He woke up slowly, his whole body aching and sore. Everything hurt, especially his shoulder. He moaned, fingers digging into the sand under him, screwing his eyes up against the too-bright artificial sun, wanting to just go back to sleep.
But then he remembered. He remembered the fight with Kurosaki, the wounds he'd gotten throbbing with the memory. And he remembered Nnoitra.
The sudden fire in his shoulder, the momentary blank as he struggled to process what had just happened, as he fell to the sand without even a cry, too stunned to yell out or react to the burning agony in his shoulder, the arm nearly cut off at the socket.
He remembered being afraid, for the first time he could ever recall in his life as a Hollow. Not just afraid, either - it was pure animalistic terror as Nnoitra lifted his sword for the final blow. Deep and powerful and instinctual as he watched immobile, unable to even raise an arm to block his inevitable and terrifying death.
And then salvation. The very shinigami he'd just met in battle, stepping in front of the blade. Saving him. Protecting him, protecting the man who'd very nearly killed him.
The memories made him shoot up into a sitting position, letting out a reflexive cry as his shoulder protested loudly, agony shooting down his arm.
He staggered to his feet, clutching his wounded shoulder, and looked around, eyes wide and breathing heavy, a frightened animal wary of danger.
But the desert was silent. Glancing around like a trapped animal, he saw a corpse in the distance…no, two. Nnoitra and Tesla. Oh.
Oh.
It was over, wasn't it?
He screwed his eyes shut, searching for any trace of reiatsu. There was none. Nothing. Las Noches was completely empty. He was alone.
Completely alone.
Without realizing, he let out a scream, a wordless cry of fury and helplessness. He'd missed everything. And now Kurosaki was gone, the Espada were dead…hell, maybe evenAizen was dead. And he was completely alone, the lone survivor.
Glancing around, he forced himself towards the castle, still tense and wary, but knowing he needed to lick his wounds in a safe place. His pride was wounded, and he was still afraid. He needed time to recover, and then…
He didn't know what he'd do, really. Fight? That was all he was good for, all he could do. But for now, he needed to heal. He'd cross that bridge when he was recovered.
It wasn't something he wanted to think about, anyway.