InsaneJournal

[Day 10] Cambiar sin consentimiento.
Who: Grimmjow, Nymphadora Tonks, OTA
When: Day 10, afternoonish
What: An arrival scene, and a bloody one at that
Where: Illusion City streets
Rating: PG, subject to change
Status: Incomplete

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His breathing was unnecessary and ragged. His wounds stung, impossibly deep and oozing blood and yet not severe enough to actually kill him. It took a great deal to kill a ghost; it took even more to kill an Arrancar, let alone one of the Espada. Beneath him, the once-white sand of Las Noches was stained red.

At first, he didn't move.

He could make out voices off to the side. They were familiar, eager in tone. The little Hollow brat, the human girl. The shinigami. Ichigo. The one he'd marked for his own, the one he'd been fighting; his prey.

Clenching fists and teeth, Grimmjow somehow worked his limbs beneath him - somehow pushed himself to his feet. It was painfully slow as the last of the strength of the panther was already leaving him. It was excruciating to feel, the injuries that he'd sustained dulling both sight and sound. One step, two, three-- "There's no way.."

Ichigo hadn't yet turned; none of them had yet realized that he was still there, that he still hadn't given up. They were still too busy congratulating one another to pay attention to what was around them - even in the middle of a battlefield.

Four steps, five, six-- "..no way in hell.."

Grimmjow's left knee buckled and nearly gave out beneath him. He stumbled forward, all of his catlike grace completely gone now. Even Pantera had nearly reformed into the sword in his hand, his bony Hollow exoskeleton unraveling from around him like frayed twine to leave him looking much more human. Or inhuman.

It took all of his strength just to keep pushing forward. His prey was nearly within his grasp. Seven steps, eight, nine, and his legs failed him completely. The Arrancar gave a painful hiss as he lurched forward onto hands and knees, clawed fingers digging deep into the ground. For a moment, his vision blurred and the world of Hueco Mundo seemed to swim around him; he closed his eyes against the sickening whirl of white and black.

"..like I'd ever lose to someone.."

Except that when he opened his eyes, it was all suddenly horribly wrong. The ground was still blindingly white; the sky was still nondescript and pale. Only now there were clouds hanging low and thick above, and it was not sand but soft snow covering the area, which was full of architecture foreign to both Las Noches and Tokyo. Grimmjow's hands shook as his fingers dug deep into the snow - and then into cobblestone beneath it, cracking and crumbling it like no more than caked sand. His nostrils flared, his pupils contracted to no more than pinpricks. The shift had been so immediate that he had not even registered it for what it was.

His prey was nowhere to be seen or felt. Other than the faint coo of pidgins from a nearby rooftop, the place was silent. Silent but not empty. Flashes of spiritual energy flared here and there, all around him, some stronger than others, some more interesting than others. Most were just human - dismissed and ignored.

"The hell.." The last of the panther's influence left him in a rush as Grimmjow finally climbed to his feet a third time in as many minutes. He could barely keep his grip on his sword long enough to sheath it. His hand still shook. His clothes were still tattered. He was still covered in blood, likely appearing to any to be on Death's doorstep (irony of ironies), and yet he knew that his body had already begun to slowly heal. He wasn't done for, not yet. But that still didn't give him any answers.

Not in any state to explore the how, where, why, or who - or to even see if there were a way to get back through the veil between worlds - the Arrancar stumbled over to a low stone bench and nearly collapsed on it. All he needed was a few minutes' rest to recover, then he'd be fine.. A few minutes, or maybe a few hours. Or maybe a few days. Then.. then he could decide his next move. The layer of snow covering the bench might have as well been sand. He couldn't feel its chill, either way.