Starrk had suspicions of the location of his objective from the moment he’d been handed his treasure, cradled now tightly against his chest beneath crossed arms. The Shinigami had been waiting for him upon his exit, many more than had first stood charge over the place. None had yet drawn their weapons, but the intent was thick. Whether or not they had witnessed his conversation, an Arrancar had left Muken with a gift from Aizen. Suspicion was in their best interest.
Although he found no joy in it, he had been prepared to cut them down if they stood against him. He would not fail, not when he was so close.
It was the sharp clapping and laughter that cut through the tension, an all too familiar straw hat barely visible through the mob. At his behest, and a shared look with Starrk, the Shinigami dispersed. Whether or not there was an agenda there, or words that needed to be exchanged, Starrk cared little. As soon as the path forward was clear, he was off.
The Espada’s invasion into Karakura Town had failed even before their defeat, the Gotei 13 having swapped out the real thing for a duplicate. Although that had been irksome, what it meant now was that the site of their defeat, the graveyard of so many– it was still within the Soul Society.
The helmet acted as a compass, locked on to the one thing it needed. That they both needed, so desperately, so completely. He required only to listen to his soul, to follow its call. Far outside the Shinigami’s barracks, past districts whose names he didn’t know, denizens who cared little of his intent.
Into the ruins of the fake Karakura Town.
The debris, the landscape, every faded scorch mark.. he remembered them clearly. It might not have been yesterday, but it certainly was the most important day in his life. The day he had died. Melodramatic? Perhaps, but not without truth. The Primera Espada had ceased to be in both title and soul.
Moving slowly, carefully, attentive towards any traps or ambushes that might waylay him, it was in a mound of rubble the his soul finally screamed out in relief. The helmet, now hot in his hands, brimming with energy and potential, almost quivered. The final piece lay atop the mound, the portion of the mask that resided just over her left eye, starred up at him.
Kneeling down, fingers brushing tentatively over the fragment, he drew a short breath. If this didn’t work, he was sure his heart would break in two. And if it did, he might just die from the joy. In either case, fragment taken between forefinger and thumb, slotted gently into it’s home within the mask, Coyote Starrk would die today.
His only hope was that the Primera Espada would be born anew.
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