「 壊滅 」 ;; Hueco Mundo, despite its vast, largely empty expanse, is not entirely silent. Howls reverberating and echoing across rolling dunes, the cries that follow in the inevitable blood spatter, horrified and then burbling and then nothing. Violent clashes whip an crack through endless, starless night.
What they serve as, however, are punctuation. Bookends to the blanket of quiet that does, in fact permeate the waste.
There's no escape from it, here. The noise. People always everywhere. Even late into the night, when the sun has long gone to sleep and threatens to make its return appearance come morning, there's always the fucking noise.
It leaves every nerve in Grimmjow's body frayed. When sound and noise and proximity are baked into instinct honed to a blade's edge, being relentlessly surrounded leaves him on such high alert for so long that hairpin trigger doesn't even begin to describe it.
No matter where he seemingly goes, it's never that far off. Even now, relegated to lurking through alleys, well away from the hub of activity, it's there-- it looms, more of a shadow than even those belonging to where he's relegated himself. A god damn party it had been, hedonism in excess ( not that he had any qualms with that in particular ) and if one more person found their way into his space he'd very likely have yet more blood on his hands.
Not that that was anything to complain about, either. But he wasn't stupid- that ever-infuriating gap in what he was and what he had been forcefully quashed in to sat directly in front of him, an unavoidable elephant no matter what room or lack thereof Grimmjow finds himself in.
So feeling another presence where he'd at least found himself alone for one god damn second makes his hackles raise. A dulled blade still glints, held at the right angle, especially if one decides to get too close for just a bit too long.
"Keep walkin'" he growls lowly.
"Whatever you want from me, you're not gettin' it."
where thedas is wrought with war more times than not, it also knows how to hold a celebration. not the types of balls that orlais is so fond of, more game than merriment, with people whispering and scheming. more something like this— the streets of the golden ward filled with people, their chatter and laughter, lights and music and food.
it reminds him of the performances josephine's taken him to in the past. only, perhaps, not as intense.
iloren arrived to join people in the streets. there's an awkwardness about him, meaning to mingle without the expectations usually laid upon him. just another face in the crowd. he's still recognized here and there, some remembering the inquisitor that helped them days or weeks prior. but it's far less than he's used to, so iloren somehow finds himself at a loss.
perhaps it's well enough then, that he finds trouble. or that trouble finds him. as it so often does.
he steels himself. the man seems more tightened muscle than person. ready to jump at a moment's notice. were he anybody else, he may very well have kept walking. it would be the smart thing to do. you don't spot a predator and decide to poke at it.
but there's merriment in the streets. there are people about that iloren feels responsibility for. the next person that walks past this man may not have a greataxe or the ability to use it. the next person may not even recognize the signs of a blade ready to be swung.
and his pride is stricken. though he wouldn't admit that.
' i'm not looking for anything. but you're looking for a fight. ' his foot moves back the slightest bit, getting into a position that's easier to defend. his side is open. he doesn't move to grab his weapon yet, waiting for those tight muscles to jump.
' should i take you up on it, before you hurt somebody unassuming? '
「 壊滅 」 ;; "You deaf or somethin'?" Grimmjow rumbles. He had spent a very long time trapped under a thumb he had so desperately wanted to snap into pieces, one with many mouths guilty of putting words in his own. That this man immediately assumed he could do the same makes his jaw tick.
"Hard a' hearin'?" he goes on as the tense lines of his body unfurl not with calm but with the comforting familiarity of a challenge, regardless. Still all coiled muscle, but with a hint of fluidity that hadn't been sitting beneath the surface previous.
" 'Cause here I was, givin' you an out and tellin' you ta' fuck off, and yet here you are sayin' I'm the one itchin' for a fight."
It's not the same pressure-valve instant relief as the guy he'd stabbed, nor is it the blinding, hysteric, euphoric rage and bloodlust that had at once held hands with familiar, buried shame that the man with the lute had given. No-- this was someone who could clearly fight giving an offering, regardless of whether or not the motion had been intended as one. It's not as intoxicating as blood in the water, not yet- it's the anticipation that draws the air taught with the promise of it.
Noticing the great axe on the man's back hadn't needed the scan of a hunter to be noticed. Grimmjow remains unarmed; the splintered, discarded remains of that pathetic fucking joke of a sword had been replaced with an identical, intact replica at some point. It had promptly been discarded, hucked through the window of where he'd been fucking assigned in a pulse of fury. Understanding the limits of his body, honed to a knife's edge, and the limits placed there artificially to be strained against-- was that not what this was, anyway?
The crowd that had left him drawstring tight, its noise never seemingly far enough away, now manages to dull itself in his ears. He might not have been looking for a fight, not really- but who was he to look away from a gift when presented?
"Since you're offerin," though," he drawls, entire form continuing to ease into fluidity, "it'd be an awful shame to turn you down, wouldn't it?"
He's explored just about a lot of the places he could, albeit avoiding quite a handful that had anything to do with large bodies of water or the cold.
Now, before he knew it, it was late. Still, with the sun down, the moon up, and the stars sparkling, it didn't look like people were ready to head home any time soon. Sun, to avoid the crowd (because he was beginning to feel nervous and itchy), decided that finding a higher vantage point to avoid the crowd would be a better idea. On the building ledge, he watches the people below him laugh and have a good time. Then---
CRACKLE, CRACKLE, BOOM!
The sound is what startles Sun first, but the large explosive noise in the sky is what really scares him. Sun jumps back away from the ledge. He shrieks, teeth bared at the bright lights in the sky, as if he were ready to fight whatever was up there. Nothing. Just bright lights that seemed to have just sprinkled out.
The noise had been frightening, but the sight? ....Well, it was anything he hadn't seen.
?? Golden brown eyes turns. Because at some point, he could have sworn he heard someone else.
「 壊滅 」 ;; Fast as lighting Grimmjow's head whips around at the revelation that he was not alone as he had thought. The backs of his ears burn with it, especially at the fact that it was this fucking kid that had been the one to see him flinch.
"Not you again," he growls, eyes rolling.
"You don't even look a fuckin' iota different than when I saw you last." Never mind the fact that Grimmjow didn't, either; stagnation that pinprick stabs into every muscle and nerve and tendon with its inescapable presence always seemingly stings with a thousand little pressure points.
No Stars' blood staining his palms. The same paltry strength.
Makes him want to gnash his teeth and spit up blood.
This kids' wont quench the way he needs it to.
"Thought I told you I'd kill you if you weren't ready ta' fight me. You stupid or somethin'?"
「 壊滅 」 ;; Hueco Mundo, despite its vast, largely empty expanse, is not entirely silent. Howls reverberating and echoing across rolling dunes, the cries that follow in the inevitable blood spatter, horrified and then burbling and then nothing. Violent clashes whip an crack through endless, starless night.
What they serve as, however, are punctuation. Bookends to the blanket of quiet that does, in fact permeate the waste.
There's no escape from it, here. The noise. People always everywhere. Even late into the night, when the sun has long gone to sleep and threatens to make its return appearance come morning, there's always the fucking noise.
It leaves every nerve in Grimmjow's body frayed. When sound and noise and proximity are baked into instinct honed to a blade's edge, being relentlessly surrounded leaves him on such high alert for so long that hairpin trigger doesn't even begin to describe it.
No matter where he seemingly goes, it's never that far off. Even now, relegated to lurking through alleys, well away from the hub of activity, it's there-- it looms, more of a shadow than even those belonging to where he's relegated himself. A god damn party it had been, hedonism in excess ( not that he had any qualms with that in particular ) and if one more person found their way into his space he'd very likely have yet more blood on his hands.
Not that that was anything to complain about, either. But he wasn't stupid- that ever-infuriating gap in what he was and what he had been forcefully quashed in to sat directly in front of him, an unavoidable elephant no matter what room or lack thereof Grimmjow finds himself in.
So feeling another presence where he'd at least found himself alone for one god damn second makes his hackles raise. A dulled blade still glints, held at the right angle, especially if one decides to get too close for just a bit too long.
"Keep walkin'" he growls lowly.
"Whatever you want from me, you're not gettin' it."
「 壊滅 」 ;; The agony upon waking up again had been compounded.
Any of the aching soreness that had lingered far past its welcome in that endless metal maze felt as though it had multiplied twin fold from its original settlement in his nerves, his bones. The wound in his chest had felt just as piercing as it had the first time. He'd woken up on the soft mattress he'd largely been ignoring since waking up in this place, and the shame that had burned hot behind his ears, up the back of his neck, had been just as infuriating. It didn't matter that there had been no one else there to see.
So ever since he'd gotten back the capacity to walk, Grimmjow's been avoiding the place. Problem being, the whole damn city seems to have come together to get even louder, to somehow have even more people flooding the streets while he's still confined to them.
With all the light flooding upwards, seeing the stars is still a rarity here. The moon, though, has been the same silent companion it always has-- at least until tonight.
Perched as high up as he could get himself by sneaking and forcing his way through doors that he probably shouldn't have (as if he would have cared, anyway), the relative silence is broken suddenly and violent by a fucking explosion in the sky, bright and loud and booming, and every survival instinct in Grimmjow forces him to scramble back from the building's ledge.
scraping him off the ground after two deaths back to back. starter call, fittingly capped at two, might be spiralfes might not, who knows. its a surprise for us both
If anyone had been expecting Chara to make a noise, they’d be sorely disappointed. No, this is something they’re far too familiar with — the burn of their cheek as they’re flung back into the grass is almost nostalgic, in a sense.
Right. This is the other shoe dropping, now. This is what they had been dreading for years — an adult that doesn’t listen. An adult that responds with violence.
Instead of the anger, or shame, or humiliation they’re expecting to feel, instead they’re flooded with…
relief.
By the time Chara pulls themself up, the stranger is already trudging through the woods and towards their secret garden; ignoring their brains alarms, Chara follows, keeping their eyes trained on his backside.
They won’t let their garden be destroyed. And if this man takes things too far —
Well. They SAVEd this morning. They won’t lose too much time.
The child makes it to the break in trees by the time he’s settled down. Chara stiffens, looking at the stamped upon flowers, but. . .
“I suppose I should be grateful you did not raze the whole damned thing.”
. . . they sit, at the edge of their garden, facing the stranger. Hugging against their knees, Chara closes their eyes and lets the sting of their cheek wash over them.
“Suppose you got as warm a welcome as I did when I first got here.”
「 壊滅 」 ;; It would take too long. Too much energy. The more words out of this kid's mouth, the more Grimmjow really does feel like making this place scorched Earth. But no energy crackle-burn-sparks in his palm, no matter how much he may want it to, and while that only makes the feeling worse he's not about to waste his time stomping over every single one of these damn blooms.
"Would you fuck off?" Grimmjow spits, no bothering to move. The sound of their footsteps had set an annoyed quirk to his brow, the fact that they were far enough behind him their only real saving grace.
"I don't need any pity from some fuckin' brat. Only reason you're still breathin' s'cause you're not worth my breath."
「 壊滅 」 ;; When Grimmjow wakes up it is to the sound of a blaring alarm, to flashing lights, to his throat raw and chest burning and the place where his heart should be clenched so tightly it feels as though his ribs are collapsing into it.
And, once proper consciousness pushes through blinding adrenaline, blazing fury.
His body is his. It is his, now. That that motherfucker had dared to take that from him--
The door on the opposite wall hisses open, the sound slicing through his thoughts as his muscles tense through the burning ache that radiates all the way down into his nerves-- but no one comes. Footsteps and voices echo in the hallway outside, faceless bodies trample through, but no one comes inside.
A few moments later, and the only sound is that of the alarm abruptly dying out-- though that fucking light still remains, at least in here.
Every part of his body screams at him as Grimmjow straightens on the cot he'd woken up on- especially that damn shoulder of his- but he's been through far more excruciating with little more than a sneer, and all that escapes him now is a wince and a quiet hiss.
Outside is endless black. Not in its entirety, though, illuminated by wherever or whatever this place is, light projecting out into the dark. As he pulls his straining body the rest of the way up and onto his feet more stars come into view ( a sight he still is not accustomed to, either, so familiar he is with a lonesome moon ) and--.
That in the distance isn't the moon. Limited as his knowledge is, he at least knows that much.
Once again, he has been pulled somewhere new-- somewhere against his will. The same anger, low and ever-boiling in his veins, once again bubbles ever so slightly to the surface.
Especially since whoever's done this has changed nothing but the ground on which Grimmjow finds his still landlocked feet. Still no Pantera at his hip. Still nothing to be found as he digs down into himself, strength still held away from him under lock and key.
So are they here, then, he wonders? Those Stars? Is this where dying ( and what a terrible, sour-sick feeling that leaves in his throat, on the back of his tongue ) had brought him?
Maybe he'd have to thank that motherfucker, after all, if that's why he's ended up here.
Part of him doubts it, too, what with how many others there had been-- but there's no way of knowing, not without pulling the information out of the maw of someone else here. And, for now at least, Grimmjow finds himself alone in the corridor.
Not for the first time, he is entirely aware of that fact.
He's been find for years on his own. Here won't be any different.
At the end of the hallway, another hiss-- another door opening. Grimmjow's head snaps in the direction of it, body taught. It stays that way for one beat, then two, while the door repeatedly opens and closes, a few sparks flickering from the top corner. But again no one comes, and he remains alone. Something must be wrong with it. The other end of the passageway is closed off, though, and there's no way in hell he's going to stick around here and risk another one of those cages, so he'll take his chances with whatever lies on the other side of the malfunction. Distantly, his ears pick up some clatters, some explosions, crunching noises the likes of which he hasn't heard before.
He'll have to prowl.
Though it makes his sneer even deeper on his face to even think it, he's not stupid-- whatever is causing noises like those isn't something he particularly wants to tangle with, not when every movement feels a piercing soreness and definitely not when the well within him has been so shallowly cut off; it hadn't even felt like this before his evolution.
They have to give it back. They have to.
It spurs him through, into the flashing dark.
-
Sticking to shadows, waiting for moments to slip through and away-- the shame of it makes Grimmjow's jaw click from tension, old tactics from a beast that had had to prioritize survival over domination. A part of him hates that it works, hates that it allows him to pass by those fucking things unnoticed as others yell and scream and fight their way through them, as others piece together puzzles and leave passages clear in their wake. He should be able to blast his way through, should be able to leave nothing but scrap metal as a damning trail of bread crumbs behind him.
But the further he goes, the longer Grimmjow skulks through room after room, corridor after corridor, the less and less sure he becomes of finding those Stars up here. Slowly, it becomes gradually more difficult to find anyone new, to see any bodies he hasn't yet seen, until it feels as though he's nearly alone-- and none of those he'd silently been tailing had seemed anything like rulers.
Further proving themselves false gods, then-- more of them. Good thing he'd already had practice with this sort of bullshit.
He's already passed by it- what appears to be the way out of this place. Watched quietly, tucked away as body after body disappeared, right from where they were standing. Who knows if they really made it out of here-- whether or not they were sent back to some fucking cell or vaporized on the post was up in the air.
Regardless, Grimmjow's not too keen on being sent back to that city- if that's where they're being sent to. He doubts it would be that easy, though, to go home. That those who dragged him here and there and fucking everywhere, apparently, would bother to send him back to the wastes he actually wanted to go to, just by finding his way through this maze. No god, fake or otherwise, would be that kind.
And unless he wants to be here alone with all those things, there are smarter moves to make. While his body has slowly recovered from the bone-deep ache there is not getting around the lack of sleep-- and though he still cannot feel the souls around him what would once have been his stomach clenches and lurches in a way it has not done since regression remained a threat, one that has not hovered over his head in years and years. It compounds the longer he's here, sitting horribly on top of the emptiness that haunts him each time he tries to reach for his strength and it meat with deafening silences instead of its roar.
So here he finds himself, once again in the room he'd seen so many vanish from. He stands in the center, on a small platform, and waits.
And waits.
Nothing happens.
Grimmjow snarls down at the contraption at his feet. This had been the room, he's sure of it. The thing on the floor and the screens on the walls and the island full of buttons off to the side-- this was it.
So why was nothing happening?
Begrudgingly, he steps back down. Maybe the buttons had something to do with it? But as he circles the thing Grimmjow quickly realizes that he has no fucking clue how any of this works-- can barely understand what it says on or under any of the flips or switches or buttons. For a moment he stands there, staring at them, as though it would make any difference, as though by doing so long enough and mean enough they would eventually reveal their purposes to him. When they inevitably do no such thing, he's quick to follow up with the next best option-- flipping or punching all of them until something happens.
Finally, finally, it does; not for long, though A beam of light shoots up from the pedestal on the floor to the ceiling- exactly the one Grimmjow had watched come to life so many times before- only for it to vanish as he once again rounds the island.
"Stupid fuckin'--"
A growl. Almost everyone else he'd seen come in here had relied on being in a group, had had at least one more body with them. He'd watches as one had gone and then another-- but always one by one. What had it mattered that they'd been together? There was always one left, inescapably. Which means there had to be a way to make the thing stay turned on longer.
Didn't it?
Surely it wasn't out of juice. It couldn't be. Heat raises up on the back of his neck. He was not going to be stuck up here with nothing other than empty cell blocks and metal monsters for company. He wasn't.
It's fine. It's fine. He may not know what buttons they pressed to make it last longer, and his sonido may still be agonizingly slow, but it should still be fast enough to make it up and overt the island and onto the platform. A breath, quiet calculations from where he stands-- and then Grimmjow's moving, switch flipped as he hurdles over the control panel.
A blink and then he's made it, and though that same, disgusted feeling that even this little is an accomplishment settles in his throat a grin still stretches lopsided across his face. He could do it all on his own. Just like he'd find those damn Stars on his own, too.
Agony blooms in his shoulder, then in his chest, so quick in succession that it's almost hard to tell which one comes first. It rips the air out of him as the white of his vest blooms red, eyes wide as the flashing lights and screens are pulled away from him-- or he's being pulled away from them-- he can't tell, not when it all makes him feel sick. The vertigo, the pain-- the fact that he hadn't heard them coming.
By the time Grimmjow finishes collapsing the moon is once again above his head-- but the hole where his heart should be won't stop bleeding, and he doesn't- can't- get up again.
He's never felt the force of it- the way the chill around one's waist pales so thoroughly in comparison to the shock of it pressing against skin that has never been unprotected by hierro, of the weight of it against his chest.
It should be nothing. If Grimmjow could get his feet beneath him, he could probably still even stand, deeper in the water though he may be.
It should be nothing.
It would be, if the pressure weren't inescapable from both the outside and in. Shutting his mouth might have done him well, after all- might have kept that initial, horrible, shocking rush out of his nose, his throat, his lungs.
With everything else stripped from him, it only makes sense those weaknesses he'd long outgrown would come needling themselves outward, no barrier to hold them at bay.
Eyes wide, Grimmjow continues to thrash, despite the horrific feeling of his body continuing to revolt against him. It redoubles his efforts, his strain in the face of it, as bubbles escape in a burning furry of a cloud out from his nose and throat.
With herculean effort, limbs feeling like lead even through the rush of adrenaline making his vision narrow to a pinprick - is that what it was? - that useless fucking arm rips itself free from where his collarbone had continued to beat itself forward over and over again, flesh made battering ram, made to pull taught all that held his muscles in forced lockstep, in the sway beneath the current gentle enough to be a fucking insult. It thrusts forward, up, in a way that should send pain screaming down through the dislocated joint, up above and out of the cold grip of the tide-- not a fist nor an open palm but a claw.
It's not enough. Darkness spreads until his vision is nothing but black, even that pinprick gone. Slowly, like falling backwards through a dream, the limb sinks back beneath the surface. Only one thought manages to slip through the cracks as it does so, manages to have any form at all against the warm, mind-numbing static.
With Grimmjow beneath the waves, Octavo can't see his thrashing apart from the disturbance it creates on the surface, something that ordinary could have been taken for an excited school of fish. Still, he knows it isn't over. He has to keep playing. And though he jolts when he sees that arm break through, his fingers don't falter.
Finally, the spell slips free, no warm body left to puppet. Bodies disappeared after a few minutes; Octavo knew that from Eiden's death, but Grimmjow might as well be gone already. The water is calm again, the gentle waves enough to make Octavo swoon and briefly dip under the water as his legs give out.
Sputtering, he claws his way back to the surface, spitting out blood and saltwater. The Lute's strap tugs at his neck as the current drags it, and he hurriedly banishes it again so he can drag himself out of the water unhindered. He falls to his hands and knees when it's shallow enough, crawling onto the sand and collapsing face-first.
He'd killed someone. However warranted it might have been-
It's not real.
It sure felt real. It felt real to Eiden. It felt real to him.
Octavo retches, tasting some of the blood that had trickled down the back of his throat. Across the water, the music and excited chatter of the crowd goes on. His heart pounds in his ears.
You did what had to be done, the Lute whispers. That is what sets you apart from the rest. What makes you worthy of playing me.
Maybe he shouldn't have. Would this really make someone like that hesitate to kill again?
You didn't stand idly by and let it happen.
He coughs again. Out of the water now, it's chilly. He should get home, change, rest. But consciousness is slipping through his fingers. Octavo passes out on the sand, the water still lapping at his heels.
"Shut your mouth!" Octavo barks, baring his teeth, stained by blood. There's a tremor of fear in those words he can't hide, a scent his foe has picked up like a fly to decay. He can feel the Lute's breath on his neck, its teeth clicking in his ear.
Let's see how cocky he is when he can't breathe. When he's just as helpless as that boy he slaughtered.
With a growl of effort from Octavo, the beat forces Grimmjow to duck underwater, holds him there. No more dancing, just slight swaying with the current. Even though he can no longer hear the song, it keeps going, its hooks in deep. All Octavo had to do was keep playing. Keep on plucking those strings and hope he wasn't the one who gave out first. And hope that Grimmjow did, in fact, need oxygen to live.
He's never felt the force of it- the way the chill around one's waist pales so thoroughly in comparison to the shock of it pressing against skin that has never been unprotected by hierro, of the weight of it against his chest.
It should be nothing. If Grimmjow could get his feet beneath him, he could probably still even stand, deeper in the water though he may be.
It should be nothing.
It would be, if the pressure weren't inescapable from both the outside and in. Shutting his mouth might have done him well, after all- might have kept that initial, horrible, shocking rush out of his nose, his throat, his lungs.
With everything else stripped from him, it only makes sense those weaknesses he'd long outgrown would come needling themselves outward, no barrier to hold them at bay.
Eyes wide, Grimmjow continues to thrash, despite the horrific feeling of his body continuing to revolt against him. It redoubles his efforts, his strain in the face of it, as bubbles escape in a burning furry of a cloud out from his nose and throat.
With herculean effort, limbs feeling like lead even through the rush of adrenaline making his vision narrow to a pinprick - is that what it was? - that useless fucking arm rips itself free from where his collarbone had continued to beat itself forward over and over again, flesh made battering ram, made to pull taught all that held his muscles in forced lockstep, in the sway beneath the current gentle enough to be a fucking insult. It thrusts forward, up, in a way that should send pain screaming down through the dislocated joint, up above and out of the cold grip of the tide-- not a fist nor an open palm but a claw.
It's not enough. Darkness spreads until his vision is nothing but black, even that pinprick gone. Slowly, like falling backwards through a dream, the limb sinks back beneath the surface. Only one thought manages to slip through the cracks as it does so, manages to have any form at all against the warm, mind-numbing static.
Perhaps he'd underestimated this one's determination a bit... He couldn't have Grimmjow dislocating his own limbs in resistance. That was grotesque. Octavo tastes blood as it seeps from his nose, tricking down his lips, the magic that forces itself through his body teetering on overwhelming. It wraps itself around every fiber of muscle and tendon in Grimmjow's body, forcing its control, locking him into the dance with no opportunity to fight back.
He is caged within his own body. All he can do is watch as Octavo steers him deeper into the water, wading into the surf with him until it's up to their waists, far more difficult to dance in, quickly tiring. Octavo sways as he plucks the strings, but Grimmjow is forced to twirl and skip and leap, fighting the chill and weight of the water.
「 壊滅 」 ;; Give an inch and he'll take a mile-- Grimmmjow had been accused of such many a time int he past. He'd never been one to deny it, either. So seeing the blood drip from the other's nose, his mouth, is the same as letting it drip out in the depths, as letting whatever lurked beneath the waves get even the most distant of tastes.
The surf and the tide and the sensation of whatever this man is doing to him, the forced movement of muscles honed to do nothing but prove themselves; all of it is so overwhelmingly strange. Those lesser than him would be panicking-- and he's not. He's not. That blood, bright and red, has his focus so pinprick narrow that in the moment there is nothing else he could ever feel, and even as his joints and nerves are probably screaming under the adrenaline rush, his struggles double, triple-- keeps thrashing with all that his body will allow, forcing it through the growing heaviness as the other man spins into and out of his view.
Instead--. Instead he starts laughing.
It is not jovial.
It reeks of bloodshed yet to come.
"Cat got your tongue, now?"
"You finally realize it?" His body continues to creak under the pressure of resistence, but he doesn't care-- can't, not when the promise of blood spatter is so close, is right there. " 'Cause I can't wait!"
Oh, he is a wily one. He might be as strong as Aurelius! Octavo just laughs at the threat. "I'm sure you will. But if I'm who comes after you for hurting Eiden, do you really want to deal with whoever's going to retaliate for my death? I don't believe you do. Why don't you cut your losses now and save yourself the trouble?"
Round and round they go. It's like reeling in a swordfish, keeping Grimmjow locked in his control, the Lute's teeth sinking further in as its victim thrashes against its bonds. The sun dips lower, the stars twinkling overhead. Regardless of what happened, this would hurt in the morning. Octavo's breath is growing ragged, but the Lute would keep him going until it was time to stop.
「 壊滅 」 ;; "Stupid and deaf," Grimmjow bites as he continues to thrash; adrenaline keeps whatever's torn from its full range of pain, but even that would be child's play in the face of what he's endured. It's probably his arm-- feels strange in the socket through the haze of fury, far away--- but he heeds it no mind.
"Didn't you hear me?"
"I told you I'd kill them too-- no matter what it takes, I'll--"
Something gives. Wild as his blood thrums through his veins, through nerves stretched taught, he feels as it does so. That arm bent not so naturally where joint meets socket at his shoulder moves, collar bone jerking forward in the way he had dictated.
For a split second, all that continues is the involuntary push and pull of the rest of him. But it's gone in less than a blink, and the grin that splits across Grimmjow's face may as well already have blood spattered across the canines. He lunges harder- it's already been sliced off once before, after all.
"Unfortunately, it's a dire mistake to assume you're the only person here who's a threat." Octavo strokes a harsh chord, forcing Grimmjow's body to contort into a bow. "Or that there won't be retaliation for those who kill wantonly, especially cads who target those among us without the ability to defend themselves."
He steps forward, his fingers picking up the rhythm, faster, kicking off his sandals so he can easily move across the sand. All at once he's lunged into a circling dance, forcing Grimmjow to follow him as he skips in a circle. Nearing the water, the small waves that lap at their heels are chilly at this time of the evening.
"Why don't you dance with me a bit~" he calls. "And maybe you'll change your mind!"
「 壊滅 」 ;; Grimmjow's lip rises into a sneer, a snort in his nose as his eyes roll; he's not stupid. Knows well enough that if he's found himself here, then there's reason enough to believe there were other strong inhabitants trapped on this island as well. Otherwise, those damn Stars would have thought better than to bring him here in the first place, a hunter caged.
But then every muscle in his body is pulled tight before Grimmjow can even unclench his jaw to speak, and his eyes go wide-- though he makes no noise, swallows it down even as his pulse pounds in his ears, as anger-not-shame sets the back of his neck white hot even though the sand beneath him is soft, neither bone-white bleached nor the unnatural stone that had infiltrated the evernight dunes.
He isn't being crushed under the pressure of it all. His lungs still expand. It is not shame. It is fury.
As hard as he can Grimmjow pushes and yanks against whatever this force is as he's dragged upwards, as if on strings, as his footsteps match those of the other man. Something pops out of socket- his muscles scream through it anyway, any small give even more cause for continuing to brute-force his way out, eyes wild. The chill of the water laps against his boots, up to his ankles, soaks into the fabric of his pants.
"You'll be next then," he snarls, teeth bared.
"For whatever the hell this is-- I'll tear your fuckin arms off and watch you bleed out."
"Mm, is that what Eiden did? He wouldn't stop talking? Was that worth ending his life over?" Octavo asks. A better question to ask would be, was it worth attracting attention to yourself? They'd find that out soon enough. The song of the Lute goes on, moving with the rhythm of the waves, with his heartbeat, or whatever Grimmjow had in there in place of a heart.
"Believe me, there are people here who'll think lesser of you regardless. You ought to save your ire for them. This city is not as peaceful as it seems. This is the only warning you're getting."
「 壊滅 」 ;; "Woulda' gotten a lot worse, back home," Grimmjow drawls. The years that separate his domian and the removal of its false god, to one who lives for far longer, for so many more of them, feel both gargantuan and miniscule all at once. and miniscule all at once. The humiliation, the degradation carved into the thick of his skin, his nerves, for a toe stepped out of line, a word too harsh, always stored away for later like a debt waiting to be paid.
Never again. Never again will anyone look down on him like that. Including this fucking moron.
"Whatever they think a' me," Grimmjow goes on, " 'Least they'll know they ought ta' be scared a' me." His gaze goes sharp, eyes of a predator flashing bright.
"And get smart enough not to threaten me, unless they want their hearts ripped outta' their chests. You understand?"
The burning anger Octavo had felt just after Eiden's death has cooled to a simmer, though that wasn't to say the right kindling wouldn't bring it roaring back.
"Look, newcomer," he begins, his voice underscored by the soft song of the Lute. "I understand how you feel. When I was first dropped here, I was disoriented, furious. I lashed out at everyone who so much as looked at me. I used my powers to seize whatever modicum of control I could find."
While he'd never killed anyone, Octavo had been given more grace than he really deserved by those he'd snapped at. It's only fair he'd allow this stranger the same chance. However, if they were anything alike, he would only listen once he learned the hard way that his actions had consequences.
"This place is lawless, and death is impermanent. But you cannot act with total disregard for others' lives," Octavo goes on. "It won't serve you well in the long run. You're fortunate I'm the one who found you first."
「 壊滅 」 ;; "I don't need your pity," Grimmjow rumbles, lip curled into the beginning of a snarl.
The gentle lilt of the music in the air between the both of them feels like little more than an insult; proof that this one, too, had no idea of the threat sitting in front of him. Strength neutered or not, that didn't change the fact that Grimmjow's build was still plenty strong, sturdy, capable of throwing blows more vicious than most.
Death and its cycles, though-- always a constant. Bloody, abrupt, inevitable for those too weak to escape its grasp; the fact that its rules, here were different, is quickly and quietly stored in the back of his mind. The implications, the possibilities-- he's unsure how to feel about them, a creature whose life has always been defined by rules now, apparently, rendered null and void. It buzzes in the back of his mind, hot and agitated, makes his limbs itch; the pressure-valve release that had been the feeling of blood on his skin had cauterized closed in the time since, and all that information sends the pipes creaking yet again under the strain.
"Anyone who looks down on me," he goes on,
"They'll all learn ta' know better-- if you're hear about that idiot who didn't know when to stop talkin'."
Burning crimson, the sun kisses the ocean's horizon. The breeze carries sweet notes of kettle corn and fried dough, swept across the sand from the distant boardwalk. At this late hour, the beach is nearly deserted, quiet apart from the chatter and screams of excitement from the amusement park that carry across the calm water.
And then, a note, a string plucked, music where it wasn't there before. The sunset gleams blood-red on the face of the Lute as Octavo approaches the man in white. He hadn't planned it to mean anything, but he wears black himself, the first few buttons of his shirt undone and his locket resting on his sternum, its eye the same color as the sun.
"Lovely sight, isn't it?" he asks as he approaches. "Nothing like a summer sunset."
Maybe, some time in the past life of all the souls that had been merged, devoured to make the whole, he had been; but those memories have been lost to him since the moment he was born anew-- maybe even before then. The only place that resides in the great majority of his memory is the eternal night of Hueco Mundo, endless wastes only briefly punctured by a sun's manufactured rays, a product of a false king.
He'd seen the realm of the living in brief flashes, always bright and with too many colours in the face of one who dwelled in the monochrome expanse. But there had always been a purpose-- no time, no reason, to sight see.
The sheer expanse of the water leaves Grimmjow feeling... a little on edge, so much of it unknowable. He's never seen so much water in one place. But at the same time it feels impossible to look away from, and the movement of sand beneath his boots is a familiar comfort. Even the grating sounds of so many humans not so far away is at least partially drowned out by the steady, low roar of the waves flowing in and away from the shoreline.
It's the most at-ease he's felt since waking up here, continuously raised hackles slowly, slowly lowering.
So, of course, it's ruined.
The pluck of a note so much closer than any of the muted sounds from further down the beath; it pierces through the relative quiet, an arrow shot through the stillness. Every sense once again finds itself on high alert, muscles tensed beneath the cover of his clothes where he's found himself sat on the sand. If anything, more of the simmering anger that wraps itself around him feels more directed at himself than this stranger approaching him, at the Stars for dulling his senses insomuch that he hadn't even been aware of his approach.
"Didn't invite you to join me," he growls, body a tense spring.
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