The Good, the Bad, and Grimmjow
The last of the snow had finally receded and melted away as winter gave way to spring and the dreary April showers were finally retreating from the warm May sun that hung over Karakura Town, baking dry the last of the rain that the previous month had left in its wake. The midday roads were crowded as cars zoomed back and forth and the sidewalks were clogged with pedestrians strolling about trying to find lunch, but Burger World remained conspicuously empty.
There had been more than a few people who had wandered up to the door before turning away angrily and only a handful of people were bothering with the drive-through, but Coyote Starrk wasn't about to complain about the unusually-slow business day.
The primera yawned lazily as he removed the headset from its perch around his ears, letting it drape around his neck as he watched his last customer drive away with their order. A slow day like this meant less work and given how little he'd been sleeping for the past few weeks, he was quite pleased to have such an easy day.
Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't morbidly curious as to what exactly Grimmjow had done this time to scare the customers away.
He wasn't about to ask, though; only a fool would question such good fortune and while Starrk was many things, a fool was certainly not one of them.
Starrk rubbed at his tired eyes as he glanced out into the dining room, empty save for one individual sitting on a table with his feet planted in the seat as he quietly watched the cars and people go by. A mop and bucket sat beside the table, with the mop's long wooden handle leaning against the table while the floor sat neglected, still dirty from the mess the two idiot teenagers on the late shift had made.
Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez had been sitting there for the past several hours, hardly moving and not making a sound as he simply stared out the window. Starrk shook his head, yawning again as he decided not to even bother trying to figure out what was up with the sudden shift in the normally-belligerent sexta's behavior.
"I'm wondering if maybe your sudden return to form is dragging him down…" said Tyn as he came up beside Starrk, leaving the empty grill to pop and sizzle on its own for a while.
"This isn't like our days in Hueco Mundo…" defended Starrk, pouring a cup of strong coffee to help keep himself awake. "Back then, yeah, I was pretty lazy…but this is different. I haven't been getting much sleep for the past two weeks and it's killing me."
"Good thing you're already dead, then," shot back the quinto with a teasing grin, but Starrk couldn't find the energy to even crack a smile.
"I'm getting less than three hours a night anymore, Tyn," sighed the exhausted Espada. "I don't know what to do about it, either; I've tried every over-the-counter sleeping aid you can think of, but the recommended dosing is all for humans and has no effect on me."
The duo paused in their conversation long enough to watch a pedestrian stroll up to the door, stop for a second, and then spin around on his heel and march away.
"That's the twentieth one in the past thirty minutes…" mused Starrk. "This is the slowest 'lunchtime rush' we've ever had."
"You think about talking to Urahara or Kurosaki's crazy old man?" asked Tyn, scratching the back of his head as he watched the potential customer retreat down the sidewalk to go elsewhere. "Maybe one of them can give you something stronger."
"I'm going to Urahara's after work today… If this goes on any longer, it might drive me as crazy as Grimmjow," said Starrk, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard out in the dining room.
There was no response; no objects hurled his way, no death threats, not even the usual "fuck you, Starrk" that he'd come to expect on a daily basis.
"Wow…he's really out of it today," muttered Tyn.
Grimmjow may not have paid any attention, but Ulquiorra finally came out of the manager's office and took a look around at the still-empty and still-filthy dining room. The pale cuarto looked towards Starrk and Tyn, wordlessly seeking an explanation for the lack of activity, but the pair could only shrug helplessly.
"It's the dreams…" yawned Starrk before taking another sip of his coffee as Ulquiorra stepped outside to look for an answer. "The ones that don't make any sense."
"The ones that you think might be images of your human life?"
"Yeah… They're kinda fuzzy and scattered, images in no particular order with sounds sprinkled about randomly to scenes that don't quite fit."
"Sounds like your brain is broken," jabbed the redhead. "Lilynette wallop you upside the head recently or something?"
"Yesterday before she went to school, actually…" admitted Starrk. "But this has been going on for weeks now."
"I think you're trying to remember how you died, then," said Tyn with some certainty, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "Been there, done that, and it ain't pretty."
"I'm not—"
"Not intentionally…" the raptor clarified, "but your brain is trying to piece together how your old life came to a screeching halt."
"I don't think I want to know."
"I don't really think you have a choice," said Tyn. "Urahara can give you all the sleeping pills in the world, but it's not going do any good until you find out what happened. The upside is that Urahara probably either already knows or can find out for you in short order."
"And the downside?"
"The 'weird dreams' will become nightmares that pop up every now and then in excruciating detail. They'll hurt like a bitch. They'll also leave you angry, depressed, and most likely hungry."
"Hungry?"
"I remember the day of my death and everything else since then, including the day I first became a hollow… Tia does, too, and every time we have those nightmares, we both wake up in a foul mood with an empty stomach," explained Tyn. "She thinks it's because the memories are so strong that the feeling of endless hunger we had back then carries over for a little while when we first wake up. A sandwich loaded down with as much meat as I can pile on it and a quick shouting match with her generally makes it all go away, though."
"Wonderful, just what I…wait a minute; you two are still fighting even though you're sleeping together?"
"It keeps things interesting," shrugged Tyn nonchalantly. "It's more fun after a good fight. Hell, sometimes we fight while we're—"
"Stop right there, please," said Starrk, holding his hands up to silence his friend. "I really don't want to hear any more; I have enough problems right now as it is without knowing everything that goes on between you two."
"You asked."
"Not for that much information," sighed Starrk as Ulquiorra stepped back inside and began to do something to the sign that declared their business hours. "My question now is 'why?' I mean, the dreams have been with me forever but why are they so bad now? What's making me try to remember?"
"Something you saw on TV, maybe? Hell if I know," said Tyn.
Their conversation ceased as Ulquiorra came over to them, announcing that he'd found the reason customers kept turning away from the front door as he slapped a crudely-made hand-drawn sign down on the counter that had been taped over the business hours.
"Restaurant Closed: Please Fuck Off and Die in a Fire," read Tyn aloud. "Cute."
"Since when does Grimmjow say 'please' for anything?" asked Starrk. "He's been acting strange all day."
"Have you two not realized what day it is?" asked Ulquiorra, a single eyebrow arched in subdued surprise.
"Friday?"
"It is the first of May—"
"Nel's wedding," remembered Starrk suddenly, interrupting the other two. "I'd forgotten all about it since it's in the Soul Society."
"You two may have forgotten, but he has not," said Ulquiorra, turning to look out into the dining room at the unusually-quiet sexta who was finally getting to his feet and grabbing his mop.
"I think this is the first time I've ever felt pity for him," remarked Starrk quietly.
"Best not to let him hear that," said Ulquiorra. "He is still very prideful and would not take such an 'insult' lightly."
"All the same…" Starrk began, "I think I'll drag him with me to Urahara's tonight; if anything can cheer him up, it'll be my misery."
"Touching," remarked Ulquiorra dryly.
"And your misery, too, since I'll call Orihime and invite her to come along."
"I dislike you with great intensity, Starrk."
Kisuke Urahara was used to seeing the abnormal on a regular basis, a daily basis even, but even he still found it highly abnormal for the fugitive Espada to all show up on his doorstep as a group; it was only the third time in the past year and a half that they'd all shown up together, with the first two times being their arrival in Karakura and witnessing Grimmjow and Tyn's battle over their old rankings. Outside of those instances, the arrancar would only appear individually or in pairs, usually to temporarily ditch their artificial bodies and 'play' in the underground training area at times scheduled to reduce the possibility of them encountering someone from the Gotei 13.
"This is certainly unexpected," he greeted them, forcing a smile. "What can I do for you this time, my dear Espada?"
"For starters, you can stop calling us your 'dear Espada…'" growled Halibel bitterly, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring daggers at the shopkeeper. "Aizen used to call us that."
"My apologies," said Kisuke, giving a slight bow of his head. "But as I was saying, this is an unexpected surprise; is something wrong?"
"Starrk's going crazy and he's trying to drag the rest of us down with him," spat Grimmjow. "I don't even wanna be here."
"Starrk is having a bunch of bad dreams and we think it's because he's trying to remember how he died," Orihime explained from her spot beside Ulquiorra. "We're here for emotional support."
"Fuck that!" snarled Grimmjow.
"I would appreciate it if you would curb your language while Orihime is present, Six," said Ulquiorra, a faint edge in his voice that was likely due more to his own reluctance to be involved in Starrk's personal matter than Grimmjow's usual foul mouth.
"I see…" said Urahara, making a show of stroking his chin thoughtfully. "And what makes you think I can be of any help with this? I'm not a psychologist or a hypnotist."
"Because you have an insatiable desire for knowledge," Ulquiorra countered coldly. "It is not unreasonable to assume that you have already researched us enough to know everything about who and what we once were; we have come for that information."
"You give me too much credit! I'm just a simple shopkeeper trying to make a living—"
"Cut the shit, old man!" snapped Grimmjow, shoving the ex-Captain out of the way and forcing his way into the shop. "Let's just get this crap over with."
"Ah, Grimmjow; as pleasant as ever, I see…" muttered Urahara, inviting the others in with a simple wave of his hand. "Everyone might as well come in and take a seat, and I'll go pull the files I've assembled on you each."
"Files?" asked Tyn. "I was hoping you had some kind of crazy machine that we could plug into Starrk's head and watch his dreams on a TV screen."
"Afraid not; I haven't gotten all the bugs worked out yet," said Urahara with a grin that left the group wondering if he was joking or not as he stepped into another room to collect his files. "At any rate, it sounds like you've been watching too many movies."
"Moron," scoffed Grimmjow, and Tyn just scowled bitterly at the sexta.
"Grimmjow, I seem to recall that you saw a Godzilla movie shortly after we moved here and then wanted to move to Tokyo because you thought it was a historical re-enactment…" Halibel remarked coolly, coming to her roommate's defense. "You said it would be 'more fun' than Karakura."
"That was different—"
"You were planning to have a fistfight with a hundred meter tall, nuclear-powered, fire-breathing, indestructible lizard that doesn't exist."
"Shut up, woman!" he roared, sitting down in the floor and folding his arms across his chest angrily.
"Now, now kids, let's all play nice…" said Urahara as he came back into the room and sat down with a small stack of manila file folders before shuffling through them. "Let's see… Halibel, Grimmjow, Ulquiorra, Tyn, Neliel…ah, there's Starrk's folder."
A nosy Grimmjow carefully reached across for Neliel's folder as Urahara put the stack down, but had his hand promptly smacked away by the ex-shinigami.
"Nu-uh-uh!" he said, wagging a disapproving finger at the sexta. "If she wanted you to know about her past, she'd tell you herself."
"She doesn't remember!" snapped Grimmjow, reaching for the file again. "And since she can't tell me—"
*SMACK!*
"Bad kitty," admonished Urahara with a mocking grin. "Keep your paws to yourself."
"THAT'S IT, OLD MAN!" roared the Espada, attempting to lunge forward only to have both Halibel and Ulquiorra seize the back of his shirt and roughly jerk him back down into his seat.
"Can't we take you anywhere?" sighed the blonde. "You're a maniac."
"Grimmy…" interjected Orihime with a friendly smile meant to help calm the deranged Panther Lord down, "maybe it's for the best we don't know about Nel's past. What if something really horrible happened to her, and what if we found out about it and then we were talking about it and she came for a visit and overheard us and remembered it all and it made her go all crazy or sad or crazy-sad or—"
"I get it, I get it…" growled Grimmjow bitterly, cutting off the girl's babbling.
"You're doing her a favor by not knowing, Grimmjow," offered Urahara, tilting his head down just enough for his hat to obscure his eyes. "I've read her file and I don't think she's ready to know the truth just yet…a girl like her may never be ready. However bad your lives may have been, however tragic your deaths, they simply don't compare to hers. Keep that in mind, and keep it to yourselves."
"She's happier not knowing, then?" asked Ulquiorra.
"Much," confirmed Urahara. "And so are you."
The room went silent as the Espada looked at one another, each contemplating what secrets the shopkeeper's cryptic words were concealing, wondering what had happened to the sweet and gentle Neliel they all knew.
Starrk cleared his throat, cutting through the tension that had filled the room and reminding the others of why they had come in the first place.
"Right, back to business…" said Urahara, trying to get back on track. as he opened Starrk's file and briefly scanned through it. "Are you sure you want to discuss this here in front of the others?"
"Takes too much effort to keep big secrets quiet, so I'm fine with everyone knowing… I'll tell Lilynette about whatever we find sometime later, when she's ready; she's staying at Kurosaki's place with Karin tonight."
"Never telling her might be a better idea, actually…" Urahara mused. "After all, I'm not sure she'd look at you the same way if she knew that you were wanted for murder…"
- New Mexico Territory, 1883 -
The hot summer sun was relentless out here, scorching the earth and baking alive any man fool enough to stay out in it for too long, and the man known simply as "Coyote" Starrk understood that he should probably find a place to cool off soon before the heat wave claimed his life. His horse fidgeted underneath him, a sign that it also knew they needed to be moving, but Starrk's eyes were fixed on the great iron snake slithering its way through the desert down in the gully below.
Trains were amazing machines, a marvel of modern ingenuity. Starrk had been fascinated with them for as long as he could remember and had at one point in his youth even dreamed of being a conductor.
But childhood dreams had a nasty way of falling away over time, though, and instead Starrk had become a drifter; sometimes working as a ranch hand, or helping with cattle drives, and on a couple of occasions, he'd even been a bandit.
Starrk wiped the sweat from his brow as he watched the train belch out a great puff of black smoke as it winded its way through westward through the territory. He pulled a metal flask from his long, well-worn leather duster, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip of the whisky contained within to keep his mouth wet. Water would have been better in this heat, but the liquor was better than nothing.
To his right, the faithful coyote that followed him everywhere whined up at her master, pleading with him to find shade and water before it was too late. Starrk glanced down at Lilynette and her ginger-colored fur and smiled.
"Alright, girl; you win. Let's get going," he said, backing his horse away from the edge of the cliff and heading towards the small town to the south. Lilynette yipped and followed him eagerly, anxious to escape the hot sun, if only for a little while.
Inwardly, Starrk dreaded going into town; his face was on wanted posters in Santa Fe and news that he was a wanted man seemed to be slowly spreading throughout the area. Riding into town and getting arrested or shot wasn't exactly on his list of things to do for the day, least of all for a crime he didn't commit.
A monstrous cry echoed across the landscape from somewhere farther away, bringing a scowl to Starrk's face as he imagined the beast responsible laughing at his misfortune.
He didn't know what they were, the fiends with the white, skull-like faces; all he knew is that no one else could see them and people always thought him mad if he dared mention them. Hell, for a while, Starrk had believed he was going mad, too, until an old Indian trader told him local legends of the white-faced demons that preyed upon the souls of men.
The Indian himself had never seen one, but swore that his grandfather had spoke of seeing them many times before his death, as had the medicine man in a neighboring tribe. There seemed to be no explanation as to why some could see the creatures and others could not, but Starrk felt better knowing that he wasn't alone in seeing the terrifying apparitions.
"Maybe I'm just cursed…" he sighed, thinking back to a week ago when he'd been branded a murderer for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He'd been leaving Santa Fe after a three-day stay, intent on making his way east for a while and looking for work that would be less-taxing than anything in the area. Starrk had barely left the town when he heard gunshots and screams and, against his better judgment, he kicked his horse into a wild gallop towards the noise. He didn't want to be a hero, but something in him just didn't like the idea of doing nothing if good people were in trouble.
Besides, there might be a reward in it.
With his ever-faithful Lilynette behind him, Starrk rushed his way to the source of the noise…and felt ill by what he saw.
He'd played the role of a bandit a couple of times before when the need for cash was dire, but Starrk had never hurt anybody. He took great care to miss his victims when he fired his gun at them, wanting only to scare them. He was well aware that other bandits and desperadoes were less-mindful of the lives of others, but this was the first time he'd ever had the misfortune of seeing just how bad it could be.
It was a small coach, its doors flung open and the occupants strewn about on the ground, staring up at the sun with lifeless eyes. A family of three, a mother, a father, and a young son no more than five years old, all dead, along with the coach driver and most of the horses.
The man or men responsible were long gone by the time Starrk had gotten there, and he found himself wishing they weren't; only an animal could slaughter a family like this and while Starrk would never harm a person, he had no problem with killing wild animals.
There was only one "survivor;" a single horse still lived, laying on its side with labored breathing from a punctured lung, in obvious pain. There was no sense in letting the poor thing suffer, and so he did the only honorable thing he could by pulling his Colt revolver and putting the unfortunate animal out of its misery.
And that had been when the sheriff of Santa Fe had rode up.
There had been a brief shouting match between the two, but the sheriff wasn't interested in Starrk's story; four dead bodies and Starrk standing over them with a smoking gun was all the proof necessary to bring him back to town to hang. He'd drawn his gun, putting a bead on Starrk while demanding that the 'murderer' drop his own weapon, but Lilynette growled threateningly at that, the fur on her ginger-colored back bristling as she bared every sharp tooth in her head at the lawman.
He'd pointed his weapon at the coyote, preparing to put Lilynette down before she could attack, but Starrk proved to be the faster gunman as he smoothly shot the pistol from the sheriff's hand in the blink of an eye.
Of course, that just added another charge against him, but Starrk had never had any intention of sticking around to face up to them. He quickly saddled back up on his horse and galloped away from the scene as quickly as he could, calling for Lilynette to follow him.
That had been a week ago and now "Coyote" Starrk was wanted, dead or alive, for murder.
With any luck, the wanted posters hadn't reached this town yet and no one would recognize him; he could just go in, get some feed for his horse, some jerky for himself and Lilynette, some bullets for his gun, and a flask full of water. Starrk figured that if he kept moving east, he might escape the price on his head and be able to start over.
Georgia was probably nice this time of year…
Or he could always go down into Florida and hide in the swamps for while.
"Decisions, decisions…" he muttered, thinking he might almost prefer to hang than to live in the sweltering swamplands as mosquito food and gator bait for the rest of his life.
He rode into the town slowly, taking care to keep his head tilted down just enough that the wide brim of his hat would help hide his face from anyone who might look too closely. He was relieved to see that no one seemed to be paying him any mind as he hitched his horse up in front of the saloon, smiling to himself as the animal buried its head into the trough of water and began to greedily drink its fill.
"Best idea I've heard all day," admitted Starrk, patting the horse and looking up at the weather-beaten, sun-faded sign on the building before heading into the bar. "Stay out here and keep him company, Lilynette; I'll be back in a minute."
The supposed-desperado wandered inside and took a long, careful look around at the handful of patrons; any one of them could recognize him and try to claim the bounty on his head, forcing him to be more careful than he used to be. Only a couple of people even looked his way, including the barkeep, but no one gave any indication that they knew who he was, which was every bit as welcome as the cooler air that filled the smoke-filled room.
He eyed a couple of older men playing cards in the corner and briefly considered asking if they would mind dealing him in for a couple of hands, but Starrk quickly decided that it wasn't worth the risk and approached the bar instead; best to stick to himself and not bother nobody, and maybe that way nobody would bother him.
"Water if you don't mind, barkeep; it's a hot one out there today," he said with a lazy smile as he dropped some coins on the counter. "Some more in a bowl or something, too, if you would; my…dog is outside in the shade, and I'm sure she'd love a drink."
The bartender brought Starrk his water in a filthy glass and a food-encrusted bowl for Lilynette, but water was water in this heat and a little dirt never hurt no one. He smiled and thanked the man, taking the dirty bowl of water and sitting it just outside the door for Lilynette before stepping back inside and taking a seat for a moment.
It was good to be out of the heat for a while with a cool drink. Hell, might not be a bad idea to get his flask filled back up with some more whiskey for the road, but Starrk thought that could wait until after the visit to the general store, when he was on his way out of town.
The creaky saloon doors swung open and three men came in and went straight for the bar, and Starrk felt a nameless fear in his gut as he watched them from his table; they didn't carry themselves like bounty hunters, but something about their swagger told him they were trouble. Worse, they looked like newcomers drifting into town, newcomers who might have seen the wanted posters in Santa Fe and a handful of other small towns.
"Hell…" he muttered to himself as he took one last sip from his glass, "Looks like it's time to get movin' already."
He stood up quietly and exited the saloon, leaving his empty glass on the table and never noticing that one of the men had turned to watch him leave.
"C'mon, Lilynette…" he whispered to his faithful coyote as he exited, "Time to go, girl. We'll do our shoppin' somewhere further east."
The canine whined and finished off the last of the water in its bowl quickly as Starrk unhitched his horse and, almost as an afterthought, took out his tin whiskey flask and dumped the last of its contents on the ground before filling it back up with water from the horse trough. The water would be better in the long run, maybe help him avoid dying of the godforsaken heat.
Starrk climbed up on the old, beaten saddle on his horse's back and made sure to ride casually out of town to avoid attracting any attention, but the fear in his gut kept chewing at him and telling him to go ahead and make a run for it.
No. The last thing I need to do is act like I'm in a hurry or guilty of something. Just play it cool and everything will be alright.
"Tell you what, fellas," he said as he patted his horse on the head and looked down at Lilynette walking beside them, "we'll call it an early night tonight and make camp somewhere in a couple of hours and just rest, okay? Sun'll be going down before too long, anyway."
Lilynette yipped as if she were agreeing with him, though he wasn't sure if the coyote really understood him or not. The horse just snorted and kept walking, not having the faintest clue what its master was saying.
True to his word, two hours later they had stopped for the evening with the horse idly grazing on some wild prairie grass while Starrk sat on an oversized rock watching the sun slowly set in the distance and paint the sky a fiery red. Lilynette, meanwhile, had found a small lizard of some sort to terrorize and was happily chasing it around their makeshift camp.
"You gonna feel awful stupid when that thing turns 'round and bites you on the nose," Starrk warned his furry companion with a smile.
It was the sound of hooves rather than Starrk's warning that made Lilynette stop playing with her new 'toy,' a sound that made Starrk's fear resurface again. He turned towards the sound and watched three men ride up towards their camp, and he instantly recognized them as the same three men from the bar.
He wanted to ask what they wanted, but the grin on the lead man's face told the entire story.
"Well, hello there, mister 'Coyote' Starrk…" said the leader coolly, reaching for his pistol.
"Wait a minute…" Starrk said as he stood up, "hear me out; I didn't kill nobody! I know what the posters say, but it wasn't me! I just heard the noise and went to go see—"
"We believe you," said the man to the leader's right. "Why, we know in our heart o' hearts that you're a good, innocent man!"
"Of course, that's cause we killed 'em…" said the leader as his grin took on a more malicious look.
"Thanks for takin' the blame, though…" laughed the third. "That was mighty nice of ya, pardner, mighty nice!"
"And now to top it all off, you want the bounty on my head…" said Starrk slowly. "It just ain't enough that you killed those four folks and ruined my name, is it?"
"Usually, we wouldn't bother with trackin' down no bounties, but when we saw you in the saloon…well, it was just too good to pass up. After all, you are worth a lot of money right now, friend," said the leader as he and his men dismounted. "But it's a lot o' trouble to carry a dead man all the way back to Santa Fe, so we just gonna tie you up and camp here tonight, and tomorrow we can start headin' back to see the sheriff."
"And jes so you don't get no idea about trying to squeal when we get there, we'll shoot ya jes before we go into town," said the right hand man. "Nothin' personal, friend."
"I take it very personally…" replied Starrk, slowly going for the Colt at his side. "And I ain't your friend."
"Don't be stupid—" started the third man, but Lilynette abruptly lunged at him, fangs bared as she went for his throat. He managed to get an arm up in time to block her bite, and the coyote went to work savagely ripping the flesh from his arm and forcing him to drop his own gun.
The right-hand man turned to help his partner and the instant he took his eyes off Starrk, the wanted man put two bullets in his heart.
And Starrk himself took two to the gut from the lead man before he managed to switch targets and put one right betwixt the man's eyes.
The wounded Starrk stumbled backwards, leaning heavily against his horse as Lilynette continued to tear at the third man's arm before he managed to get a knife from his belt with his free hand and stab it into the coyote's underside. Lilynette howled in pain as the murderer ripped the blade free and threw her off of him. He scrambled towards the wounded canine and raised the knife to finish the job, but two gunshots rang out through the evening and dropped him before the blade could come down.
"You okay, girl?" wheezed Starrk as he slid down to the ground, holding his bleeding stomach.
Lilynette's answer was a long whine of pain as she slowly crawled her way over to her master's side, trailing blood across the ground.
"I'm not doin' so good either, girl…" Starrk said, coughing up a mouthful of thick blood. "But we got 'em… They paid for what they did, to those folks and to us."
Lilynette gave one last, weak little yip as if she were agreeing with him, and Starrk favored her with a blood-stained grin as he scratched behind her ears affectionately. For all the pain burning its way through his own body right now, nothing hurt more than seeing his faithful Lilynette with the ginger-back lying beside him, dying.
"I remember the day I found you, girl…" he said, stroking her fur gently as he watched the life fade from her eyes. "An orphaned pup sleepin' beside what used to be your mother… I didn't know nothin' bout raising a coyote, but I couldn't just leave you there…and you've been my best friend ever since…my only friend. You ain't never left me once in all these years…"
He sighed as the coyote's ragged breathing finally came to a halt.
"And you still ain't left me, girl; I'll be right behind you," he said, weakly reaching a hand up and smacking his horse's thigh roughly and firing his last shot into the air. "Go on, get! Go find a new home and don't worry bout us!"
The horse didn't need to be told twice as he galloped off into the night, heading back towards the town they'd left behind only hours ago.
An inhuman howl echoed across the plains and as Starrk turned his head, he could see one of the white-faced demons approaching his camp slowly. He'd always taken care to run away from those things before out of fear for his life, but running wasn't an option now, not with two lead slugs lodged deep in his gut. Besides, what could it possibly do to an already-dying man that would be worse than watching Lilynette die?
Still, he shakily raised his arm and aimed the empty Colt at the beast in defiance.
"I'll see you soon, Lilynette," he whispered, pulling the trigger as the monster began to charge.
*CLICK!*
"Lilynette's gonna be pissed when she finds out you named her after a stupid dog!" laughed Grimmjow. "Jesus, Starrk, you really are pathetic!"
Starrk sighed, trying to tune out Grimmjow's mocking laughter as he attempted to process the memories that had come flooding back to him during Urahara's story. He remembered it all now, remembered all of that fateful day so long ago, and a phantom ache in his gut reminded him of the two slugs he'd taken later that night.
Maybe now the fragmented dreams would stop, though. Maybe now he could sleep peacefully again.
"I think it's sweet," said Orihime, smiling as she touched Starrk's shoulder. "In life, Lilynette was the name of your best, most-trusted friend; that's why when you split your soul in two in Hueco Mundo to have a companion, you instinctively named her Lilynette."
"What is a friend but one soul that resides in two bodies?" muttered Ulquiorra, which earned him a few stares from his fellows.
"An old philosophical quote; nothing more," he defended himself stiffly.
Meanwhile, Grimmjow was still relentlessly mocking Starrk.
"You are such a pussy!" he roared in laughter. "You were layin' there bleeding to death and you were more worried about your stupid dog and your dumb horse? What a loser!"
"So nice to see that you're feeling better…" said Starrk sarcastically. "Glad I could help."
"Seriously, how did you become the primera? You're more of a pussy than Halibel—"
*POW!*
Halibel's right fist came out of nowhere and connected solidly with Grimmjow's head, dropping him from his sitting position and leaving him laying flat on the floor, dazed and growling at the half-dozen pretty little birdies that now seemed to be dancing around his skull.
"Idiot," spat Halibel as she folded her arms back over her chest.
"Well, Grimmjow, since you're so interested in critiquing Starrk's death, how about we open your file?" asked Urahara. "I'm sure that someone as 'talented' as yourself has nothing to hide, right?"
"Ha! Of course not!" sneered Grimmjow as he pulled himself back up to a sitting position. "My life was probably every bit as epic as my afterlife has been!"
"Except for the parts where Kurosaki kicked your ass…" teased the quinto.
"Shut the fuck up, lizard!"
"Well then…" Urahara began as he opened Grimmjow's file, "if you have nothing to hide, let's see what this says about you…"
Grimmjow only managed to listen to the former Soul Reaper for a few moments before he felt himself drifting back to a day so long ago…
- Canada, 1995 -
'Pissed' didn't even begin to describe how Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez felt at the moment.
He was laying flat on his back, staring up at the arena ceiling and the celebratory flags of the opposing team and all the championships they'd won. He was laying flat on his back, on the ice, with a dozen people standing around him, and not a single one of the worthless bastards bothered to offer him a hand up. He was laying flat on his back after having taken a shot to the head, and no one was asking if he was okay.
"I hate all you worthless pricks!" he announced, pushing himself up to his feet angrily.
No one paid him any mind and instead kept staring down at the ice, pale-faced and slack-jawed.
"What the hell is wrong with you morons? Let's get this shit going; I got a game to win and records to set!"
Nothing.
"Oh God…" someone from the other team was muttering. "I didn't mean to…I never… Why wasn't he wearing his helmet?"
"Because I lost it when I slammed your jerkoff of a Captain into the boards and dropped him like the sissy he is!" bellowed Grimmjow. "And stop talking about me like I'm not here!"
"I always thought he'd be the one to kill someone on the ice…" said another.
"What the hell are you idiots babbling about?" asked Grimmjow, turning back around and looking to see what had everyone so out of it.
A familiar figure lay prone on the ice, with a deep gash on his forehead that revealed a cracked skull underneath, a bloodied puck lying nearby. Beneath the man's head, blood was slowly pooling around the skull, perhaps indicative that the back of his head had been busted when he fell backwards onto the ice.
"What…the…" Grimmjow asked, confused. "This ain't happening! That's not me! It can't be me! I'm not dead! I can't be dead! I have championships to win! History to make! I'm going to be a legend, god damn it!"
"Freak accident…" someone was saying to the first man, "He crossed in front of a hundred mile an hour puck with no helmet; just an accident. You can't blame yourself for this."
"I can, you son of a bitch!" roared Grimmjow, taking a swing at his accidental-killer.
His fist passed right through the man's jaw like it was a mirage. Enraged, Grimmjow tried tackling the man only to pass right through him and come crashing down onto the ice behind him.
"Hell of a way to start the preseason…" someone else was saying. "At least this game wasn't televised."
"God damn it, I'm not supposed to die until after my fifteenth Stanley Cup victory!" spat Grimmjow in disbelief. "A heart attack as I'm raising the Cup over my head, after I've been named MVP for at least ten seasons! This is bullshit!"
But no one heard the raging spirit, and Grimmjow could do nothing but stand and watch as the fans were ushered from the arena and the teams headed back to their locker rooms as medics arrived to collect his body.
"This was only the start of my fourth season…" he muttered to himself as he went over to sit down on the visitor's bench where his team had been hours earlier, staring up at the home team's championship banners. "It's not fair…"
He was still sitting there hours later, staring vacantly at the banners when all the lights in the arena finally shut off and left him alone in the dark.
Was this Hell? Forced to spend eternity in another team's arena, staring at celebratory banners he'd never win? Looking at images in the locker room of their Cup victories in years past without ever touching it himself? Sure, maybe he'd been just a tad too aggressive on the ice, but that didn't warrant this kind of punishment, did it?
All the Quebec-born Grimmjow had ever wanted was to be worshipped like a king, and now he could kiss that dream goodbye.
Grimmjow looked down at the broken chain dangling from his chest and poked at it, watching the links clink against one another and wondering what the hell that was for, and why it seemed to be shorter every time he looked down at it. Was the partial chain a sign that his life was over? A sign that his existence was incomplete? Was it some kind of symbol that he was chained to this place? Or maybe it was just the opposite; after all, a broken chain should mean that he was free to come and go as he pleased, right?
Either way, it was too much to think about right now.
With a sigh, he heaved himself off the bench and over the waist-high wall, letting his skates touch the ice once more. He glided effortlessly around the rink a few times, even making a few runs at an empty net with his ghostly hockey stick, but with no puck to shoot and no goalie to try and stop him, the exercise simply felt…hollow.
A devilish roar echoed across the empty arena and the ice itself seemed to shake as if something heavy was out there with him, a feeling similar to skating when a zamboni was operating nearby. Grimmjow turned to look at the far end of the rink and there stood a giant monster, nearly three times his size. its misshapen, greenish-colored body looked almost apelike with its short legs, long arms, and barrel chest, but the white mask it wore was what really captured the hockey player's attention.
"What the fuck are you supposed to be?" asked Grimmjow with a sneer. "Hell's goalie?"
The creature bellowed again, its eerie cry sounding like a challenge to Grimmjow as he bent over and put his stick on the ice as if he had a puck to handle. He smirked fearlessly at the monster; what harm could it do to someone that was already dead, anyway?
"Come on!" challenged Grimmjow as he began skating full-steam down the ice, driving towards the creature and the net behind it. "Show me what you've got!"
The monster, whatever it was, took a single step forward and effortlessly swatted Grimmjow away with an oversized hand, sending the spirit crashing back into the bench where he'd been sitting earlier and his hockey stick, now broken in two, went flying up into the stands.
"Son of a bitch, that actually hurt…" said Grimmjow as he picked himself up, realizing that he'd been wrong and that this thing could actually do him plenty of harm.
Still…
"That all you've got, pussy?" he taunted as he stepped back out onto the ice.
The smart thing to do was to flee, but Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez had a reputation for being the toughest, meanest son of a bitch in the NHL and he never backed down from anyone, least of all some ugly prick in a goalie mask!
He never noticed that his chain had been eating itself and was now finishing the last link as he discarded his gloves and balled his hands into tight fists. Grimmjow coughed once, spitting up some sort of white sludge that began to cover his face, but that didn't matter and neither did the fact his heart felt like it was literally eating itself; the only thing that mattered was proving once and for all why he was the undisputed king of his domain.
The white sludge began to harden as the chest pains continued, but the hardened athlete ignored the pain and took a step forward, noting that his entire body felt like it was on fire. Twisting and contorting, he was becoming something that was decidedly not human.
Grimmjow took another step forward and looked at his enemy through his strange, new mask as he hunched over from a position of standing erect to something that was much more comfortable, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he carefully regarded the prey before him. The memories of who he was and what he was doing in this cold, dark place were rapidly fading away from him as a terrible, insatiable hunger and a burning desire to crush all opposition took over his very being, weaving itself into his core and making him into something new, something to be feared…
All hail the Panther Lord.
"No wonder you're so deficient; your brains got scrambled playing a stupid game."
"Fuck you, dog breath! I had a man's death unlike you, you worthless pussy! 'Oh boo-fucking-hoo, my dog died!'"
"You died in a freak accident in the pre-season!"
"Now kids, let's try and behave here, okay?" interrupted Urahara. "There's no sense in fighting over who had the 'better' death or why Grimmjow is…Grimmjow. What's important here is that you both have some answers now and have a chance to make some semblance of peace with yourselves and your previous life—"
"That fucker who smacked me in the head with the puck, is he still alive?" asked Grimmjow suddenly. "I want his address."
"Murder is not an option, Grimmjow," Ulquiorra pointed out. "It would be best to simply let it go and continue on with your new…existence."
"Fuck that!" snapped the sexta. "I was going to be a legend, you hear me? A legend! An icon! I was going to win more championships than anyone, be a ten-time MVP, set league records and-"
"Actually, you did succeed in setting some records…" Urahara interjected, flipping to the next page in the folder. "Most penalty minutes in a single game, most penalty minutes in a season, most penalty minutes in a post-season, most ejections in a season, most suspensions in a season…and a footnote here says that the league began cracking down on excessive brutality the next year, which means no one will ever be able to break those records. Looks like anyone who comes remotely close to your level of psychotic behavior will get kicked out of the NHL as it stands now."
"Ha! I win! I am a legend!" declared Grimmjow triumphantly. "And hey, this means I should move back to the US and—"
"The answer is still no, Six," Ulquiorra cut him off. "That life is over and you should accept it. You cannot go back and attempt to re-live it. Your gigai likely bears a striking resemblance to your original human body and unless you change your name, you will raise a lot of questions early on, questions you cannot readily answer. And as time progresses and people watch you play, they would begin to wonder why you seem to be shrugging off injuries that would cripple any other player, why you have the energy to keep going strong well after all the other players have exhausted themselves, and why you do not seem to be aging."
"God damn it!" seethed Grimmjow. "Have I told you how much I hate you?"
"Five times today, eighteen times yesterday. One hundred and forty-one for the week to date."
"Fuck you, Four!"
"And that marks three hundred and twelve times you have told me to 'shut the fuck up,' 'go fuck myself,' or 'fuck you' this month."
"Ahem, children…" said Urahara, pulling some discs from the folder. "If you don't behave, I won't let you have these."
"What, you managed to find film of his games?" asked Starrk. "Wonderful; I get nightmares and Grimmjow gets movies."
"Some of his games," Urahara clarified. "I burned them to DVD in case this day ever came. I also have a 'highlight disc' of some of Grimmjow's 'greatest' hits."
"Where's the fucking TV, old man? Let's see 'em!" demanded the belligerent sexta.
"Kids today; always so impatient…" commented Urahara as he stood and motioned for the group to follow him further back into the shop. "Single file, children! No pushing and shoving, and make sure you have a buddy so you don't get lost."
He shot a teasing look back at Ulquiorra and Orihime and grinned at them.
"You two 'buddies' can hold hands so you don't get separated if you want." he said, winking at the two roommates.
"Cut the crap, geezer!" bellowed Grimmjow. "They can sit in the back fucking each other and making ditzy little bat-babies together for all I care, I just want to see those discs!"
"All right, all right… This way, then; the television is in here."
The ex-shinigami led them to another room with a flat-screen television mounted on the wall and inserted the so-called 'Highlight' disc into the DVD player as the Espada all found their seats and settled in for the show.
"Let's see…main menu…I doubt you really care about your 'greatest goals,' so we'll go straight to the real meat of this disc; your many, many fights."
Urahara used the remote to go through dozens of screens, each screen containing a list of ten possible fight clips to watch, and the others simply shook their heads as Grimmjow grew more and more impatient.
"Let's see…" Urahara mused, paying no attention to the anxious sexta, "There's plenty of you fighting other players, a couple of you punching out the referee, four of you attacking the other team's goalies, one of you punching your own coach… Oh, here's one I really enjoyed; you and the opposing team's coach from a game in December '92."
The clip began showing Grimmjow standing in front of the opposing team's bench, apparently arguing with their coach over something that had happened, but the roar of the crowd made it impossible to understand what the two were shouting at one another. Finally, a referee came over and led Grimmjow away from the bench and back out to center ice to restart the game…but after only ten feet, Grimmjow turned and charged back towards the bench, diving over the wall and tackling the coach, taking the man down hard before pummeling his face in with punch after punch.
"I think I just found another reason why you can't try and be a hockey player again…" Tyn said.
"Fucker had it coming!" snapped Grimmjow. "I don't know what he said, but he had it coming!"
The clip ended and returned to the menu screen of fights where Urahara began to browse through them again.
"Let's see…six of you attacking other teams' mascots, two of you attacking your own mascot, two of you climbing over the glass in the penalty box to continue fighting with another player, one of you climbing over the glass to attack a fan… Here's another classic; the news interview after a loss in '91."
On screen, a camera and an interviewer approached a thoroughly defeated and exhausted-looking Grimmjow who sat slumped-over in a steel chair in the locker room, looking at the floor as sweat dripped down from his matted hair.
"Mister Jaegerjaquez, your Panthers lost after you made an illegal check during a power play and got put into the box, giving the Bruins a two-man advantage on the ice and a chance to score two quick goals before the final buzzer; are you angry at yourself for costing your team a much-needed victory tonight?"
For a moment there was no answer as Grimmjow slowly raised his head and looked into the camera, seemingly contemplating his answer.
"Well, are you? Do you feel responsible for the loss?" pressed the reporter.
"I feel like kicking your ass!" snarled Grimmjow suddenly, lunging from the chair and taking the man down to the ground, bashing his face in with his own microphone.
"Dude, get off him!" said the cameraman. Grimmjow whirled to face him and grabbed the steel chair, standing up and raising it over his head menacingly.
"Hey, come on, we're just doing our jobs—" pleaded the camera man as the chair came down. There was a burst of static for a moment before the screen went black, and then the DVD menu screen came back up.
All eyes in the room turned to the sexta, who was grinning in evil glee.
"You're sick in the head," Halibel said in disgust.
"It is disturbing to know that even back then, you were this…problematic," added Ulquiorra.
"Oh, it gets better…" said Urahara "Let me find my favorite clip for you…let's see: Grimmjow versus arena security, Grimmjow versus some guy who sung 'O Canada' before a game, Grimmjow versus the equipment manager, Grimmjow versus the zamboni driver, Grimmjow versus the popcorn vendor, Grimmjow versus the beer guy… Ah, here we go! Grimmjow versus the television announcers!"
The clip began showing two aging men in suits standing in a press box overlooking the ice, talking about the game.
"And as we get ready to begin the third period, what do you think the Panthers need to do to win this one, Tom?"
"I've said it all night long and I'll say it again, Chuck; the coach needs to get that maniac Jaegerjaquez under control and keep him out of the penalty box! He's a young player with a lot of potential and it's time for him to step up and realize that potential, Chuck! Mindlessly attacking everyone on the ice that's wearing a different jersey may be wildly popular with the fans, but it's certainly not doing his team any favors!"
"I can't disagree with you there, Tom! Jaegerjaquez's antics have already given the Flames three goals on the power play tonight and it's taken everything the Panthers have just to catch up! If Jaegerjaquez gets put in the box again tonight, it could spell the end of the Panthers' playoff hopes!"
"And I hope the coach is playing this broadcast back in the locker room! Maybe this will finally be what it takes to make Jaegerjaquez start playing smart hockey and stop acting like a barbarian—"
"RRRRAAAAAGGGHHHH!" came Grimmjow's war cry as the deranged hockey player charged into the press box and took a running leap at the two announcers, wielding his stick as a weapon. A wild swing forced one to duck but his chubby partner was too slow as the blade of the stick collided with his head and broke, knocking the man to the ground with a gash on his forehead.
"Help! Jesus Christ, someone get this madman out of here! Security, help!" called Chuck.
"Shut up, fat man!" snarled Grimmjow on-screen. "You and your bald little butt-buddy here brought this on yourselves! No one talks about Grimmjow the Great like that, no one! You're nothing more than a has-been and he's a never-was!"
Two men in security jackets entered the press box and tried to restrain Grimmjow, but he turned around and decked one in the jaw with a fierce right and dropped him to the ground in under a second before grabbing the second by his hair and slamming his head into the still-running camera. Again the screen erupted into static before going black and backing out to the menu again.
Silence filled the room, save for the singular sound of Grimmjow's riotous laughter. All eyes turned towards the sexta, who ignored the disbelieving stares and continued to laugh until his ribs hurt.
"Your issues run deeper than I ever imagined," Ulquiorra commented.
"It's not that bad…" said Orihime slowly, obviously trying to find a non-existent silver lining to it all. "I mean, I think Grimmjow has made a lot of improvement since then—"
"Such as assaulting the mall Santa at Christmas?" asked Tyn.
"And trying to drown Kurosaki in the soda fountain at work?" added Starrk.
"And the numerous customers he has threatened, and the handful that he has actually assaulted…" said Ulquiorra.
"Well…" Orihime tried again, "I mean, Grimmjow is…"
"I'm awesome!" finished Grimmjow for her. "The old farts in that video said it best; the fans loved me. I'm a one-of-a-kind original!"
"Thank God for that…" muttered Halibel.
"You know what? Fuck all of you!" snapped Grimmjow, standing up and retrieving the Highlight disc from the DVD player before angrily snatching the other discs from Urahara's hand. "You're just jealous of my greatness! Screw you guys, I'm going home!"
He stormed out of the shop, making sure to slam the door closed on his way out, leaving the rest of the Espada and one former Soul Reaper to exchange glances before releasing a collective sigh.
"At least he's not depressed anymore…" Orihime offered. "I'm pretty sure he's forgotten all about Nel's wedding."
"That's the one upside to all of this…" Starrk said, rubbing at his tired eyes. "But now I'm going to be having nightmares about a deranged hockey player with a bad mullet in addition to the nightmares about my own death."
"It won't be that bad for you, Starrk…" Tia said in an attempt to comfort him. "You're the most relaxed of any of us; it bothers you now, but in time it'll fade and you'll find some peace."
"And as long as we're on the subject of making peace with ourselves, what about you and Tyn?" asked Urahara. "I've got files on both of you—"
"I drowned in a surfing accident in California in the sixties."
"And I took a header down a rocky hillside in Utah and smashed every bone in my body in the seventies," added Tyn.
"It would have saved me a lot of trouble if you two had told me that when you first came to Karakura; all that research for nothing…" sighed Urahara, dropping their files back into the pile in irritation.
"Hey, at least you managed to give answers to Grimmjow and myself, and you still have Ulquiorra's file there; maybe he wants to find out about his past while we're here," said Starrk. "And then, I can go home and maybe, just maybe, get a good night's sleep."
"That is true…" said Urahara slowly, opening Ulquiorra's file and taking a long, hard look at the old black-and-white photograph of the pale man in question. Human Ulquiorra looked so much like the gigai sitting before him now and given the uniform the man in the picture was wearing, Kisuke Urahara found it a bit unsettling.
"Well, how about it, Ulquiorra?" asked Tyn. "You wanna have him read the file or not?"
There was a momentary pause as the cuarto considered his answer, the gears visibly turning in his head as he weighed his curiosity versus logic. Unable to decide himself, he looked across at the ex-shinigami and Kisuke had little doubt that the ever-observant Ulquiorra could see his reluctance to speak of the file's contents.
"No," Ulquiorra announced finally. "It is of no consequence; that life, whatever it may have been, is over and cannot be reclaimed. There is little point in trying to remember or relive it and the past should stay just that; the past."
"That's a very wise and very mature thing to say, Ulquiorra," Urahara said with a relieved smile as he shut the folder and shuffled it to the bottom of the stack. "Practical as always, I see."
"Ah, come on!" Tyn complained. "You can at least give us a hint!"
"No can do, my feathered friend," Kisuke said as he stood up. "Ulquiorra's past is his business unless he decides otherwise, and I do believe the man has already spoken."
There was an oh-so-slight facial tick in the corner of Tyn's eyes that Kisuke thought might be suspicion, but after a quick analysis of the quinto he discarded the notion; based on observations of Tyn over the past year and a half, there was little chance of the raptor discerning that he wanted Ulquiorra's past kept quiet.
He had little doubt that Ulquiorra himself had picked up on that fact, however, and he wouldn't have been terribly surprised if Halibel had noticed it as well, but they weren't likely to raise a fuss over it.
"Well, if we're done, then I'm going home and going to bed and if anyone or anything wakes me before noon, I might be forced to kill it," yawned Starrk.
"Good thing Lilynette is staying with Karin tonight, then!" giggled Orihime. "I'll bet she comes in at seven AM every morning yelling at you to get up before she beats you up!"
"Every morning that's not a school morning," Starrk confirmed. "We swap roles during the school week and I'm the one dragging her out of bed."
"Ulqui's up at the crack of dawn, making breakfast and making sure I don't oversleep," said Orihime cheerfully. "It's like having a chef and a second alarm clock all in one, except when he wakes me up he doesn't go all 'RINGRINGBZZZRINGRINGBZZZ!'"
"How quaint…" said Halibel dryly. "Strangely enough, I think I'm the fortunate one; Tyn gets up and makes breakfast at dawn and lets me sleep in if I want."
"That's because the one time I tried to get you up early, you threw your alarm clock at my head," scowled Tyn.
"Just because you're a literal 'early bird' doesn't mean I have to be…besides, you dodged it just fine."
"You also made me buy a replacement for it…"
"Well, it was technically your fault for trying to wake me," said Tia dismissively, effectively ending the argument.
"Much as I'd love to stick around and hear more about just how dysfunctional you two are, I think it's time to go home," Starrk said dryly as he slowly pushed himself up to his feet. "And I appreciate everyone coming out to be with me tonight for this…having that kind of support and knowing I'm not alone…it really means something."
"That's what it means to be part of a pack…" Tyn said as he stood up and offered a hand to Tia, pulling her up to her feet as well. "We support each other…even Grimmjow."
"Suppose that means I'm no longer 'Starrk the Lone Wolf' then, huh?"
"Technically, you were never a wolf to begin with…" Ulquiorra said. "Coyotes and wolves are—"
"I get it, I get it…" Starrk said, cutting him off before he could bore them all to death. "Useless scientific trivia aside, you know what I meant."
"We know," Orihime agreed cheerfully. "And you're right; you're not alone, not anymore. You and Lilynette will always have us with you."
"And to me, that makes all the difference in the world."