Thank you so much my grammar corrector, consultant, critic, advisor, beta readers... (in alphabetical order) Bloody Crystal, Chibi Rose Angel, mysticLegend11, polar_panther, sandrilenefatoren2

CHAPTER III

The Copycat

"I still don't get it. Why have our numbered tattoos changed on their own? It's like… we're replacin' those we defeated two nights ago!" Grimmjow growled and slapped the plate filled with bacon onto the glass dining table in front of Ulquiorra. His cooking skills had improved: he could now sauté bacon without burning it.

"I don't know either, but it seems that those numbers symbolize a power ranking of some sort through victory or death," replied Ulquiorra, the fury and strength of his opponent's reiatsu still lingering in his mind and touch. Tia Harribel. So she was number three. The raven-haired Arrancar brushed his fingers over the changed tattoo hidden under his immaculate suit.

"Rank of power, huh? Is dat why I look sissy while bein' compared to you, 'coz your rank's higher than mine?"

"You don't look sissy as far as I can see." His voice seemed to suggest a bit of puzzlement, despite his unfazed expression.

"Well, The Ripper called me 'fag' 'n 'Batman's cocksucker'!" Grimmjow's fingers tightened around the coffee pot in his hands.

"You are still seriously thinking about those even now?" Ulquiorra never needed to say much, raise his voice, or use any insults. His words always managed to sound effortlessly condescending to Grimmjow.

"I'll grab some mawe cawffee," the butler excused himself, grabbing his boss' nearly-full jug, wondering in his mind whether his boss was inwardly jeering at him with thoughts like 'Honestly, how old are you, Grimmjow?' They both knew Ulquiorra had not touched his drink, but the rich man respected his butler's need for temporary solitude to calm down.

Grimmjow's eyes narrowed and he paused halfway out the door. His skin prickled as an unfamiliar reiatsu was approaching, breaking through the electric fence as well as the rest of the anti-theft apparatuses set to keep human intruders away from the mansion. Glass shattered and splintered with a thundering clang. The butler gritted his teeth: the intruder had broken in through the greenhouse roof.

"I'm gonna kill dat motherfucker!" Grimmjow swore petulantly, imagining the mess of shattered glass he would have to clean up afterwards.

"Only after you find out his or her purpose," reminded Ulquiorra. The intruder's reiatsu was nothing tremendous, unlike Shark's or The Ripper's; therefore, he could sip his coffee at ease while his butler took charge.

Grimmjow's body shifted through the shadows, disappearing and rephrasing through Sonído effortlessly, heading towards the approaching reiatsu that was even now closing in on the row of Regency-style rounded-arched doors bordering the antechamber that connected the greenhouse to the central mansion. There, he spotted a blond boy, just a few years younger than himself. "What d'you want?"

Eyes blazing with silent fury and lips quivering, the young man before him had 'revenge' etched all over his face. "This is for killing Master Nnoitra!" The boy screamed and ran towards the blue haired butler, an arm pulled back for a punch.

"Oi, oi, I don't even know who dis Nnoitra fella is!" Grimmjow protested as he caught the fist aimed at his face.

"He's The Ripper, you moron!"

A sneer now occupied Grimmjow's face. "Dat hooligan gawt an obedient dawg, eh?"

"Just like Batman and you!" the adolescent answered cantankerously. His eyes were pools of anguish, his trembling frame betraying a reckless rage with only intentions of revenge. One of his legs shot up, aiming for the butler's chin.

"You make me sick, boy!" Grimmjow uttered in disgust on the thought of calling his employer "Master Ulquiorra". He batted away the boot and shoved the boy away from him.

The teenage boy paid no heed to this; he was more concerned with how to injure Grimmjow. At length, frustrated that none of his attacks worked on his opponent, the boy jumped back a step to gain room to draw his sword. The sword hissed out of the sheath, and Grimmjow noted the chakram device at the base of the blade, above the hilt.

"Crush, Verruga!"

The youngster's pale skin darkened into an earthy brown hide and short blond hair grew out into a wild mane. Pointed tusks framed a large maw. The floor cracked as a hoofed foot stomped on the ground. The plants in the greenhouse became like forest undergrowth to this great tusked creature. Though beast-like, he was still bipedal and easily tall enough to tower over Grimmjow. The blue-haired Arrancar, however, only snickered as he eyed the warthog-like transformation.

The blue-haired Arrancar scoffed at the reitsu level of the creature in front of him. Not even worth drawing his sword for. His confidence was not undue either, for the brown Warthog could hardly match his speed; brute strength was his opponent's only forte. Instinctively, Grimmjow's head evaded the huge fist at the last second, and he slipped past the beast to kick the back of his mane in a split second.

He leaned forward and jabbed at the thick chest under the iron-hard tusks. Grimmjow gritted his teeth as the beast caught his fist. A heavy fist slammed into his side and Grimmjow skidded backwards and crashed into the glass wall of the greenhouse. As expected from a wild boar displaying his fury, this single attack was uncontrolled, unsubtle, and easily read, and yet its power was more overwhelming than that of the Quimera Parca beast created by the Amazon Quartet.

Grimmjow shook the glass out of his hair and clothes. So he can be serious when he puts some effort. Glass crunched under the two Arrancar's feet, only to be ignored by both combatants with the impunity only an Arrancar could, thanks to their iron skin. As the butler forced the Warthog to back up to a wall in a defensive crouch, with each step, the beast's inferiority became more apparent: he struggled just to keep from being killed by the almost insultingly casual flurry of kicks and punches which his opponent delivered at blurring speed.

With a huff, Grimmjow stationed one hand on the Warthog's throat, inquiring, "Why are you so desperate to meet death? You knew you couldn't defeat da one who had defeated your master, din't'cha?"

"Yeah, so what? It's better for me to die than live in a world without him! He saved my life, goddammit!"

"Since dat dickhead saved your life," Grommjow told him, "you think he'd be happy if you throw away what he fuckin' saved?!" The blue-haired Arrancar grabbed the Warthog's collar, eyes seething with disgust.

Grimmjow's sermon was short, but true, and it broke through to the Warthog's heart. Emotions flashed over the Warthog's face. The transformation melted away as he regained his anthropoid form. The blond boy said nothing, but his hazel eyes were clearly full of sorrow and regret, even as he looked away in shame.

"Follow me, kid!" Grimmjow demanded shortly, and strode off with purpose.

The boy put up no resistance as Grimmjow dragged him along by his hair past the vestibule with gold-gilded cornice to the dining room. Ulquiorra stared at them over an empty breakfast plate and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"Dis brat was tryin' to avenge Da Ripper's death," Grimmjow explained as they met Ulquiorra's blank stare, "What're you gonna do with him?"

"I believe it is part of your responsibilities to dispose of the trash," answered his master in a flat monotone and buried his face among the newspaper pages.

The butler uttered a short "Tch!" before dragging the blond outside, down the long, long, long driveway, and to the huge wrought-iron gate that led off the property.

"Get your ass outta here n' nevah return!" Grimmjow pushed the intruder outside the fence.

"Didn't your master tell you to finish me off?" asked the younger Arrancar.

"He din't give da sp'cific detail and I don't give a damn for cleaning up da mess of your cawrpse. Go away!" The butler sent the uninvited guest on his way with a shooing gesture.

The youth shot him one last warning before leaving, "You should be careful. Master Nnoitra is the favorite nephew of Don Barragan Luisenbarn, the most terrifying Godfather in the mafia underworld. He'll send a more skilled assassin to avenge my master's death, for sure."

At first, the butler brushed off this warning, closed the high wrought iron gates, and sneered as he watched the blond teenager's back progressing further and further away. But then, he expressed an afterthought, "Hey kid, how did you know dat I did da Nnoitra fella in?"

Without turning back, the blond youth answered, "I work in Don Luisenbarn's house and he told me. I don't know how he knew it."

Grimmjow shuffled uneasily as Ulquiorra gave him a penetrating look when he returned to clear up the dishes. Perhaps he really should have killed that young Arrancar.

"Is there anything you would like to tell me, Grimmjow?" his master inquired.

"Dat kid warned me Don Barrack Andrew Louis Barn somethin' was gonna send a fiercer mastiff to avenge Da Ripper's death."

"Don Barragan Luisenbarn?" Ulquiorra's voice sounded a bit less flat than usual. "Big fish."

Grimmjow squinted. If Batman considered this Don or whatever to be a big fish, he really must be something.

"Anything else?"

"Nope. Dat's all."

"What about this?" The multi-billionaire picked up the newspaper that was sitting on the glass dining table and extended it to his butler.

Grimmjow skimmed over the sheet for the article that had caught his master's interest. His eyes widened on a photograph of him in Resurrección state, sneering at the camera with a bag full of cash in one hand and jewelry dangling off the other.

"Hey, I did rawb some corrupted politicians n' gave da loots to da orphanages, but I wouldn't broke into a jewelry shawp or a bank at random!' the blue-haired Arrancar yelled defiantly, "And what's mawre, I wouldn't have bothered to pose in front of da journalist's camera even if I had done dese."

"Besides, you were here when the crime was performed," his employer sedately added. The news said that the robbery had taken place the night before, but Ulquiorra had seen Grimmjow busy cleaning his library−grumpily, of course, but he had been there.

"So what did you ask me for if you knew I wasn't guilty?" the truculent Arrancar muttered bitterly.

"I'm interested to hear what you think about this imposter of yours."

"I haven't gawt a clue 'bout dat fella." If the newspaper had not been his master's property, the butler would have torn it asunder as he spoke.

Ulquiorra had expected this response. Therefore, he simply asked another question, "How did you become an Arrancar in the first place?"

Grimmjow clenched his fist. "You ain't seriously thinkin' just 'coz you ask, I'll answah, d'you? Especially aftah you refused to answah da same question two nights ago!"

"Actually, I do." His master's voice had returned to its usual flat, yet dangerous tone.

Grimmjow was unsure if he imagined things, but Ulquiorra's reiatsu seemed to build up, as though ready to strike him at any time. "Fine, I'll answah your question, Ulquiorra schfincter," drawling the last word. He was curious to see what kind of reaction his employer would make. Would he lose his steel-cold expression with a flicker of anger? Would he dangerously state in an undertone "I would not have you make fun of my family name!" and blast his green Cero?

Grimmjow's little scheme backfired. It only irritated him more to perceive Ulquiorra staring at him with the same unstirred expression waiting for a reply.

Biting down an angry growl, the subordinate answered, "My old man was a zookeeper, so I used to play with animals a lot. 'N' there was dis one white panther who became my best buddy. One evenin' though, when I gawt to his cage, he no lawnger greeted me. He'd been dead. Slaughtered. But he wasn't da only one; my old man's cawrpse lay underneath his, mutilated. Their blood painted da cage red.

I ran to da staffroom to report what had happened, but all I found was another room filled with bloody corpses. None of da staff there survived da massacre. 'Cept me. Well… kinda." Grimmjow looked down at himself and shook his head before continuing. "I grabbed da phone, but was stabbed from behind while dialing 911. I only saw a silver-haired man grinnin' n' carryin' a Zweihänder before I lost m' life."

The multi-billionaire squinted, "Are you sure he was wielding a two-handed German sword instead of a Japanese katana?"

"Positive. Dat sword was actually a decoration on da staffroom wall. My old man's boss loved antique. But da bloody killer did wear a haori n' a pair of hakama."

Ulquiorra pondered silently, empty coffee cup sitting on the table by his hand.

His butler knew that Gotham's richest bachelor did not wish to be disturbed and brought the dishes to the kitchen sink quietly. Oddly, his irritation at being forced to reveal his past was almost gone, into a strange ache that was more tired than painful… and almost relieving at that. Maybe finally talking about it, however briefly, had acted as a form of catharsis…?

***

As the firmament deepened into the deep blue hue of night, Batman spread his wings in Gotham's murky sky even though there was no bat-shaped spotlight to invoke him. Actually, rather than dealing with the same old criminals, he'd prefer to hunt for his butler's imposter tonight. The nature of criminals, however, demanded otherwise: the dark knight caught a glimpse of a figure carrying a suspicious bag sneaking along an alleyway.

Less than three minutes later, white sachets of cocaine were scattered on the narrow, dusty street between the towering two buildings. A green bag−their former container−lain nearby, a new hole gaping from its side. Its owner was not stupid enough to continue his futile resistance as Batman tied him up. But the dark knight caught sight of a familiar silhouette leaping above him. Quickly, Batman set off a flare in the sky for the police officers to collect the drug dealer, while he himself left to chase the other, who, at a glance, looked a great deal like Grimmjow's Pantherman persona.

Trusting his wings to carry him, Batman sped up. His flying silhouette reflected on the glass windowed buildings as he shifted past as soundlessly as a shadow. Like a hawk stalking his prey, he pursued relentlessly until the supposed Pantherman's imposter landed on top of a spherical edifice that was Gotham's Planetarium. Memories of his seventh birthday assaulted his mind−laughter, fun and the story of how, at this very spot, his father's younger self had proposed to the woman who then became his mother. The sudden intrusion of his idyllic past life into his far more nihilistic current occupation shook Ulquiorra, enough so that his masklike face showed emotion for a moment. The target he'd followed interpreted Batman's pang of nostalgic sentiment as some sort of hesitation, however, and decided that this was the place to make a stand.

The fake Pantherman drew a weapon from the back of his waist−a weapon that, strangely, resembled nothing more than a whip with an iron wheel and proclaimed, "Rip off, Golondrina!" At his words, all of his resemblance to Grimmjow's Resurección faded away. Large wings sprouted from his back, each with ten moon-shaped blades in place of feathers. His mask, which had initially resembled Pantherman's, elongated into a beak-like projection, one Batman recognized as a shrike, or "Butcher Bird." Violet tear-drops were painted on the mask beneath each angled oval eye-hole. Claws on his hands grew much longer, almost as long as his arms. An entirely new persona stood before Batman.

Wings? Batman stared in bafflement. This imposter can impersonate Pantherman's appearance, but not reiatsu and abilities.

The wings vibrated and sprouted countless blades that buzzed dangerously as they whizzed through the air toward him. As they splintered, the half-moon blades shattering and spouting countless tiny blades, not unlike metal crossbow bolts fired more rapidly than machine-gun rounds. Batman knew his Sonído alone would not be enough to dodge all the flying objects. He activated Hierro, hoping that the iron skin would allow him to withstand the barrage. It did; myriads of metal shards clanging to the ground upon deflection from his skin. A few of the needle-like projectiles pierced the membranes of his wings, but the tiny wounds regenerated so quickly that not a drop of blood spilled.

His opponent summoned the remaining blades back, and they reformed into the semi-circular wing-blades he had begun with.

The dark knight did not lower his guard: he doubted his opponent would give up so easily.

Pantherman's imposter sneered, the corners of his mask's mouth curling up derisively, as he put spry feet to work. So swift were his movements that they formed five after-images indistinguishable from himself. These 'speed-clones' separated, moving in different directions, leaping from one roof to another.

Batman froze. He recognized this technique: Gemelos Sonído belonged to Zommari Leroux, or more publicly known as "The Pumpkin Master." Leroux was the vigilante Arrancar of another city, just as Batman was to Gotham. Batman had met him once, while chasing an escaping criminal from Gotham, and the proud, dark-skinned Arrancar had captured the escapee for him, stating that Batman should keep out of his territory. The size difference between the two−Leroux was easily a foot and a half taller than Grimmjow and more than double his girth−made it impossible for him to imitate Pantherman to such an extent.

A shape-shifter ability in addition to being a technique copier? This time he uses Leroux' ability, but not appearance. But how does he wield the power of a certain Arrancar while keeping his appearance to resemble another and vice versa? Why?

Batman's eyes narrowed. Even his enhanced Pesquisa could not differentiate the original from the clones: all half a dozen figures ostensibly possessed the same amount of reiatsu. He pointed his index finger at the nearest one, and, as the green beam of his Bala pierced through the figure's body, it rippled and tore before dissipating into the night.

The dark knight ignored this illusory distraction; instead, he focused on the next target. His Bala could no longer reach any of his five remaining opponents; he had to pursue them singly.

The second figure he attacked did not yield without a fight. He faced Batman squarely; a pair of two-pronged punching daggers extending from his wrists. His body became covered in dome-shaped armor plates reminiscent of an armadillo. A mask grew over his face in an instant, its tapering snout completing the armadillo impression, though a wide gap shaped like a pair of sunglasses allowed the Arrancar to see. The daggers on his arms, which lengthened even as Batman closed the distance, evolved into dragonheads which emitted igneous orange beams from their mouths. Despite the obvious power of the attack, Batman dodged easily and fired a Bala, which pierced through the star in the mask's forehead and caused the illusory figure to vanish.

That was not Leroux' technique, Batman deducted, But since this imposter can copy other Arrancars' abilities, why didn't he copy Pantherman's as well? Even as he pondered the problem, he turned and swept towards a third identical enemy, wings throwing gusts of cool night air against his skin.

Batman's Bala missed the third figure's ankle by mere inches, but it was close enough to incite the opponent to land on a square four-story building−a lower-class apartment building−for a more direct fight. On this roof, pegged articles of clothing hung in lines, snapping violently at the mercy of the nocturnal wind. The concrete was treacherously slippery from the drippings of the still-wet fabrics, the murky water rippling at their intrusion. Amid the fluttering laundries, Batman noticed Pantherman's imitator unsheathing what seemed to be a katana-sized sword with a long downward-curved crossguard.

The imposter's teeth bared in a feral grin. "Whirl, Giralda!"

As this Resurección transformed him, wind howled in a temporary tempest, hiding him from Batman's view. Twin cyclones erupted from exhaust spouts on the armor covering the copycat's legs, allowing him to hover in the air as well as blowing the clothes on the line−and then the line itself−away. Batman studied his opponent's new Resurrección state through the haze of flying laundry as he hovered in the air with the help of the cyclones. The imposter had grown large horns on his shoulders and armor that started at his feet, wrapped around his calves, and jutted out at his waist with two more spikes. A mask like those seen on ancient suits of Spanish armor hid his face, thin black markings like painted eyebrows, moustache, and goatee decorating the pale material, rectangular eye-slits allowing him to see.

With a maddening speed, the copycat launched in the air, leg raised to deliver a powerful dropkick. Batman fired another green Cero and watched as the figure disappeared harmlessly above him in a burst of dust.

Just how many abilities does this Arrancar have? Is he able to copy everyone he sees? Can't he copy Grimmjow because he hasn't met Grimmjow in person? But if the requirement for the impersonating process is a face-to-face encounter, why didn't he copy me? wondered Batman. True, each of the shadows' forms was relatively weak, but adjusting his tactics and expectations so rapidly was a bit trying.

The chase moved on. Batman spread his wings and chased the fourth figure to the rooftop of a condominium. The frosted glass ceiling domed above a glimmering swimming pool. The pool was surrounded by seven marble statues of maidens in Hellenistic draperies carrying urns from which water sprang. Underneath these statues, mounted on the wall of the pool were seven lamps of distinctive luster, so that the water took on a rainbow hue.

Batman sent his Bala blast toward the enemy, but this figure, unlike his predecessors, did not disappear. Instead, he dodged it with flash steps, causing Batman's eyes to narrow again. Those steps were similar, but not quite the same as an Arrancar's Sonído. Batman knew that he had found the true enemy at last. He made no attempt to pursue the remaining two clones, which progressed further and further away and disappeared behind the skyscrapers. Assuming that clones should vanish once their true body was found, Batman was no longer concerned with their existence.

"How's my shunpo?" The other Arrancar asked sneeringly. His appearance changed into a more human-like. Spiky jet-black hair was matched with distinctly oriental features and sea-foam eyes. His grin might have been engaging, if a little reckless, had it not been for the almost sadistic hunger in his eyes. He was clad in black kimono and hakama, and only his sash was white. Even his reiatsu was distinct from an Arrancar's; though no less powerful, it lacked the blood-and-grave-dust scent Batman had come to know so well recently.

Adrenaline surged within Batman. Everything about this night seems to remind me of mother and father's deaths. The nostalgic location, the time of the day, the cloudy weather… and now the distinctly non-Arrancar reiatsu and the black kimono of the enemy. How did he know? His appearance was entirely different from my family murderer, but with so many similarities, there must be a connection. Furthermore, the so-called "shunpo," while similar to Sonído, is definitely not an Arrancar's technique. To what species does this copycat belong?

His opponent did not grant him the luxury of time to mull the matter over. Holding his sword upside down, he began to twirl it around one hand, and it began to glow. At the sound of "Rankle the Seas and the Skies, Nejibana!," the simple katana with a rectangular cross guard and a dark blue hilt transformed, into a crystalline pole arm which mixed a trident's three prongs with a Chinese halberd's cross-bracing and double-sided concave-edged blades. The other end of the weapon, as the name "Nejibana" or "Screwflower" implied, was shaped like a corkscrew. Its blue horsehair tassel stood up as its tines pointed to the pool below. The pool water quivered, and then rose from its place like an inverted whirlpool, abandoning the now empty pool and smashing up through the glass roof in one violent gush.

And the most peculiar of all, no mask grew to cover his face.

Even though Hierro protected him from the thousands of glass shards and the crashing waves, Batman still had to face his opponent's expert martial ability. His arm buckled under a torrent of water and he leapt back shaking off the water from him. The dark knight eyed his opponent−the stance was exemplary, each movement reminiscent of a dance, one wrist always the center of the trident's rotation directing the water and blades at the same time.

Batman deflected the blows carefully, keeping his movements minimal in order to guard against an attack of opportunity. Left shoulder, right thigh, right side, head, head, left shoulder again, head, left leg, chest, right arm, chest, throat… He listed the places his opponent aimed in his head, looking for a pattern he could exploit. Some attacks he dodged, others he deflected, still others he turned into cautious counter-attacks, Murciélago's blade grinding and sparking against Nejibana.

"Ha!" The other Arrancar shouted triumphantly, giving a sudden push.

Batman was thrown back by superior strength, and turned sideways to avoid impalement on his foe's trident. Even as he turned, however, the outermost tine of the weapon grazed his right cheek, dragging a thin line of bright red across his pale skin. A drop of blood rolled down his cheek, and Batman hopped back a step to gain the time necessary to flick the blood away with an impatient thumb. The drop of dark red landed on one of the glass shards that had scattered across the roof.

"So you can be hurt." his enemy taunted. When Batman used Sonído to get inside his range, he blocked a strike with Nejibana's shaft and skidded backwards, ropes of water forcing Batman to back away momentarily.

He isn't near the threat that Tia Harribel was. Batman determined, firing a Bala to disperse the wave headed in his direction. Far superior to her underlings, yes, and with powers most curious… but not in the same league as their leader. A Barracuda to her Great White Shark.

"Come on, Batman!" his opponent laughed. "Doesn't the water wash the pain away?" His words were followed by a rapid series of blows−head, head, chest, shoulder, stomach, throat…

While Batman parried the attacks stoically, his opponent's lips curled upwards in a vicious jeer as he said, "Devour, Glotonería!" in a low, menacing voice.

Batman leapt back several paces, uncertain of what was to come, and what transformation would be forthcoming.

At the command, his foe's left hand transformed, into a deformed arm-like appendage with many sprouting tentacles. Simultaneously, his lower body became a vast, purple blob-like mass not unlike an octopus, but with far more tentacles than a mere eight. Moreover, he was huge, covering a vast portion of the now-broken glass roof.

This entity can even have a simultaneous double Ressurrección? Batman sidestepped quickly, preparing himself for an unknown attack. Murciélago he held at a slight angle before his chest, ready to deflect or dodge whatever was sent his way.

Except that the anticipated attack never came.

His opponent seemed to be content enough taking the glass shard with Batman's blood on it, a pseudopodium extending from his repulsive mass to lift the piece from the roof and bring it up to his face. Smiling, he licked the blood from the shard, eyes still on Batman, and then tossed it aside. It landed with a tinkling sound on the roof.

Two more pseudopodia extended from his sides, tips coming together in a pinching motion before jerking abruptly apart. A crack opened in the air, similar to the one the Amazon Quartet had emerged from. A twist of his wrist, and Nejibana twirled, bringing up skeins of water to block Batman's angle of attack.

There was something in his leer that warned Batman of danger to come, but the furling waves obstructed the dark knight from pursuing his enemy. The ethereal aperture closed, in a motion not unlike the fluctuation of the throat upon swallowing, and the mysterious copycat it was gone.

The ethereal aperture closed and the mysterious copycat vanished with it. Wiping the blood from his grazed cheek, the dark knight glanced into a puddle of water to check that the slight wound had already healed. All his life he had never encountered anyone with such troublesome ability and illimitable mystery. Why did he turn tail rather than face me head-on? His stomach uncomfortable with the implications of that thought, he flew home.

***

Grimmjow was mending a cabinet door when Ulquiorra landed on the mansion.

"Did anything happen?" Gotham's most affluent bachelor asked brusquely as he walked past the kitchen.

"Nope," answered his butler, a screw dangling from the corner of his mouth.

"And Grimmjow, about your brothers." Ulquiorra halted his steps. "You may invite them over for dinner again the day after tomorrow. Wear Santa's costume."

That'll certainly ease my pocket, but "Why?" asked Grimmjow. The day after tomorrow was going to be Christmas Eve, but his master was certainly not a holiday person. He was even under the impression that these kids, especially Di Roy and Edrad, were too rambunctious the last time they were invited to dinner in the Schiffer's mansion. Grimmjow even had to shout to stop them from touching the bust statues that decorated the vestibule; he doubted that a decade worth of his salary could cover these upon breakage. His employer had only displayed an expressionless face back then.

His employer displayed the same expressionless face even now. Ulquiorra Schiffer would rather not speak, but when circumstances required him to speak, he chose to question rather than be questioned. "Alfred kept all the required Christmas decorations in boxes in the second room to the left. However, since his body size is different from yours, you will need to buy the costume."

"Why da fuck d'you think I'll bother myself wi'h all dese Christmas stuff, huh?!" Even though Grimmjow 's tone was rising, it dropped immediately after. The truth was he had worn Santa's outfit while handing out flyers as his part-time job the previous year, so wearing such costume again was no big deal for him. Even so, his aggressive nature would not allow him to bend to another's will without confrontation.

Ulquiorra still showed no sign of answering.

"Hey, could it be dat you luv kids?" The blue-haired butler extended his hand to accept the bank notes his boss handed him but refused to give up questioning the multi-billionaire.

Ulquiorra made no effort to agree or to disagree, so his butler went on, "Why don't'cha get married 'n' have some of your own? Come to think of it, why don't'cha go get a date or somethin'? I've nevah seen you shmooze."

"And let the girl announce my Hollow hole to the mass media?" answered his master sarcastically.

Stupid rich boy! Grimmjow suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Find an Arrancar, not a human."

"I've never met any female Arrancar before the Amazon Quartet."

"Seriously? How come… wait, have you evah tried findin' 'em?"

Ulquiorra shook his head. Grimmjow, searching for a reason not to punch his employer in the face, asked through gritted teeth, "Why?"

"What for?"

This time, anger did erupt from the butler's voice. "What for? What for? Hello, Mr. Handsome Billionaire, don't tell me you ain't have any instinct to… ugh, how antisocial can you be!"

"Why would I do something I don't need to?"

"Need?" snorted the blue-haired Arrancar, "Don'tcha want it? Have you evah wanted anythin'?"

His employer gave a deep contemplation before coming up with the firm answer of "no."

"Moneyed narcissist!" Grimmjow growled when Ulquiorra walked past him. "Argh, forget it, I bet da chicks would even scatter when dey get to know your gloomy mood!"

***

Only minutes after beginning to peruse documents for Schiffer's Corporation back in his study room, Ulquiorra's mind drifted back to the conversation with Grimmjow. While his butler assumed that he wanted nothing because he was only interested in himself, and that he could afford to buy anything which struck his fancy before desire came into play, he could not agree with that conclusion. He had no special interest for anything or anyone, himself included. He did not even posses the desire to desire… save for one thing: revenge.

There was one thing his butler said, however, that refused to leave his mind: why, why had he indeed come to enjoy company of late, especially as the companions were troublesome children, no less cocky and obnoxious than their brother? Ulquiorra's world had been centered on Alfred and himself before he met Grimmjow, and though brash, loud, violent-tempered, generally unskilled in his duties, and possessed of a singularly grating personality… his new butler had made more of an impression on him, in the short amount of time since they'd met, than his family's loyal servant had in the many years before.

Seeing how that irascible blue-haired butler of his had dealt with his adopted siblings−rough and coarse and utterly undignified he might be, but he showed an amazing amount of endurance and tolerance for them. Though they fought and bickered and complained and made a terrible mess, it was obvious that the ersatz 'little brothers' had a great respect−and even love−for Grimmjow. The children were so full of life and energy that they reminded Ulquiorra Schiffer of a past he had lived−and lost.

This new butler had shown him a different side of life, a world where the sun and the moon were not eclipsed by the numbness of death and loss and revenge. Grimmjow had a simple soul, one that taught him persistence, tolerance, mercy, and most of all, of companionship−a bond of the deepest level, intangible and indescribable. It had the camaraderie of those who had fought wars alongside each other, an understanding closer than kin, and the warmth of a greater potential.

The multi-billionaire stood and walked over to one side of the room. The wall had been caved out and attached with shelves flanked by a pair of swirling Acanthus Corinthian-style half columns. Reaching up, he took the framed photograph of the Schiffers from one of these shelves. This was the last family picture of them: their deaths had occurred the following week. His late parents were smiling, holding him with arms about his shoulders in the photo. On the contrary, he was not smiling in the picture; his face had already been serious even in young life, though it lacked the masklike sobriety he gained in death. What made Ulquiorra pause in deepest thought, however, was the fact that he, for one briefest moment, imagined what it would have been like if he'd had a younger brother like Grimmjow… or even if the Arrancar himself had been his brother.

Perhaps the six-year-old Grimmjow would snatch his pancake and when he complained, their mother would reprimand them both, and turn to her husband for assistance. Their father, nonetheless, would sigh and bury himself in the newspaper, too tired to desire a confrontation in his own home.

Ulquiorra put the photo frame back on the shelf. His arm paused as sand trickled down from the ceiling above him. Ulquiorra rubbed the fine particles between his fingers and frowned, it was sawdust, not sand. His house was made of the finest materials; it shouldn't crumble without a good cause. Eyes narrowing, the lord of the manor activated his Pesquisa. Gradually, a faint−or rather, concealed−reiatsu that was neither his butler's nor his own was detected.

Guessing to whom the reiatsu belonged, Ulquiorra greeted the uninvited guest, "You've come at last, Don Barragan Luisenbarn."

"My name has reached Gotham's top plutocrat; I'm honored," came the reply. The tone was neither sincere nor sarcastic; it was insensate. Slowly, a mirage-like skeleton made its appearance.

***

After a weird dream involving getting himself measured for an evening gown–The Ripper's mockery still annoyed him to that extent−Grimmjow woke up in disgust. His throat felt dry too; therefore, he went to the kitchen to grab something to drink. On the way, he noticed the lights in his employer's study had not been extinguished.

Ulquiorra's not da type who'd fell asleep wi'h da lights still on, he thought while knocking on the door. There was no answer, so he took the liberty to open it. The room was empty, with Ulquiorra's usually neat papers scattered on the floor, some of them bearing blood spatters.

He'll be back by tomorrow, Grimmjow assured himself. Wasn't Ulquiorra the strongest Arrancar he had ever met so far? He deliberately ignored the meaning of the blood splatters, even though he could tell by the scent that they were his boss'. And that one of the scents he most hated−the scent of dry rot and grave-dust and musty cellars−permeated the room.

Screw dat. I ain't gettin' involved wi'h whatev'r's gone t'hell now. Grimmjow grumbled determinedly to himself, returning to his bedroom.

His vow of non-interference was easier said than followed. The clock ticked slowly, time dragging by with each second feeling like an hour. Grimmjow growled: patience was never his forte. He rolled all over his bed, tossing and turning and at one point putting a tear in his sheet−which made him growl all the louder, knowing he'd have to learn now to sew it−but could not get back to sleep. After swearing aloud, he got up and washed his face, intending to start his day.

Staring at his own reflection in the three-sided bathroom mirror, the butler stood statuesquely. Why should he care if Ulquiorra Schiffer were to die, distant and dispassionate as he was? In fact, had there ever been a day when this pampered prince accepted any invitation to speak unless necessity demanded him to? Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez had been shifting from one employer to another; this one was supposed to be no different just because they happened to be fellow Arrancar. So what if he was also an orphan whose family had been murdered? And so what if they both shared a strong desire for revenge? And…

Clenching his fists, Grimmjow stared at his reflection. The tattoo that used to belong to Ulquiorra was now etched in his skin: his back bore the number 'four' he'd gained after defeating The Ripper−Nnoitra, the brat had called him−the same night Ulquiorra had gained Shark's number 'three.'

"DAMMIT!"

Grimmjow punched his own reflection in the mirror furiously and stormed off. He knew his chances of defeating any enemy who managed to defeat Ulquiorra−no, Batman, his superior−were slim to none. Still, he if left Ulquiorra alone, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

I really gotta get over dis sof'-spaut I gawt for awrphans, he grumbled to himself, It causes way too much trouble.

***

Once he cornered a pickpocket in a dark alley and let his fists do the talking, it was not difficult for the butler to learn where Don Luisenbarn's main headquarters were. The real problem arose while getting in since the lair was filled to the brim with low-level Arrancar. Using his Resurección, Grimmjow took them out as swiftly as he could, raking with his talons, slashing throats, pummeling bodies, and blasting away with blue Cero. Even though these Arrancar were generally even weaker than the one who'd broken into Ulquiorra's mansion, their quantity made up for their lack of quality. Dealing with four at once, he would be swarmed by a dozen more. Cuts traced a lattice over his skin, some shallow, others not. And though he made steady headway through the throng, that headway was slow−far, far too slow for his needs. Cuts littered his body and his muscles tightened with fatigue.

Pantherman was aware while he was forced to waste his time on these small fries, Batman's life was at stake. He emitted his Gran Rey Cero, concluding the battle with one enormous blast. Bleeding and exhausted after defeating at least forty Arrancar, the white panther sucked the remaining energy from the dead to replenish his energy and heal himself.

Even though he performed the Gonzui as quickly as he could, before he finished, a green beam lashed out, nearly piercing him through. Had he not dodged in the eleventh hour, the familiar attack would have lanced right through his chest, leaving a smoking hole in his sternum. He sensed a familiar reiatsu as he skidded to a stop in front of the far wall−reinforced to withstand minor brawls between Arrancar−and raised his head to stare his attacker in the face.

"What's da meaning of dis…," he growled at the black-winged creature before him, "… Batman?!"

In case it isn't clear enough, the ones that the copycat imitated in this chapter are: Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez (appearance only) Cirucci Thunderwitch (appearance and ability, but not gender), Zommari Leroux (ability only), Gantenbainne Mosqueda (appearance and ability), Dordonii Alessandro Del Socacchio (appearance and ability), Shiba Kaien (appearance and ability) and Aaroniero Arruruerie (appearance and ability).