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His body is wrong.
Aizen Sousuke—bastard—he has made him wrong, has transformed his sharp mouth into blunt bone, has split his powerful limbs in half. Two wobbly legs and two naked arms. His old body, his perfectly capable body, has been dumbed down to fit the shape of a human. A human, not a Vasto Lorde; keen difference. Aizen Sousuke informs his new creation of the bitter truth, that this is it, his final form. He will never evolve beyond this, but neither will most of his brothers and sisters; only few ever will. Jealousy. A human emotion, but he feels it. His eyes flicker, his nostrils flare as he observes his surroundings, the face of his maker, the awful words he just spoke. Among him are his brothers, the members of his pack, now completely intact, now completely un-devoured, shivering in the cold air of the room, as naked as him, albeit unashamed. Nudity means nothing, there is no concept, no reason to stray his eyes. He notices a difference between him and his men, a difference in anatomy, and suddenly, he feels it. Actual human shame. A sound rattles in his throat, he could choke on it, and with wide eyes, he searches his creator's face, for an answer, a reason, but Aizen Sousuke is a genius, is he not?
...Do geniuses make mistakes?
For days, he is inconsolable. Refusing any kind of nourishment, ripping his clothes to shreds with his useless, short fingernails. He searches for the most lonely and most remote corner of the castle and curls up there. The floor is cold and polished, nothing like the soft desert sand. Shawlong finds him first, speaking in that low and refined tone, the voice of reason among their group of once feral beings. Grimmjow wants to remain feral. He hisses at Shawlong, annoyed by his rationality and unaccustomed to his fleshy face. He climbs higher, but the castle never ends. It is a long, winding, white mass of doors and hallways. Aizen Sousuke is creating an army, but of what size to fill this space? Grimmjow never reaches the roof, what may have been a simple task before, he cannot manage with these new legs. His knees knock together. He collapses.
He awakes in a nest of blankets, in an unknown room, surrounded by his men, seemingly asleep, but monsters never sleep, always resting with one eye open. With a groan, he tosses to his side, knocks against Di Roy and causes a ripple of movement along his pack. Grimmjow is uncomfortably warm, trapped by the heat of his own body and the heat of his companions, clustered so close together. He climbs out, escaping the protective circle, lurching forward with unexpected power and gracelessly landing on his face. He can barely yelp before he is helped back to his feet. The momentarily press of flesh to flesh, assisting him so robotically, yet so compassionately, is an unfamiliar feeling. He bites the neck of his helper. Shawlong hardly vocalizes any distress as his leader pulls him down, straddling him. The remainder of the pack watch, speechless as Grimmjow chews on Shawlong.
This feels natural. It is the most Grimmjow has felt like himself since being transformed. He moves frantically, beginning to draw blood, his mouth filling deliciously. Still, Shawlong makes no complaint, showing little indication of pain, as if it matters, as if Grimmjow could ever emphasize or care. He can't, he is a selfish creature. He pulls his mouth away to speak, drooling a mixture of black blood and saliva, but says nothing.
Far from satisfied, he sulks to the nearest corner as his pack watches him with droopy eyes, enticed by his unpredictable behavior. Now, the room has a thick stench. Grimmjow senses it, their unease, their urge. Shawlong, however, seems to be recovering, keeping a firm pressure to his weeping neck. The wound might knot into a scar. Grimmjow hopes it does. When the energy in the room begins to shift, when Grimmjow begins looking a little less like their leader, he crawls through the door. The hallway is lonely, but it is not the loneliest place.
Tousen hates him immediately. Ichimaru simply finds him amusing. Tousen is quick to reprimand, so blind, yet so astute. He reminds Grimmjow to not overestimate his importance, the system is numerical only by strength, not by value. When they die—and they will die—they will perish all the same. Tousen reminds him that his foul mouth and quick temper will no longer be tolerated. Grimmjow bites Tousen's hand when he says that. Ichimaru finds it appropriate. One cannot disturb an animal and expect no response. One cannot displease a monster without consequence.
When Tousen fails to tame him, Ulquiorra takes on the burden. Ulquiorra is a Vasto Lorde, he is one of few. A hundred years could pass in that dry, endless desert, a million thankless meals and the transformation would never come, not for Grimmjow. He is strong, but not special. So, what good is this body? He claws at his thighs, scratching, tearing, trying to find the good in it. Maybe if he digs deep enough. Maybe it is hidden somewhere. He stares through himself, through the hole in his gut, the missing piece that keeps him from completion. He scrapes at the edges and Ulquiorra swats his hand away.
"Your body is a gift from Aizen-sama," Ulquiorra says with lips that hardly move and a face that never flinches. "Be grateful."
Ulquiorra doesn't know. Ulquiorra doesn't know that Aizen ruined him. Whether it was accidental or done with purpose, Grimmjow has yet to discover. Agitated, he continues marking his skin with angry red lines. His nails are growing, he has been sharpening them in reminiscence of his old body, his old claws. Ulquiorra stops him again, this time holding his wrist in place, eyes unkind. He never blinks.
"Enough," Ulquiorra warns. He tightens his grasp, Grimmjow can hear the dangerous creak of bone. He tries freeing himself, confident he can achieve it with one fluid motion, but to his shock, Ulquiorra slaps him. The pain is hard to measure, it is a concoction of anger and indignity. The ringing is incessant, worse than the heat radiating from his cheek. He slumps, vision fuzzy, rage bubbling.
"Oh, shit!" Nnoitra howls with laughter, having witnessed the altercation. Surely, the degradation is pleasing to watch. Intoxicating, really. Nnoitra is not a man, appearing much less of a man than Grimmjow, tall and towering, lean and terrifying. His grin is wide and toothy and Grimmjow would glare in his direction if he could. His eyes are struggling to adjust, the room spinning like a rotary stage, disappearing only to return. Ulquiorra releases him and Grimmjow meets the floor. Always with the floor.
“Hey. Move.” Nnoitra nudges him with the heel of his boot. “Move or I'll eat ya."
Grimmjow keeps his forehead to the floor. Cold, cooling the heat from his face. Nnoitra presses harder with his boot, too impatient for a response, eager to keep his promise. Nnoitra kicks the downed Espada onto his back and receives a snarl for his actions.
"Wassup with ya? Huh?" He leers, his pupils are pinpricks, piercing Grimmjow, examining his cuts and bruises, most self inflicted. "Poor thing. Ya wanna die, right? Hey, just say the word and I'll end it for ya. Beg and I'll make it good for the both of us."
He leans forward, inches closer with his pale, thin face. Grimmjow scrambles to his feet, but the larger Espada captures him, fist wound tightly in his jacket. Grimmjow tries shrugging it off. His eyes find Ulquiorra, resigned a short distance away, idle, unbothered.
"Fuck you!" Grimmjow seethes. He doesn’t know whom it’s for.
"Scared? Well, ya shouldn't be," Nnoitra taunts, jet black hair spilling from his shoulder as he looks Grimmjow up and down, sizing him up. With lightning speed, Nnoitra grips the back of his neck and squeezes, precisely. Grimmjow goes limp, his eyes are wide, but his body is useless. "Got nine lives, don't 'cha?"
Nnoitra drags him to a remote place in the castle and decides to give him a fighting chance. The moment he is released, Grimmjow leaps for his throat, teeth bared. They wrestle, no weapons, only fists and muscle and Nnoitra is heavy. He is skinny, but his weight is enormous, crushing Grimmjow, knocking the wind out of him. The Sexta Espada gasps for air. He has sweat glands now, his skin is moist from exertion, but he opens his mouth to pant, anyway. A habit, an instinct. Nnoitra shoves his fingers down his throat and Grimmjow gags. His jaw pops, a terribly loud click of bone, and the ache is instantaneous. Nnoitra threatens to rip his head in two and Grimmjow has no reason not to believe him. His saliva is pooling, maybe he will choke on his own body fluid, he decides that might be better than surrender. Nnoitra outranks him, but even so, losing is unacceptable, it is a sign of weakness. Grimmjow clamps down and sees white.
He sees the desert. The desert is white. It is beautiful, but when he strays too far, having abandoned his boots at the castle entrance, someone always stops him. The others come and go as they please, Grimmjow, however, is kept on a short leash. He isn't worth the trouble. Someone says that. Maybe Tousen says that, it has to be him or Ulquiorra. He should thrive in this new life, he should be thanking Aizen, testing his abilities, hunting prey. Truly, he was doomed to spend eternity in the desert, he had already devoured his comrades and the meat wouldn't last forever. He recalls the first sweet bite he tore from Shawlong. There was no going back after that. There was no other option.
"Was it worth it?" Nnoitra asks, resentful. Grimmjow regains consciousness, nagging pain at the base of his skull. Nnoitra is cradling his injured hand. It will scar; Grimmjow hopes it does. "Your jaw's never gonna work the same. Fuckin' moron."
"Yeah," Grimmjow grunts. He didn't quite win, but he didn't lose either. He isn't pleased by that, but he can accept it. “Worth it."
Nnoitra laughs as he flicks the blood from his hand. He has a sense of humor, at least.
Grimmjow grins.
He returns to his quarters, footfall alerting his fraccion. As time passes, they sleep as a group less and less and Grimmjow can't make sense of it. How will they defend each other from an intruder, how will they stave off the night chill? Shawlong reminds him there is no need for such precautions anymore. The group seems rather content with their newfound privacy, but Grimmjow cannot bear to remember those lonely nights. A personal hell, the tossing and turning, every cry, every call and crunch, keeping him awake. Shawlong does him one last courtesy, curling into their nest of dusty blankets and curtains, accompanying him for a final, nightly ritual. Grimmjow ignores his reflection in Shawlong's eyes.
He has never seen his own face and he doesn’t want to. The mask protruding from his cheek, a reminder of his past life, the same powerful jaw that tore through wriggling flesh. Not his current mouth, with the flat teeth and the awful ache from the skirmish with Nnoitra. He slides his fingers across the smooth surface of bone and traces to his chin. His features are strong, his cheekbones prominent, and his eyes. They are a brilliant blue, an overwhelmingly blue, like a cloudless sky enveloping a lush landscape. It is not a color that exists in that endless desert just outside the castle. It is the color of salvation, of collapsing in the sand a hundred times before stumbling onto a sparkling pond, so beautiful in the distance, but forever out of reach. A mirage in the wasteland.
He was a small adjuncha. That was why every other damn adjuncha had lunged at him from the shadows, desperate for a chunk of meat. His size made him alluring to predators. He wonders if his eyes had anything to do with it. Baiting his enemies. Luring them closer. Eyes that said, taste me. Eyes that said, hold me on your tongue.
In the morning, he stirs. The blankets are folded, the curtains are hung and they dance softly in the breeze. His room is empty and he sits in the windowsill, bathing in the synthetic desert sun.