A few chapters into the main story, several people expressed an interest and curiosity in how Grimmjow and Szayel met and became partners. Since I'd already had a bit of a back story for them created, which I used to dictate how they interacted with one another, I decided I might as well drabble it up. So here ya go! The story behind how their partnership began.
Hope you enjoy!
The hospital was a small one, old and worn down and in need of repairs. Located in the Shallows -a poor neighborhood where many of the less than exemplary citizens lived- it had seen it's fair share of gruesome injuries and illnesses but it was rare for the available rooms to ever fill up, despite it's small size and rough area. What the hospital was more known for was it's morgue.
While it may not have seen many injured and sick citizens, it was regularly the purgatory for bodies before they were finally laid to rest and buried deep in the old cemetery. All kinds were brought in; deaths from natural causes, sickness, accidents, crimes and murders and even the occasional accidental shooting by a cop. Sometimes it saw things that were less explainable, less ordinary. The people that occupied the Shallows were not kind, nor were they adverse to things most would find unthinkable.
Stories had been circulating, tales told in the dead of night. Most said they were merely rumors, but the staff knew otherwise, and so did the police. It had been a regular occurrence, something that was plaguing the small hospital often as of late. The bodies in the morgue would all be fine and well when the chilled, quiet room was locked up for the night. In the morning, when the chief pathologist returned, he would find them not quite whole. But only the fresh ones, and the bodies that had had mostly healthy functions before death.
Organs were going missing, and no one had been able to find trace nor hint of the culprit.
Almost as if respecting the bodies, whoever was responsible would oh so carefully, skillfully follow the same incisions made when the mortician had preformed his autopsy. The hand that had cut through the stitching must have been a steady one, and never was there once a case where an extra cut was found, or even so much as a nick or scratch to show a slip up. Then the sought after organs were artfully removed, before the body was sewn back up, following the previous lines of stitching. In the morning, the pathologist would find no mess, no blood nor other fluids. There were no prints left behind, nothing to suggest anything had happened at all.
In truth, it took the staff a long time to even realize something was going. But the bodies had seemed light, something had seemed off. It was only when one of the mortician's newest assistants had slipped up, accidentally leaving a sharp metal clamp in one of the bodies, that they finally figured out what was going on. When the metal tip began poking through pale, cold flesh, the pathologist had angrily begun to reopen the body so that the offending medical tool could be removed and the body could be prepped for funeral services later, but his anger was quickly forgotten when he recut his sutures to find that the lungs were missing.
And so the police had been called. The story had spread, and the rumors had begun. Someone was stealing organs, but the crime scene was too clean and aside from the lack of particular organs, the culprit left nothing behind, like it hadn't really been a person at all.
Or at least not completely human.
It was late at night, the hour creeping up on early morning and all was dark. The building was mostly empty, with only the skeleton crew making their rounds and keeping watch over the few patients. A low, whistled tune spread throughout the quiet hallways, winding it's way deeper, down the single set of stairs that led below ground. The morgue was locked, the director and pathologist safely at home and in bed for the night.
But the visitor was a regular and he knew how to get in, even without a key to unlock the door and even without permission. In fact, he could get in without anyone knowing he was even there at all.
With a quick glance down the hall, yellow eyes flashing in the deep shadows of the dim lighting, the man knelt and contemplated the new lock on the morgue door. A smile lifted the corners of thin lips as his whistled melody died away. It seemed they would never learn.
Tucking shoulder length, pink hair behind his ears so that in no longer framed pretty features, Szayel straightened again and pressed the tip of his pointer finger to the very center of the shiny new deadbolt. Elegant brows furrowed just slightly in concentration, before his sharp hearing picked up the faint click of the release.
He pulled his hand away, wrapped a white cloth around the door knob and used it to not only wipe away his single finger print, but also twist the knob so that he didn't leave behind others. The door swung shut behind him on near silent hinges as the halfblooded man entered the morgue.
Szayel went straight to the pathologist's desk and, again using the white cloth, opened up the top drawer. He pulled the reports from the drawer and quickly scanned through to find which trays the most recent bodies were located in, before putting the reports back where he'd found them.
Finding the right tray was an easy task. Every compartment was numbered to keep things organized and hassle free, and it also made his job quicker and easier. Tugging the heavy freezer door open, Szayel pulled out the cold metal tray that held the body he was looking for.
The whistled tune picked back up where he'd left off as he locked the tray in place and looked over the lines of puckered flesh that created a rough Y across the deceased woman's abdomen. It wasn't the prettiest autopsy he'd seen, but it still opened the way for him to collect what he needed and leave.
Thanks to the pathologist's report, he already knew that the woman's liver was no good. A heavy drinker, apparently, but the heart was what he was after this time around and she'd been young enough that the delicate organ had sustained very little damage, so he wasn't too concerned about the developing cancer cells that the pathologist had found, nor the scar tissue from the onset of liver failure.
Poising his hands above the body, Szayel flexed his long fingers before pressing the tip of one to the sutured cuts the pathologist had made. He traced the lines with steady, gentle motions and watched as cold, dead flesh split with ease under his light touch. No more than a minute later, he pushed aside the flaps of skin that covered the dead woman's chest cavity to take a look around. He took his time in studying the cuts to the muscle and bone and after determining he would have no trouble, he pushed aside the un-sutured muscular structure. Next came the bones of the ribcage, but since the autopsy had already been preformed, a hole had already been cut for him and all that was left to him was simply lifting the bone out of the way.
He settled the structure, the front portion of the ribcage, aside and once more began working his fingers through meat and gore and what was left of the woman's drying blood. The inside of a body, especially after the autopsy had been preformed, was surprisingly clean. More so than one would think. Blood didn't flow so freely after death, and by the time the autopsy was preformed, it'd long since ceased flowing altogether. Most bodily fluids settled toward the back of the body, since the woman had been laid out upon her back, and so it was easily enough avoided.
Truly brilliant when it came to anatomy and the functions of the body, Szayel had little difficulty cutting out the organ he sought after. Within less than a half hour, the woman's heart, already kept cold from the morgue freezer she'd been stored in, was safely resting in a small but well insulated bag, where it would be kept chilled for up to three hours. It was more than enough time for Szayel to close up the body, put it back where he'd found it, and leave the morgue.
He locked the door behind himself and whistled as he climbed the stairs, his package tucked safely under one arm. The police would be called in the morning, but the staff would be unable to remember seeing anyone or anything suspicious.
Szayel, like several of the other citizens that dwelled in the Shallows, was half hollow. Like nearly every halfbreed, his mother had died during childbirth and his father hadn't stuck around long enough to even find out the human woman he'd screwed had gotten pregnant.
Unlike most halfbloods, however, Szayel had a rare ability. Magic was something that could only be found in the mix of human and hollow, but it was rare combination of genetics that allowed it to happen. And even if one was born with the potential, most never actually learned to harness the ability. But Szayel not only learned how to tap into his magical abilities at a young age, he'd excelled in the art.
Some of his work was still a little rough around the edges, seeing as he had no one to teach him how to master his abilities, but it far exceeded what most magic-users could do. And he'd carved himself quite the little niche in a dark and gritty world where survival was a harsh thing.
Szayel sold his gruesome harvest, pedaling human and hollow organs alike to the highest bidder. Of course his work drew attention towards himself, but it hardly mattered. He worked alone, but he wasn't as vulnerable as people believed. That cruel magic he used on bodies wasn't exactly adverse to coursing through living bodies. It was just...complicated, harder to predict and control. But when the need arose, it was equally destructive and when faced with said need, Szayel rarely cared if he tore the person's insides out through their nose by accident. It took care of his problem rather quickly, after all.
This day however, was a peculiar one indeed. LIke usual, Szayel had took what he'd wanted, what he had a market for knew he'd be able to find a quick buyer for. After storing the woman's heart away, he pushed back the flaps of cold, dead flesh into place. Flexing long, thin gingers, the magic-user took his time in smoothing the pad of this thumb over the dark marks of severed, puckered meat and skin, where the crude stitching had held the body closed. Starting at the top left most cut, he carefully but quickly made his way downward. Behind his thumb, the flesh stitched itself back together and the damage he'd done revered itself like it'd never been there at all.
With a smile and glittering eyes, Szayel picked up his quietly whistled tune again as he pushed the tray back into it's freezer box. Closing and latching the unit, the effeminate man wiped down the handle, turned on his heel and left the morgue. He walked right passed the majority of the staff and even a few patients on his way to the front entrance. The nurses on staff would have his whistled tune stuck in their heads for the rest of the day, but they wouldn't know why or remember seeing bright pink hair.
As had become typical, Szayel wandered down the first alleyway he came across, his pace leisurely but not quite slow. But as a second tune, a darker whistle to match his own silvery tone, chimed in to accompany his, Szayel fell silent. Pink brows arched as the slightest of frowns tugged almost pretty features into a mildly displeased little arc. Of course he had nothing to fear, and so continued, even as a handfull of shadows made themselves known.
"My apologies, gentlemen," Szayel spoke up, cutting the second whistle short. There was a sly, amused smirk in his tone. "bt you would do well in finding another means of fortune this morning."
Deep, rich laughter rumbled through the predawn air. A shiver worked it's way down Szayel's spine. The group moved from the shadow's, heading towards him and walking further down the alley at a pace far more relaxed than he felt they should have been.
One of the figured stood out from the others in nearly every way. Judging by the wide grin on handsome, angular features, it was from this man that the laughter had come. Flacial, swirling blue eyes caught what little light was to be found, even in the dark. His gaze seemed as if aglow. The dark, business casual clothing he wore did little to hide a well honed, muscled physique, making the man look both professional and wild.
This was a man that knew what he was doing and knew exactly how to get what he wanted. At that moment, Szayel realized this would not be an attempt at petty thievery or glorified bullying.
He looked at each of the men in turn, pulling his gaze away from the blue haired one that was obviously the leader. Two were human, along with the man in charge. The third was most likely full blooded hollow, the hired grunt, the muscle and their insurance against himself.
He smirked, his expression sly as his appraising gaze floated back toward the blue haired human. Only one of the four currently pinning him in could possibly give him any trouble, and that was only because pure bred hollows tended to have a dampening affect toward magic, a small resistance to it. No matter. Szayel's was quite potent when he wanted it to be.
The blue haired man grinned as he studied Szayel right back, an amused, cynical knowing in his vivid blue eyes, like he understand exactly what Szayel was thinking.
"Good morning. Mr. Granz, was it?" The big man greeted and asked. He didn't wait for a confirmation of identities, which meant he was already certain he was speaking to whom he'd been looking for. The slightest hint of another frown tugged at Szayel's thin lips. "My name is Grimmjow, and I have a proposition for you."
Yellow eyes widened just slightly as the powerful name rolled off the man's tongue, a natural air of pride and confidence to his tone and about his person. Szayel knew that name. Everyone knew that name, especially those that frequented the Shallows. Suddenly, the pink haired halfbreed wasn't so sure he could handle four men at once. Avoiding a confrontation seemed wise.
"Good morning to you as well, Mr. Jaegerjaquez." Szayel started, "Unfortunately, I believe I must decl-"
"Please, call me Grimmjow." The powerful human purposefully interrupted with a smile. A single blue brow arched in an almost playful way as those chilling eyes tracked first down, then back up Szayel's form in an appraising manner, like he was sizing the slim man up. The magic-user suppressed another shiver, knowing exactly the kind of calculations that were surely going on in the man's head; monetary values he didn't care to think about.
"Clearly you've heard of me." Grimmjow continued in a polite but intimidating way that only businessmen could seem to master. "You know what I do?"
Szayel paused for a moment, his chilling gaze not leaving the human's, before he nodded a single motion.
"Good. Then this will be quick." An almost sinister little smirk tugged at one corner of Grimmjow's lips. He moved with all the confidence and grace of a hunting cat, of a creature that knew what it was capable of, as he stalked away from his small group and closer to the halfblood. Yellow eyes followed his every move. "I'd like to make you an offer, Mr. Granz. I've got a position open that would be right up your alley, more or less. I'd like you to work with me; full benefits, can't beat the pay, flexible hours. No more crawling through shadows."
"Hm. Well, that all sounds very tempting, but I must ask;" Szayel's eyes flickered away from the big human's form, to where Grimmjow's associates stood a few meters back, unobtrusive, but still menacing and near enough should the pink haired magic-user try anything too stupid. Were they really so comfortable leaving their leader so near him? The blue haired man had made it sound almost as if they knew what the halfblood was capable of, and if that were the case, they would be mad to leave the big man so unprotected. Yet they certainly didn't seem very worried. "what if I respectfully decline your offer?"
"Than you work for me rather than with." The big man said, an ease to his words. "You don't want that."
Szayel could easily imagine that he indeed did not want that: he knew Grimmjow's trade, he knew what the man meant by his wording. Pink brows arched slightly as Szayel nodded a small motion, as if in thought, but another small smile tugged at his lips all the same. "Well, you see, I am not so easy to keep locked away-"
"I know all about your little tricks, Mr. Granz." Grimmjow interrupted. He curled his lip in a way that made it seem as if he were quickly tiring of this little game. "I will personally cut your fingers off and put an end to your locking picking."
"Oh..." Yellow eyes widened significantly at that as elegant hands curled protectively. That would certainly put an end to his magic. Of course he'd still have the magic, but he would no longer have an outlet for it, a way to use it. "Shall we negotiate terms then, Grimmjow?"
"Good choice." A wide, teeth baring grin tugged across decidedly handsome features as Grimmjow led the slim, pink haired male from the alley way with a thickly muscled arm around this shoulders. "Right this way, Mr. Granz. You'll find that I'm a very easy man to work with."
Short and simple, but it was fun enough to throw together. :)