While Sakanade had perhaps not been behaving as well as one might have wished, he had definitely not caused any grave damage, as of late. While this largely had to do with the complacency of his current mood, he could attribute a bit of it to his comrade. If Sakanade acted up too much, Shinji would invade his Inner World; if he could avoid that, he would sure as Hell try.
Turns out, sometimes even if one tries persistently, they still get the short end of the stick. Sakanade wasnât even sure he had a stick anymore.
The interruption of flow within his world was enough of a disturbance for the zanpakutou spirit to realize he was no longer quite alone in his macabre carnival world. It didnât take much to realize just who had stepped inside, and only a moment after that for the dread of confrontation to set in. There were no swift courses of action to take, though, as Shinji would surely find his more intelligent half (as far as Sakanade was concerned, of course) like a hunting dog sniffing out a wounded goose. Ugh, did he really just compare himself to a bird? The things that asshole did to him.
Giving an indignant huff, Sakanade decided to at least meet Shinji outside of his main area of residence, within the world. There was certainly no need for him to enter there. And so it was that the zanpakutou stepped from the tattered, patchwork tent that housed his most prized artifacts and the thing as close to home as he could call anything else. Surveying his immediate surroundings, Sakanade couldnât have been more pleased with his Inner World. Whether Shinji preferred it or not-- well, that wasnât really his problem, now was it?
Spreading immediately from the tent-- left largely in disarray with an uneven frame giving the entire thing a lopsided appearance accented only more by the patches of dirty, faded material and what may have been patches of actual flesh from some animal, long rotted and bonded with other materials-- the ground was dusty and barren. It branched out along deserted paths, weaving in and between what once may have been nicely-furnished carny stations. The wood had decayed and splintered in places, leaving some nearly fully broken into complete shambles. Any signs still legible enough to read were almost bleached white, as if left out in the sun too long, and spoke of rather typical carnival games.
What seemed to remain of the prizes and stations, though, were anything but ordinary. In consistency with the rest of the world, the beat was just a bit off-key and twisted. The âprizesâ, if ever they were such, consisted of dolls and stuffed animals strung by their necks, from the standsâ ceilings by what appeared to be fishing wire. Upon closer inspection-- if one ever dared to get any closer-- the eyes of each and every miniature seemed disproportionately large and perhaps just a bit too real for comfort. The âfakeâ animals, as well, possessed fur not made from any synthetic material-- though bits of red-tinted stuffing seeping from the splits in the seams indicated that the insides were, at least partially, man-made.
Strolling down one such path, Sakande came to rest by a deteriorated ticket booth. Only shards of glass remained in place, dirtied and dried with some undetermined substance, but the structure itself was stable enough for the spirit to lean against. Blue-purple eyes scanned the grounds for the first sight of his partner, though grew bored of the wait after only a few moments and changed his gaze to the sky above-- or, rather, below.
To any regular visitor, anyway, the entire world would have been reversed in direction; the eerie carnival sitting high above while the sky remained as an uncertain foothold. If, anyway, one could call such a display a âskyâ. Devoid of any color, sans the white, papyrus-textured background and the large, clumsy, black scribbles of clouds and sun. The entire aspect looked as if a child had been told to draw on an old piece of paper with only a piece of charcoal as a medium. The fumbling animation-- for surely it couldnât be considered real time-- seemed awkward and reminiscent of a flipbook rather than any fluent techniques of artistry.
Watching the patterns of clouds moving across the sky, for he had long ago memorized each and every repetitive transition, for a long moment, Sakande soon grew just as bored with the sight. Letting out an aggravated sigh, the spirit frowned, lips painted (for this special occasion) the same hue of velvety red that Aizen had accented his own uniform with, while leading the Espada. It figures the prick would keep him waiting for so long. What a spoiled brat.
To occupy his attention, if only vaguely, Sakanade allowed his eyes to close and the dissonant music from his tent drift through his consciousness. As one might except, it was hardly on key, and seemed to be composed of off-tuned pianos and brass instruments. The audio itself was nearly distorted, sounding like it was playing from a broken-down phonograph. Still, Sakanade bobbed his head right along with the disjointed notes, even humming a few himself.
All that was left was to wait, after all.
