that cool, as duly reported.
...
A/N: Fighting scenes are an absolute killer to do. I've exhausted my meager repertoire. Had a whale of a time writing the dialogues & narratives though. Doing insults are always a heap of joy! Gomenasai if you find them lame or anything, but otherwise, hope you've enjoyed this chapter! :D