Do someone has a link to see the DC super hero girls movie by Lauren Faust? I hate living in a country where it takes months to have it, and worse the voices xD
VAULT: desert sand in the hourglass, second half (~6/?)
Instead, only Grimmjow is waiting outside, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets. Ichigo is hesitant to meet his eyes, but finds them scrunched up alongside his brow in a grim scowl, an expression more familiar on his own face than Grimmjow’s.
Nel's absence is a relief, but his protective instincts demand for the questioning glance he throws the Arrancar’s way.
“Told the runt to scram and play somewhere else. That scrawny nerd went off to take samples or something.”
For once, he doesn’t feel like he’ll be able to match the intensity in those vivid blue eyes.
He’s always hated being vulnerable before others—his father, Urahara, Yoruichi, Shinji, Rukia, Orihime, Chad, Ishida, the list just goes on and on—as it always feels like he’s betraying everything he stands for. His aversion has only grown since that day facing Aizen, when his weakness and doubt nearly got everyone killed and his home razed to the ground and his mentors thrown about like dolls and Gin is bleeding out against the rubble, Matsumoto above him, face streaked with tears and eyes filled with broken hope but all he can really see are those appraising blue eyes and he finally understands why he couldn’t decipher what was beyond Shinso’s blade because Gin too was trying to protect him, to give him a chance to grow stronger and everyone was trying to protect him and they all got cut down and are bleeding out because of him, him, him—
That’s why he left the others behind, decided to do this on his own, so why did he bring Nel and Grimmjow along?
He’s always struggled to understand himself, never wanting to admit that he’s been struggling with depression since he was nine and has a complex about saving people because he couldn’t protect his mother, and god, it took him forever to face both those things, but coming to terms with his Zanpakutou has helped, one way or another.
So why? The answer is easy.
He didn’t want to face this alone.
“Does it ever haunt you?”
Grimmjow gives him a look of disapproval and disinterest.
“Aizen, I mean. Knowing he was inside you, rebuilding you however he wanted?”
The eyes upon him are fathomless, a little questioning, but not all that curious.
“No. If you wanna bitch, go to that blond friend of yours and do it. I’m sure he’ll love to whine about what that bastard did with ya.”
Ichigo can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips. He still feels raw and broken, emotionally exhausted and more than a little off-kilter, but it’s so bizarrely sweet for Grimmjow to turn him in the direction of someone who might be able to help him through this problem better. The bastard managed it in the rudest, most abrasive way possible, but it’s also so genuine that it’s more touching than any other gesture he can imagine.
Funny, how easy it is to forget how truly old those around him are, wizened by hundreds of years.
“I think I’ll do that. Thanks, Grimmjow.”
“Tch, whatever. Are we gonna fight again or what?”
“Not now, I need to find Akon. I—I need his help for something.”
“What else is there ta do?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt myself more over this.”
No, now he needs to take something positive out of this clusterfuck, something to dull edge of the pain and paint a silver lining on this oppressive cloud of trauma and paranoia.
He finds Akon taking samples of sand and rock in the dining room, apparently trying to identify the difference between the makeup of the earth and the substance that the furniture was etched out of.
“Find anything interesting?” Ichigo asks, moving to stand beside the kneeling scientist, noting his rhythmic methods; he’s more than familiar with this kind of work, often having to hurry around taking samples for Urahara on days Hiyori or Yoruichi can’t be talked into it, but Akon seems capable of noting abnormalities that he would pass by with his untrained eye and inexperience, not to mention his far inferior scientific knowledge.
“Yes, the spirit particles that make up the table are intriguing, they are separate from the sand but entirely different from the analogous structures of Seireitei…” The horned scientist surmises, tucking test tubes and glass slides away as he clears up. “Are we leaving?”
“Nah, we can stay for as long as you need. I was just hoping you had time to help me with something.”
Akon gives him a cool, measuring gaze, analyzing his forcibly relaxed posture, the redness of his eyes, and maybe scenting the remnants of the rancid stench that possibly lingers on his clothes as much as it burns the back of his throat. He doesn’t mention any of it, respecting Ichigo’s privacy in the way most don’t, and Ichigo is grateful for it. He is glad he asked along Akon now, though he had done so entirely suspecting this may be how this little excursion would go; the third seat did not know him well, but is nevertheless respectfully deferential enough to not ask too many questions.
“Of course,” He finally agrees, rising up. Ichigo leads him back to the monitor room, forcing himself to ignore the burning blue eyes that measure his every step as they pass Grimmjow again.
“In here,” Ichigo motions as he pushes the door open enough for Akon to slip in, before letting it once again slam tightly shut. Akon stiffens in the glow of the screens, eyes wide and flickering with curiosity. Ichigo can tell he wishes to investigate every cranny in the vast room filled with technology and equipment, and purposefully places himself between Akon and most of the truly damning equipment, eyes stern and expectant. Akon must understand that he is not allowed in this room to fish and experiment, he is here because Ichigo needs him for a single task. Ichigo can’t afford the Twelfth Division getting their grimy hands on the implements in this room.
Noting his passive-aggressive, edged posture, Akon reels in his interest. “What do you wish for me to do, Kurosaki-san?”
“Is there a way to take some files off these computers and upload ‘em to something that will work in human technology, like a USB or something?”
“It should be possible, if there are the proper ports and you have such a device.”
Ichigo fishes out a drive he brought tucked into his pocket and presents it to the scientist, who looks it over with analytical eyes.
“This should be fine,” Akon agrees, before passing the USB back, noting the vaguely hostile twist of Ichigo’s mouth when he made a move to hold on to it. He then busies himself searching the computers for a compatible port. He can probably throw together a converter quickly, if there is none.
Ichigo watches him carefully, wary.
“Over here.” Akon announces, having found an access port that, while not intended for human technology, should be decently compatible. Ichigo is next to him in brief moments, feeling both elated and nervous, and most of all, desperate to be finished and gone. Akon fiddles with it for some time, his brow only slightly furrowed in concentration, until he seems satisfied with the result.
“Thanks, Akon. I’ll call you if there are any problems.”
Recognizing the dismissal, Akon hurries for the door and forces it open, knowing it wise to beat a hasty retreat.
VAULT: desert sand in the hourglass, second half (~5/?)
And there, there she is. Younger than he ever knew her, with shorter hair and a school uniform.
It’s bizarre, seeing his gentle, loving mother standing tall and powerful on the battlefield, a scowl of determination and courage marking her brow. In her hands she wields a manifested bow with grace and skill, hands just as slender and nimble as Ishida’s, with the quiet bravery of Inoue shining in her eyes.
There she is, brilliant even in the grainy footage.
His broken heart shatters and pieces itself together all at once, awe and love blossoming in his chest and rushing through his blood.
There she is, in the rain, protecting. There she is, lying in a pool of blood, rain pouring down from the treacherous heavens, protecting.
He wants to be like her.
Light springs from her hands easily, and he can only tremble as she takes a head-on hit from a captain-level threat likes it’s nothing. With Blut Vene no doubt hardening her skin and stopping any disadvantageous blood flow, unflinching and ungiving, his mother stands upright and bold as fire as she blasts the monster straight through the head.
And for a single horrible moment, he remembers the give of skin briefly under his teeth before he met iron, the fluttering of a hand on the back of his helmet, tugging him closer and he wants to eat, eat, eat, wants to be closer, wants to be part of her wants to be whole—
He stomach rolls, and before he can stop himself he is retching, but nothing comes up. Nothing but air crawls out of his throat, ragged and broken, and he can’t stop the wretched scream that tears out of his lungs.
VAULT: desert sand in the hourglass, second half (4/?)
And the desert opens up before him. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has. The sand is still bone white and the sky is darker than his cloak, the light of the desolate moon not even illuminating enough to give it a hue of navy blue.
For the first time, he wonders why there aren’t any stars. Just what is up there, if it’s not atmosphere and empty space splattered with galaxies and distant suns?
The honest curiosity of the thought brings a quiet smile to his lips. He should ask Urahara when he goes back, and if the shopkeeper doesn’t already have an answer, Ichigo was sure Urahara would love to try his hand at astronomy.
The wind is hard and biting, carrying up dust and fine sand that stings his eyes, but the particles cause no pain against his skin.
He’s gotten tougher again, a little less soft, a little less human.
The last time he was here, that inevitability hadn’t dawned on him. And before that, barring the Quincy War, the last time he stood here—
He tries not to think about it. Ishida clutching at a bloodstain on his midriff, when did that happen where how who—oh god, no, no, no. Orihime, standing there, in a horrifyingly white dress. She likes bright colors in her wardrobe, she would never choose such a thing, and the thought seemed silly, because it felt like forever since he’d seen her but he hadn’t stopped thinking of her, and it was an insult because they took her, forced her into this—
Ulquiliorra disintegrating before their eyes, nothing but dust in the wind except for his achingly green eyes and he’s a murderer, Ichigo’s a murderer—
Grimmjow lying in the dust, proud form reduced to nothing more than another fallen warrior abandoned in the midst of battle, and that was so wrong it hurt, because Grimmjow understood, understands him, is someone that awakes his basest instincts, and god it's so intoxicating that he hates, loves it, loves the tinge of sharp iron on the tongue and the ring of metal singing through the air and the flashes of blue hair and consuming eyes—
Nel, laughing as she played, carefree even in the center of the base of the enemy, and he loved that, because he often felt the same way, and she’s grown, she’s tall and endlessly powerful and green as spring and just as new and fresh, protecting him in the face of the endless winter white of Nnoitra’s straight teeth—
He takes a deep breath and pushes the memories, the regrets and the phantom pains down, back into the tight little box he has never dared to touch beyond that damning day in fake Karakura and, inevitably, achingly, in his nightmares.
He should find them. Nel and her compatriots should be around here somewhere. His spiritual pressure is out and unhidden, and he knows everything living in the radius of it has evacuated, wary of powerful beings in the wake of Aizen’s destruction, but she’ll feel him and come.
So he sets off in the direction of those broken towers on the horizon.
As he walks, he feels a familiar presence, rushing towards him, and part of him feels exasperated, and another is relieved.
His blood is pumping wildly in his veins even before the Espada descends upon him, blade already curving through the air; the steel shining is in the moonlight, but the sharp grin is much brighter.
Zangetsu meets Pantera like an old friend and rival, and Grimmjow is before him, pushing against their joined blades with the force of a semi-truck. The Sexta is as brilliantly tussled as ever, in his open jacket. His eyes are just as vicious and thirsty as Ichigo remembers, his expression twisted with the excited ferocity of a starved jaguar, but he’s grinning and to Ichigo’s surprise, actually talks. Usually they just yell at each other, words harsh and vicious and often rather meaningless besides the rage they compel.
“Took ya long enough to get here,” Grimmjow says, and Ichigo scowls, mostly out of habit.
“Sorry if I’ve got, you know, a life beyond battling maniacs in the land of dead.”
Grimmjow cocks an eyebrow, looking so honestly doubtful, as if that statement actually warrants some serious consideration, that Ichigo’s face heats up. “Do you really?”
“No. Shut up.”
Laughter, the same grating sound as when they first met.
This is how it always goes, he thinks, as they exchange swipes and strikes, because this stupid bastard with his stupid obsession with violence always manages to trick him into realizing and confessing to himself the parts of his own psyche and being that he denies harder than anything. Always manages to get Ichigo to confess what he never even wanted to acknowledge.
That’s probably why, in the most private depths of his mind, he admits that fighting Grimmjow is good for him. It’s nice to have someone who understands the darkest bits of him and accepts and encourages them so heartedly, especially on the days when he feels like nothing more than a displaced monster masquerading as a person.
He used to hate how similar he and Grimmjow are, resented it with a burning fury, because he didn’t want to have anything in common with such a bloodthirsty beast, a heartless Arrancar.
Back then, Soul Society had him convinced that Hollows were abominations and Arrancar were even worse, but now he knows better. Nel taught him that they are all just souls, trapped in different stages of moving on. Hollows could be purified forcefully, returned to a Plus state, but he has come to realize that the voluntary shift from Hollow to Arrancar was a similar process, slower but just as healing.
Grimmjow, Ulquilliora and all the others: they were never monsters.
And if he can consider himself as the same as them, then maybe he can stop calling himself a freak.
“You ain’t a soldier. Or a Shinigami. Or a Hollow. Or even a human. Here, in this indeterminate state, what can you do?”
Even among all the labels: Vizard, Shinigami, human, Fullbringer, Quincy, it had eventually become clear that everyone had a different idea of “what” he was.
But Gin, at the moment, had hit the truth on the head. He wasn’t anything there was a name for, at least not yet, because he was literally one of a kind. He wasn’t human, had never been human, at least not by the Shinigami’s definition, he wasn’t too sure if he matched biologically with humans. The way to test that was to see if, well, he could procreate viable offspring.
Not exactly on his list of things to do.
In the end, he was not even a person. Just an artificially atrocity implanted into the empty husk in a corrupted woman’s womb. Or at least, Aizen seemed to have viewed him as that. Urahara may have a slightly different point of view, but Ichigo was certain it all probably boiled down to the same issue.
It’s not like he disliked himself. Yeah, back in Karakura Town, when Gin first said those words, he had been terrified of the monster underneath his own skin, crushed under the weight of Aizen’s presence. But he had resolved his issues with his Hollow a while back; now he was grateful for the strength he naturally possessed. If his otherness made him capable of protecting what needed protecting, who was he to complain?
VAULT: desert sand in the hourglass, second half (~3/?)
“Kurosaki-san,” Urahara said, and Ichigo forces down the urge to jolt. His mentor’s grey eyes had seen everything, though, and noted his discomfort with interest, “You aren’t going there just for a fight, are you?”
Ichigo released a quiet sigh through his nose, the fluttering in his stomach fading into guilt. He didn’t like lying to Urahara, it felt a little bit like betrayal, but he also didn’t feel like he could talk about his real reasoning. He especially didn’t want his mentor to know that he had snuck into Aizen’s prison like an insurgent and had spoken to the man infamous for manipulating others.
But he was a terrible liar, so he slumped his shoulders in defeat and shook his head.
Urahara’s eyes watched him carefully, but as moments of measuring Ichigo’s stance and expression passed, he relaxed with a smile. “Well, no matter your reasons, it’ll be good for you, considering you are part Hollow, to become more familiar with the realm, and I did promise Jaegerjaques a battle with you."
VAULT: desert sand in the hourglass, second half (~2/?)
He’s built up a mountain of regrets over the years. Mostly formed from the bodies of those he couldn’t help or save, with his mother’s cold, wet corpse the base and bottom of the ever mounting pile.
He often wishes he could bring them back, but never for such selfish reason as today.
Closure would be so much easier to obtain if that deceitful snake was still breathing, because Ichigo could go to him instead of walking the path he was forcing himself to take now. That silvery bastard would chuckle and tease, but Ichigo had no doubt that in the end, Gin would have capitulated and told him what he wanted, needed, to know. For all the strain and anguish the traitor had put him through, on his final day he had looked out for Ichigo just as much, if not more than, all the others on the battlefield.
Gin had wanted him to be strong, like all the other captains and Vizards and fallen, but not so he could fight and win, but so that he could survive to see another day in his short, torturous life. Gin had been watching him from the moment he was born, dutifully at Aizen’s side, and had sometime along the way tried to remedy his superior’s mistakes.
He, better than even Shinji, understood Ichigo’s self-loathing and crippling fear, had looked on and observed that the Shinigami’s trump card was crumbling underneath the weight of his own horrible power and existence, had recognized that he was not Shinigami or Quincy or Hollow or human and instead something entirely unique, and understood that it would take years to come to terms with that curse.
