The pungent scent of burning tar and metal radiates throughout the area.
Deeper into the smoke, blood and flesh joins the stink as men perish in the bright cyan fire sweeping down from the rooftops. Beaten black combat boots hammer across a high corporate building, jumping from a height capable of killing normal people. He becomes like a smaller, incandescent blue atom bomb when he surges to the ground, taking out a street wide arc of vehicles. Glass windows explode and bodies sail into the skies, cars soaring, careening and exploding on impact. The power trip always fuels his excitement, and these Akuran bastards make great fodder for his flames.
The hateful rage is mostly one-sided. He and his gang are more violently thrilled than furious, more than pleased to absolutely terrorize and ruin the akurans. Show the world not to fuck with Coma La Muerte, and especially not conduits. Shit, he’s never been so alive. It’s been like this ever since the fire ignited inside his body, his mind, burning into physical existence. Eventually, making his activities more exciting by making it possible to play with and produce napalm. The dups had him on their hit list since he blew up one of their APCs and shook them off in Nevada last year. He wasn’t anticipating more conduits to be in Seattle, but that just makes everything more exciting.
White hot, blue-tipped fire the same color as his hair sweeps across his shoulders and rolls down his arms, igniting his hands as he meanders through the wreckage. “I think these cocksuckers want to feel what it’s like to be burned alive.” Gunshots fire off, sizzling and bouncing off of him. It still stings, sure. Assault rifles always sting, but it’s a hurt that fuels his fury. He’s about to throw a napalm grenade at them, when a bright fuchsia streak plunges into the scene and throws off his focus.
Staggering back, he watches her move at the speed of light. She’s all lasers and explosions, going to town on the akurans. Like cockroaches, these guys have more dispensable members to throw at the group of conduits. For half a second, he’s taken back. Then his lips pull up into a sharp knife of a grin.
“It’s Fetch Walker!” Shouts one of his men, and Grimmjow stands back to watch for just a moment. She’s a savage spitfire, sparing absolutely none of these bitches. He doesn’t care what happens to them more than he cares about being able to burn off all of the rage and bloodthirsty excitement. And this new conduit is either on her way to make it better, or she’s going to steal the fun away.
“Who the fuck cares!” He roars in response, grinning at the smoky chem trails and neon sparks left in her wake. She’s the one he’d seen all over the news, managed to even escape Curdun Cay. Must not be too tightly secured, or she’s stronger than they gave her credit for.
“Hey, lady! If you’re here to play and give us a laser show, watch out you don’t melt.”
