New York City is no pushover city. It takes guts to survive—a fact that ten not-so-ordinary city folk learn firsthand. There's trouble and happiness, love and hate, steryotypes and drama, fear and hope. And there's always tomorrow.

An AU story of the Espada, rated T for violence and language.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN EITHER BLEACH OR NYC. ANY SIMILARITIES TO PERSONS OR PLACES IN ACTUAL NEW YORK CITY IS PURELY FICTIONAL AND BY NO MEANS DONE INTENTIONALLY.

Sexta Blues

...

"Uwaah!"

"You damn brat. That was a warning shot, y'hear?"

A quaver is in the accused's voice as he mutters, "You'll have to scare me a lot more than that—"

The jolting click of the firearm's safety pries an unwanted whimper from him as he scoots slowly out of the way. But never fast enough.

"Is this a challenge?"

"G-go ahead and try, you bastard!"

And then the sound of a gunshot rings through the city, drowned away only moments later by the roar of commerce and transportation.

A child's scream suddenly pierces the late afternoon sky, swallowed by the bustling city instantly.

It is paid little heed by the few people it touches.

But what else is new?

Grimmjow stumbles back as if rammed by a city bus, which may not be too far from the truth. Or maybe it is. A Mack truck may be a more apt analogy. Needless to say, the pain of the bullet as it enters his shoulder and lodges itself against his collarbone is very, very real.

His scream echoes once more throughout the abandoned parking lot, then recedes to a whimper as he falls on his side, clutching his shoulder as if begging it to start working again. It's not listening, though. He can barely move it, and something tells him that even this minimum movement is only temporary. The asphalt below him is broken and dusty, and it digs into his chest. He shivers against the touch, which is strange because it's summer and at this time of day the pavement should be boiling. A corner of his ragged white shirt catches on a stray nail, tearing the side almost up to the sleeve and taking a chunk of his arm with it. It was his best shirt, and now it's ruined and soaked in blood. But the pain. It's not the first time he's been seriously injured before, but it's by far the most intense, most terrifying, most dangerous. The pain is blinding. He cannot feel anything else, can't think, breathe, not even cry.

What...what did he do, to deserve this?

The triggerman, a half-blind African-American man named Kaname Tôsen, stands panting with the smoking gun elevated and pointed at Grimmjow's shoulder. He's probably half-deaf too, after all the noise in the city. He's much older than Grimmjow—in fact, Grimmjow knows for a fact that Tôsen is a father. A good father. He treats his son amazingly, the boy brags about it constantly. His son goes to the same elementary "school" as Grimmjow, in a nondescript broken-down building located in the most miserable part of Harlem.

At least, he used to.

Ever since he had first learned to walk, Grimmjow had been a grudging member of the High Hopes Secular Orphanage, on the side of West 130th Street closest to Lenox Avenue, even though he knew for a fact that he'd be better off if he wasn't one of their problems. He didn't know how he'd gotten there, only that he didn't like it. High Hopes wasn't exactly known for its benevolence to its members. The owner was a strict middle-aged man who insisted upon being referred to as "the superior". Discipline at High Hopes was dealt quickly and severely, no matter the error, and with Grimmjow usually on the receiving end. The superior was often drunk as well; and whenever he was, the bodily danger to the orphans was tripled.

As a result, Grimmjow took action and learned to defend himself, however little that would do for him. He instantly became the most feared person in the complex, and this easily made him the target of the superior's hatred and aggression. The orphanage "staff" (really just the one man) quickly decided by his seventh year there that Grimmjow was too "crafty and violent" to learn with normal kids, so they sent him to a secluded school three times a week under supervision. On occasion, he'd been to juvie as well, having pulled a knife on one of his escorts on the way to class as one of his more severe crimes. And every time he found himself there, most people said that they couldn't believe that a simple fourth-grader had done whatever he had done in that particular instance.

When he wasn't at the school doing nothing, he was locked in a small broom closet to keep him away from the other kids, with a couple of discarded toys that nobody else had wanted and whatever food was left from breakfast. He had a room upstairs, yeah, with all the other kids and their rooms—but it was only used on those rare days when the superior was in a good mood of sorts. No, the closet was basically his haunt. His own, little, imprisonment haunt.

Whenever someone came around for adoption, the locks on the door were tripled, and a large painting was placed in front of it so nobody would even suspect that a Iittle young boy with natural blue hair and a murderous look in his eyes was being held behind it so nobody would be hurt.

They left a tiny unnoticeable hole in the picture, though—Grimmjow had a feeling it was there on purpose just to torment him—so he could see almost perfectly to the small sitting room where possible parents introduced themselves to the children.

A family had come in once. They were perfect. Absolutely amazing.

Their names were Todd and Miyako Jaegerjaques. He loved that name. It was so weird, and crazy!—how could he not love it? He let his mind run wild on the meaning. "Jaeger" in German—he had looked it up at school later—meant "hunter", and "Jacques" was a biblical name, but he couldn't find the dictionary meaning of that one. But all together, it sounded so awesome. He especially liked the hunting part of it.

They had come looking for a kid like him. Like him. What had been the exact words he had heard? "A young troublemaker who hates everyone here and would like nothing more than to leave." He had never heard a better description. His hand shot up behind the door, but after realizing that they couldn't see him, he had lowered it down and set out looking for a way out of the closet.

Of course, he gave up soon after, seeing as he couldn't break out and listen to them at the same time.

The father was a relatively tough-looking guy, with a thick tan build but not fat, and a surprisingly friendly face. Todd explained to the kids that he usually fished in the waters off Long Island, and occasionally liked to take trips down south to try his hand at the hunting ranges in Texas. Grimmjow had heard enough about Texas at school to like it, and if Texas was amazing then the hunting sounded even better. Todd was kinda gritty in the way he spoke, with a clear southern lingo in most of his speech, and he swore quite a bit. The superior looked a bit rattled by that man. Todd had no problem with it. Neither did Grimmjow.

In complete contrast to her clearly southern husband, Miyako the mother was Japanese, and an instructor in a karate dojo. Grimmjow had always liked karate a lot, since it was pretty good for defense and offense and also just plain fun. The woman looked so damn cool and confident, with her long black hair tied into a thin ponytail and the ends highlighted dark blue to match her eyes. Blue. Like him. Most of her students were based in Long Island as well and had been Olympic contenders. She was also pregnant, with a baby boy no less. He would be born on July 30th, just a day before Grimmjow's birthday. They were gonna name the boy Luppi—Grimmjow hated the name but figured he could live with it. He could almost picture the boy, too; lithe with Miyako's complexion, but with shortly cropped black hair only a little longer than Todd's.

As they gave their introduction talk and tried to get to know the kids, an enraptured Grimmjow had absorbed every word of it, until a few hours later when they had said that they were leaving and would come back the next day. They said they needed to talk to each other before choosing anyone.

When the superior removed the painting and opened the door, Grimmjow had run up to him and asked him to do something for him for the first time in Grimmjow's miserable little life, because he felt he had a chance.

"Please, superior, let me sit with the other kids when they come back."

"Oh...?" Not good. He had been drinking, you could see it in his eyes and his staggering gait as he righted himself.

"Please, sir, give me a chance, just this once. I'll never ask for anything ever again."

Then the man had leaned in close, the rancid smell of alcohol fresh in his breath, and whispered, "A volatile young brat like you would have no chance with a couple as wonderful as that one."

"But I know I can..." he pleaded. "No, I know I do!"

"I know I do," he mocked.

One of the children stepped forward slowly, possibly a sympathizer to Grimmjow's plight. "Um...sir, we really don't mind. He won't hurt us...right, Grimmjow?"

That little bit of faith in him was all he needed to keep fighting.

A crazed yet slightly hopeful look in his eyes, Grimmjow yelled, "Of course right! Please, sir, just give me this one chance to have something in life...please."

One of the orphanage staff members began to cry and covered her mouth to hide it, but Grimmjow didn't miss the gesture. Even the staff knew how wrong the superior was. It was wrong to shut him away. He had to meet them.

Had to.

The children began to mumble in agreement, but were suddenly silent as the superior got down on his knees and pointed a long lanky finger right between Grimmjow's eyes.

"If you can't even listen to the superior, then you're not right to be adopted. Young man, you, you...are doomed to live alone for the rest of you life. And nobody will ever love you. Ever. If you say so much as a word tomorrow when you're in that closet, you won't eat for a week."

The superior pushed the horrified young Grimmjow back into the closet and placed a chair under the handle until dinnertime.

"What?! You can't do that!"

"He's just a kid like us!"

"All of you, SHUT THE HELL UP! HE IS NOT LIKE YOU!" the man roared. "HE IS A BEAST WHO SHOULD COUNT HIMSELF LUCKY TO BE PART OF HIGH HOPES!"

The children retreated to their rooms for the rest of the night. Grimmjow waited and hoped.

Naturally, his hopes were in vain the next morning, when he was aroused and practically dragged to the closet. As the locks clicked, the superior's surprisingly aloof voice darkened as he hissed, "Not a word from you."

About two minutes after the picture had been placed, they came, and Grimmjow found himself suddenly pressed against the peephole as the couple walked by. And as they did, he noticed distinctly the curve of Miyako's belly as Todd helped her through the doorway to the sitting room.

As Miyako stumbled, the superior ran forward to catch her. "Miss Jaegerjaques, are you okay?"

She laughed, strained. "Fine, really. Luppi should be coming soon, possibly quite sooner than expected."

"Congratulations." Grimmjow chose to focus on his hatred of the man doling out the thanks instead of the hypocrisy he used in congratulating the same people he couldn't stand.

And then, to Grimmjow's adulation, the woman scoffed. "Come now. Don't give me congratulations when there is not a kind thought in your heart."

The superior looked as if to contradict, then thought better of it.

Grimmjow high-fived himself.

But that was just about the only good part about it. Because they kept walking, and they walked past him, and they didn't even talk to the kids. They went straight to consult the superior privately in the hallway.

"The one of you we are looking for isn't here."

That was the worst part.

They had looked at the orphanage roster, he heard so himself. And he had seen them taking the superior on the side to ask about him, he had clearly heard his name.

"We were thinking about the child you have named Grimmjow."

"...You'd like to adopt Grimmjow?"

"Yes. There was a picture in the roster. Blue hair and eyes? We noticed yesterday that he wasn't there with the other kids."

Grimmjow felt something rise up in his heart, and he pressed his eye against the peephole. The three of them were standing right by the door out of the other orphans' earshot, but in a way that he could see all of them. The superior's back was to him at the moment.

"Where is he? If we could speak to him, that would be amazing."

"Where...where Grimmjow is?"

The superior cast a side look at the painting, and for a brief moment, Grimmjow felt a surge of joy. It was gonna happen. Someone was gonna free him.

Finally.

"...You mean we didn't fix the roster yet?"

"What do you mean?"

"My word, the staff here is incompetent. He was transferred to a correctional facility on the upper East Side. Too...dangerous for the kids here, a bad influence, so we weren't allowed to keep him."

No.

"Oh. That's a shame, eh, Miyako?" Todd looked around sadly.

"No, please don't go."

The words were out of Grimmjow's mouth before he could stop them, but once they were there he couldn't take them back. And he didn't care about what the superior would do. He just wanted them to know he was there. Maybe he did have that chance he was hoping for.

They didn't hear him. "Indeed," Miyako replied with obvious skepticism. "We had heard something about him from a friend who works at Juvenile Hall. Maybe he'd like it with us."

"No! Stop! Don't fall for it!" Grimmjow yelled, and he slammed his fist against the door.

Miyako's head snapped up immediately. "Todd, did you hear that?"

Todd gave off a barely perceptible nod. "Yes, I did."

"You. Aizen. What was that?"

"That?! Oh, that's nothing at all—"

"Don't listen to him!" Grimmjow rammed into the door again, but it barely budged. "It's me, it's me! I'm in here!"

"Explain yourself," Miyako growled to the superior, stepping forward and pressing him back.

"It's nothing! Nothing! I—hey, stop that!" he yelled suddenly, and Grimmjow shifted to see.

Todd. Todd had made it to the door, to the painting. His hand was over the peephole, and he rapped hard on the door. "Came from over here, Miyako. The wall behind this thing is hollow."

Grimmjow called once more. "In here! I'm in here! Behind the picture!"

Immediately, Miyako rushed forward to grab the frame, and the peephole shifted until Grimmjow saw only the back of a canvas. They were moving it, despite the superior's frenzied arguments against it. The commotion they were making was attracting the attention of both the staff and the children.

The same one who had vouched for Grimmjow before, that other kid, couldn't remember his name, said, "Please, miss, can you get him out? It's not right!"

Other voices chimed in after him, including a couple of the maids—Grimmjow let them bounce off him, he couldn't get them to shut up fast enough. Just let them notice him, save him, anything.

"He didn't do anything this time!"

"Just help, please!"

"I've never seen the superior acting this badly before."

"It's not fair!"

"Why is he any different?"

"He?! Is that who I think it is?" she said in alarm. And it was, it was exactly who she thought it was.

The superior toughened up in that moment, and in an act of either idiocy or undeniable bravery he grabbed the woman's arm to remove her from the door. "Ma'am, you're interfering with the business of the orphanage. I suggest you leave."

"Bullshit!" she yelled, and ripped her hand from his grip, and Grimmjow heard the sound of a struggle outside the door. "You're keeping a child locked in a broom closet in an orphanage?! This can have you arrested for god-knows-how-many human rights violations! Todd, get the painting, now."

He nodded and lifted it, and a bright flash of light hit Grimmjow head on as the peephole was uncovered. And there they were—everyone. Just about every person he knew.

Them. Todd and Miyako. They saw him. They could see him. They had found him.

"He is there! I knew it!" Miyako exclaimed, running to the door and trying to jostle the handle. Locked. She gave up on the knob and instead tried to see him through the hole. "Grimmjow, hon, can you hear me?"

Hon. Nobody had ever called him anything besides "brat".

He nodded, praying that she saw him then. She was shaking—probably couldn't understand just how cruel the superior was to him.

"We'll get you out of there, I promise—gaah!"

And his eyes caught Miyako's eyes for a moment, frenzied and desperate, before the superior dragged the shellshocked couple out the front door and locked it behind them.

"No!" he screamed.

"Shut the hell up!" the superior roared in reply, ramming his foot into the door as the yells of the couple slowly faded. Something inside Grimmjow just cracked then.

So, so very very close.

His hand slammed onto the door one final time and then slid down to his side.

They left without ever knowing him.

He failed.

He had cried almost continuously for a few days, and had used a knife to jam the lock so they couldn't get him out until the locksmith had come by the Thursday after. When he finally left the closet, he had been so drained that one of the nurses had had to carry him back to his room. It was the same one who cried last time, and she cried again that night. She stayed with him the whole time he lay there in bed, until he was somehow able to move again.

Then she had left, leaving her apron on the only dresser in the room as a solid resignation.

As soon as Grimmjow gained his energy back, the superior was there to crush him back down.

The superior had nothing more to say once he had given Grimmjow a brief taste of his fury. The fresh and jagged scar on his chest was now a permanent reminder of the worst day of the boy's life.

The next day, on the way to school, he had attacked his guard again, and this time succeeded in leaving a permanent scar across his eye. An eye for an eye, exacted as accurately and as directly on the superior as possible.

When the same officer at the juvie's front desk had asked his name for the trillionth time, Grimmjow instinctively responded with Grimmjow Jaegerjaques. She had given him a strange look and then pulled out his file to make the necessary changes.

"So you met those two, eh?" A small laugh rang through the air, quickly swallowed by the metal bars separating the two of them. She was surprisingly pretty, with mint-green hair that was tied up tightly in a bun and cold sandy eyes that looked too tense to be that way all the time.

"Are you the friend who told Mrs. Jaegerjaques about me?"

The woman looked around slowly, eyes on the door where the police had just exited, then nodded and lowered her voice to a whisper as those eyes of hers started to sparkle. "Why? Did you like 'er?"

"Tell her and Todd that the superior lied and I'm still at High Hopes," he whispered back, "if you can."

"That man..." She sighed. "What exactly does he have against you?"

"I don't like getting hurt."

"I noticed. Better be careful with you and your weapons, since if you get any worse they might pull me on-duty. You're here because you protect yourself. But that's why I told those two about you. You might have someone else to protect you for once. I don't think you're a bad kid, Grimmjow."

"Thanks."

"I bet you don't hear that often enough, eh?" she chuckled.

"No."

"You know what?" She grinned and stuck a hand out through the window, grabbing his hand and shaking it rapidly before he realized she was. "I like you, ya little brat. If you ever see Miyako and Todd again, tell 'em that Neliel says hello."

That would be the last time the two of them would ever see each other.

He ignored Neliel's warning—the threat of the superior sending someone to off him or simply kidnap and abandon him was real, and in the case of Grimmjow, a weapon could save his life. A week later, he had brought a knife to school, hiding it in the back pocket of his pants.

During math that Monday, when the teacher had gone outside for a quick smoke, a boy named Sajin had begun to brag about the things he was doing after school with his dad. His dad promised to buy him an Xbox and play a bunch of games with him all night until dinner. Then they were going to the movies. The next day, his dad had promised to take him to the beach by the Throgs Neck Bridge to fly kites. Then he said he felt like his dad was the awesomest dad in the world, and anyone who didn't have one like his was never gonna be happy.

Grimmjow had jumped him before the end of the day.

Still, he didn't exactly mean to hurt the boy. It had just come so naturally to him, the feeling of that knife in his palm. He couldn't help himself. It was like he had been chained to a rock sinking in the ocean, and hurting that boy was the only way to miraculously convince himself he wasn't drowning. The aggravation and aggression was there, and the boy had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The boy, the dark-skinned adopted son of Tôsen, had been sent to the nearest hospital with a terrible stab wound in the leg. From what the EMTs had been yelling while prying Grimmjow off of him, Sajin might need a prosthetic. At best. He had been held in the insanity ward of the hospital in one of those rooms they keep the straitjacketed wackjobs in, until such a time when he was allowed to be released.

The police had had to come to bring Grimmjow back to the orphanage the second night had fallen, just three short hours later. And all the while, Grimmjow had been screaming, begging them in vain not to take him back to his caretakers. But after his merciless, hatred-fueled attack, not a single one of them took pity on him when they dropped him on High Hopes' doorstep still in handcuffs.

The other kids had been forced to go to bed early and were locked in their rooms so they couldn't see what the superior would do next.

The subsequent beating he had received had left him almost unable to move for two days, and as punishment they had locked him for the next week in the so-much-worse-than-the-broom-closet supply closet under the stairs that stank of chemicals and putrid cigarette smoke. Even right now, he can still feel the horrible pain of the superior's bat colliding with his midsection, and the horrible fear of being unable to fight back because he left the handcuffs on and looped them over a coathook on the wall.

But the gun. The gun hurts so much worse. Especially since it isn't a normally violent person holding the weapon, but an angry father who Grimmjow knew has never hurt a living person before.

He didn't want to hurt Sajin.

He didn't.

He brings his attention to his attacker, the father of a young boy who Grimmjow could have easily killed.

"Keep in mind, brat," Tôsen says in a level tone, leveling the gun at Grimmjow's face and flicking the safety off with an audible click. He's surprisingly good at it for a man who can barely see. "The next time you touch Sajin, I place this bullet—" he points to the chamber of the pistol and then places the gun against the child's forehead "—right there, in between your eyes. Got it?"

Grimmjow, unable to do any more than whimper, nods, and the action pushes the gun away.

Tôsen lingers for a moment, then pulls the weapon back and plays with the trigger, running his fingers over it idly. There is a menacing glow in his eyes, and Grimmjow suddenly realizes that this is what he must have looked like to Sajin. He was probably just as terrified as Grimmjow is, right now.

"Because of you, you wretched monster," Tôsen spits, "my son may never walk again. I hope you die in hell."

Silence.

"Well!?" he yells suddenly. "Nothing more to say?!"

He has nothing more to say, and he is sure that Tôsen can see this in his eyes. It doesn't matter if he is half-blind or not, he knows Tôsen can feel it.

The man sighs and places the pistol through his belt, moving his jacket and scarf to hide it. Then he turns abruptly and walks off, steps into his busted-up Toyota Camry, and with a squeak of tires peals out of the parking lot in the general direction of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital.

Grimmjow waits until Tôsen is completely out of sight to cry. And cry he does.

One, two, a trillion. The tears splatter on the pavement, sizzling in the dwindling heat if they land outside of his shadow. He can't stop it, and he hates himself for it, but the pain isn't the only thing that hurts him. He feels scarred, as if someone has ripped open his heart and stabbed him from behind. He is lost, unsure what to do. The pressure isn't like the freedom he thought running away would be, it's way too lonely and now everything rides on him. Going back to High Hopes isn't an option—no f**king way in hell will he find himself there again if he can help it. And who knows where the Jaegerjaques are. Going to juvie will end him up in a cell again. Going to the school will do the same.

Well, that's it, then. If nowhere is an option, Grimmjow will find somewhere else to go.

Painfully, head throbbing under the sun's assaulting rays, Grimmjow pulls himself to his feet. His uninjured arm reaches up and wipes his eyes roughly, smearing the tears across his cheeks and leaving a wet line on his skin. And he walks, step after step, grabbing a blanket that someone has left on a nearby clothesline and wrapping it around his shoulders. It's already getting dark, and the temperature is changing faster than he can believe. It's surprisingly cold already, and the sun isn't even down.

It is dark out before Grimmjow realizes that he is undoubtedly and irrefutably lost. By this point of town, all the streetlights are either dead or covered by something. A weak swear comes from his mouth as he trudges his way into a small dark alley and sits in the opening with his back against the wall. The pressure on his wound is terrible, but he doesn't have the energy to keep walking. Where will he go now?

"Oye!" a voice suddenly calls, and Grimmjow's head snaps to the sound. A boy, not an adult, thank god. But that doesn't mean he feels safe.

He notices something moving in the deeper part of the alley, hidden by the darkness, and slinks away, towards the opening. When he stumbles moving back, he picks himself up, until he is in the center of the clearing that the alley opens up to. The grass is wet and dying beneath his hands, probably some garden that nobody remembered to keep alive.

"Jeez, relax. I'm not here to eat you."

"Who…who are you?" a fearful Grimmjow whispers.

The boy lifts the cigarette and takes a long drag, stepping out from the alley shadows so Grimmjow can see him a little better. He is tall, surprisingly so, but his age isn't shown in his features. But it's obvious that he's older—clearly obvious. A kid with such a determined stance like that isn't in the fourth grade. His hair is long and black, but it's tied into a tight ponytail that hangs limply down his back. A small Marlboro cigarette sticks out from between his teeth.

"Shawlong. Shawlong Qufang." He exhales loudly, breathing a cloud of smoke into Grimmjow's face. Then, without warning, he grabs the cigarette and sticks it in between Grimmjow's lips. "And you look like you could use a drag."

His eyes go wide as the smoke enters his lungs, and he resists the urge to choke on it for a moment, before it's too much and he has to take a breath. But it's in vain—Shawlong's way stronger than Grimmjow, and no amount of struggling will remove the iron grip that the boy has suddenly placed on his shoulder. His hand locks around the dirt beneath his fingers, pulling the roots all the way out. He can't get out of this.

So instead, he decides to play Shawlong's game. Grimmjow drags in deeply on the cigarette once, and instead of feeling the intoxicating choke of that smog that all those health teachers warn you about, he tries to picture it as a blissful kind of pain. And it works. It's nowhere near as bad as the first try, and when he relaxes a little, Shawlong lets him go.

Immediately, Grimmjow spits out the cigarette, where it lands on the grass and hisses to a smoking stop. It takes a couple seconds of wheezing and coughing to recover his breath, but once he has, it's relatively normal again.

The boy pulls back with a frown and leans against the wall on the other side of the clearing. "Shit. That was the only one I had left, kid."

After a cough, Grimmjow says, "It tastes like crap."

"Maybe so. But you didn't hate it, did you?"

No. No he hadn't.

Grimmjow is about to ask him why he did it when his attention is drawn to a growling sound from behind Shawlong's leg. "What is that?"

"Oh? Him?" The boy moves his leg to display a big black pitbull with surprisingly bright eyes panting in excitement. A wave of nausea hits Grimmjow when he sees the creature glaring at him in what looks like adulation.

The dog lets out a bright woof like a gunshot as Shawlong reaches down to its chin and scratches it lovingly. "The dog's Nakim. I found him."

But Grimmjow shies away at the sound, because all he can think about is the claws on that thing and how easily they could rip through his body. He really hates dogs, especially big ones like the mutt trying to snap playfully at his heels. A nervous Grimmjow scoots away from the slobbering Nakim, and it's at this point that he makes the bullet wound in his left shoulder a lot more visible than he'd like to.

An alarmed look suddenly replaces the cold indifference in Shawlong's features, and he runs to Grimmjow's side, almost slipping on the asphalt—the frenzy scaring Grimmjow almost more than the wound itself. The look in his eyes is frantic as he says, "Nakim, out of the way! Let me see."

The dog faithfully plods behind Grimmjow and rests its head on his back.

Grimmjow slides the blanket off his shoulder slowly, trying not to disturb the wound, but the impatient Shawlong rips it off. He cries out suddenly as Shawlong moves his hands to the collar of the shirt and rips it down the center, taking the two pieces and throwing them aside. The air is brisk and cold against his chest, but the shoulder feels as if it is on fire, and it is all Grimmjow can do to stay silent.

"This is bad, kid," Shawlong says, wetting his lips and taking the jacket off his own shoulders to drape it over Grimmjow's. It's much warmer than the blanket, even without his shirt. "The hell gave you this?"

"Someone shot me."

"Don't be so casual about it," Shawlong grumbles half-jokingly, picking up his demolished shirt and ripping it into a wide band of fabric. Grimmjow suddenly grits his teeth to keep from crying out as he wraps the cloth tightly under his arm and around his shoulder.

"People used to get shot around here, but it's not supposed to happen anymore, idiot. And man, what the hell happened to your chest?"

"It's not l-like I wanted to be hurt."

Shawlong responds with a halfhearted huff. "How old are you, kid?"

"N-nine. You?"

"Sixteen. You sound older than a nine-year-old though. You might as well be thirteen in my eyes. What's your name?"

A scream is ripped from his mouth as Shawlong tightens the bandage, but he follows the scream with a shaky, "G-Grimmjow Jaegerjaques."

"Grimmjow, eh?" That smirk of his returns just a little as he beckons Nakim over and has him promptly sit down in Grimmjow's lap. "Unique. Kinda hard to say, though. I'll call you something else instead."

"Like what?"

"How about, oh, I don't know...King?"

Something in that rings for him. He likes the idea of being a king.

Bet kings didn't have to put up with the superior.

"Oi, didya hear me?" Shawlong asks. He hadn't. A nervous twinge is in his voice, and immediately Grimmjow is terrified.

"I asked if you can move your arm."

Grimmjow tries, he really does—but the second he moves it even a little, a burning pain shoots up his arm and lodges itself in his chest, right next to his heart. He lets out another cry and doubles over, but Shawlong catches him before he can pass out. Nakim jumps down to avoid being crushed.

"That's not good. I don't know anything about being a doctor, but I don't think that arm will work anytime soon."

A deep-seated fear settles in Grimmjow's chest and stays there. The boy is right. His arm can't move. It probably won't, not after what Tôsen pulled. Grimmjow's left arm may as well be severed.

But just because it's understandable doesn't make it okay. He can't breathe, can't breathe at all. Look at this. He suffers, he goes through hell to protect himself, and the very actions that were supposed to protect him have condemned him. Nobody understands, and because nobody understands, he has been shot.

He's about to thank Shawlong for his help and walk away to curl up in a corner somewhere when the sound of more voices and footsteps grows loud in the alley. Nakim lets off a delighted woof and leaps away, running in he direction of the noise.

"Not the best time, guys," Shawlong mutters.

"What's..." He fixes his question. "Who's that?"

"The guys are back."

"Guys?"

He finds out what Shawlong means when two other kids, somewhere around fifteen or so, round the corner of the alley with Nakim in hand. One of them is fairly skinny and has long blonde hair that hasn't been tied back. The other is darker-skinned and quite muscular, with red hair in unevenly shifted to the right sight of his head. He looks...disagreeable to say the least.

The smaller one nods towards Grimmjow. "Who's the boy, Shawlong?"

"Don't worry yourself about it. Grimmjow, this is Ilfort Grantz, one of the guys I live with."

"He's kinda small, don't you think?" But Ilfort nods again, this time in respect. "Nice to meet you, brother."

As Grimmjow warily nods back, Shawlong gestures to the bigger one. "Edorad Leones is the one who looks like he'd punch a kitten."

"I don't like 'im," he states, apprehension creeping into his voice as he glares at the bleeding little boy on the ground. Very disagreeable indeed.

"Well, why not?" Ilfort says. "Look at him, he's quite the adorable little kid. If he didn't have that melancholy look on his face, he wouldn't appear so dislikable."

"He looks like he'd go around a bank stealing people's vault keys."

"Pretty sure those don't exist."

"The hell do you know, Ilfort?"

"People don't just carry around the keys to the bank vaults, or things would get complicated."

"Whatever. Just look at him!" And they turn together, staring at Grimmjow with confusion, intrigue, and possibly annoyance.

Grimmjow is staring right back at them with the same levels of apprehension when suddenly there is silence.

And the cry of a little boy suddenly becomes audible above the noiseless moment.

"Mommy!"

Grimmjow has leapt to his feet before he realizes, and the pain hits him immediately, but he ignores his sudden nausea and dashes off through the alley. He rams Edorad in the process, earning a long string of invective as he shoots past the hulking boy.

"Wait! Grimmjow, come back!" Shawlong yells. But Grimmjow ignores, as he can already hear the boy's feet plodding after him. He is being followed. So what?

He throws himself around the corner as another voice makes itself known. "You damn boy, getting in my way!"

"Mommy! Mommy, wake up!" the child cries. He's close by.

Grimmjow skids around the corner to see what may just be the most horrible thing he's ever had to face.

A tiny boy with scruffy blonde hair, maybe four at best, is on his knees and crying next to someone. A woman. A pool of blood is forming underneath her, and she isn't moving. He is shaking her hard, but there is no response. A man, Grimmjow can barely see him, stands in the shadows of the alley with a moistly glistening knife in his grip.

Recognition flashes in the man's eyes—he knows Grimmjow from...somewhere. "You're the High Hopes special case, ain't ya? Man, you got a bad taste in what you butt into."

The little boy cries out when he sees Grimmjow, who has stopped moving. "Pwease, what happened to my mommy?"

Before Grimmjow can stop him, the kid dashes up to him and wraps his arms around his torso, crying hard and digging his hands into Shawlong's jacket over Grimmjow's shoulders.

The armed man's expression softens slightly for an instant at the act. Then he frowns and runs away, leaving the knife behind to fall to the ground.

Grimmjow and the boy sink to the ground in shock, the racking sobs of a toddler the only sound that he can still hear.

"Grimmjow! Where the hell—?" Shawlong cuts himself off with a swear as he sees exactly what they have all stumbled upon.

Ilfort's eyes are wide in horror. "That poor little kid."

"Come on, Grimmjow," Shawlong coaxes gently, grabbing Grimmjow's shoulder and helping him to his feet. "We'll go home."

"What's your name, little one?" Ilfort asks, taking him in his arms. The two look similar enough to be siblings.

Through his sobs chokes out the words, "D-Woy Winker."

"He can't say his R's right, can he?" complains Edorad. "What, was it D-Roy Rinker?"

D-Roy sniffles in sadness but manages to nod. Then he looks to Grimmjow with those big, teary eyes of his, and mutters quietly, "Gwimmjow."

Grimmjow doesn't recall how they get back to wherever Shawlong lives, only that the place is hidden in a run-down alleyway and has a tv. He sits down, mute from the ordeal of watching a murderer caught in the act. The little boy, D-Roy sits next to him and plays around with a toy hammerhead shark plushie that Edorad had thrown at him. He seems to like it, and he's calmed down a lot. They all circle around the monitor of the TV set, but Grimmjow feels too far gone to care and instead shuffles some pebbles t his feet with his toes.

"Oi, King," Shawlong says suddenly, and Grimmjow numbly turns his attention to the television just in time to see his picture disappear from the screen. "I bet you didn't expect that shootout of yours to land you on CNN."

Someone filmed Tôsen shooting him, heard the whole explanation. And the news has caught like wildfire. He hears the report, and all the things they're saying about him, and they make him scared. He's extremely dangerous. Some companies are interested in genetic testing to figure out why he's got such a violent streak. Perhaps it's genetically inherited from his actual parents.

He gets a suspicious glance from Shawlong as the next part airs. Someone has uncovered a video of one of his attacks on the way to school, and it's replayed twice. The second has commentary and reviews. Brutal, even to him. Horrible.

"Hey, turn it off," Ilfort mutters, but everyone's eyes are glued on it and since his are too nobody heeds him.

Another reporter suddenly interrupts, claiming that Grimmjow's actions have caused the death of a young boy by the name of Sajin Komamura. He proceeds to explain the circumstances under which the boy has passed away.

The police are all after him. Every single one of them. Neliel too—he sees a shot of her among the others. They have already decided that Grimmjow has committed murder, and plan to incarcerate him for the rest of his life.

"No," he whispers. "No I didn't."

"Dude, you killed someone?! The f**k?" Shawlong yells, leaping to his feet.

"I...I didn't mean to..." Grimmjow is frozen.

It's obvious how hard Shawlong's trying to calm down. "If you're gonna stay with us, King, then it'd help to know if you're a mass murderer or something like that."

"But I'm not!" Grimmjow can't stop his tears from coming down, which pisses him off yet again. "I didn't mean for him to—"

All of a sudden, D-Roy whimpers in pain. "Gwimmjow, you'we huwting me..."

Grimmjow immediately releases the toddler's hand and moves back, and the little guy holds his hand to his chest and presses the toy shark to his fingers. He starts to mumble incoherently—even Grimmjow is alarmed by how tightly he had been holding the boy. "Oweeee!"

"Is this kiddo for real?" Edorad grumbles, crossing his arms. "I mean, what are we gonna do with him? Or either of them?"

"Put a sock in it, Edorad" is Shawlong's reply.

"Haha!" the little boy suddenly cackles, pain forgotten as he points to the disgruntled Edorad standing the furthest away from him. "You'we Eddywad!"

"Toss him in the Hudson, 's my opinion," he hisses.

But D-Roy is too excited—it's kinda freaking Grimmjow out, but he says nothing. He climbs into Grimmjow's lap, of all the places, and points to Edorad again. "Eddywad." Then to Ilfort. "Iffow."

The blonde chuckles to himself. "You're missing the last letter, little brother."

"Ifffffowww...t?"

"There."

D-Roy's eyes lock on Shawlong and narrow as he whispers, "Shawwon."

Even Grimmjow can't not chuckle at the eldest's expression. But the glare he gets forces him to choke out, "What about Nakim over there?"

Nakim's tail shoots up at his mention.

"Nakee?" The toddler sinks down in Grimmjow's lap, deep in thought, before jumping back up and yelling, "Doggie!"

At this, Ilfort bursts into laughter. He likes D-Roy, it's obvious. "We should keep them, Shawlong. They don't have anywhere to go, and it's not like we're crowded."

"He's killed a kid!" he yells. "That's not forgivable at all!"

"Look, none of us have a very clean slate to begin with, so we don't have a right to judge."

He looks about to argue, but then decides against it. "...Fine," Shawlong mutters, the beginnings of a smile forming on his lips despite himself. "The new brothers stay."

D-Roy claps his hands.

July passes in an instant. The buzz around him hasn't died down yet, so Grimmjow keeps to the alleys and stays with the others. They stay back in Shawlong's hideout and the surrounding areas, keeping away from anything or anyone that might recognize them. And they grow on him, they really do. D-Roy won't leave him alone, and he doesn't mind it. Somehow, Grimmjow gets used to living with one arm. He wants to get on with the pathetic little life he has, which is still ten times better than the superior's torment. It's not too hard to do things with one hand—he's a righty anyway. It's nearly the middle of August when they leave their makeshift home and dare to try the streets. And without realizing it, he allows Shawlong to lead the posse towards old Lenox Avenue.

He is about to pick D-Roy up and give him a very shaky ride on his shoulders when he sees them.

Todd and Miyako.

They are standing right outside High Hopes.

"Be right back, guys," he murmurs, and before he can be asked to explain, he has sprinted off. It takes him a few moments to adjust to the balance of running this fast with the limp arm, but he makes do. Are they following? He doesn't care. They are in front of him.

The two of them. They are talking. He recognizes the voices.

"I don't feel the need to apologize, Todd."

"C'mon, Miyako, we should at least make amends for the whole thing we set in motion."

"You're going to make Luppi cry if he goes in."

"He always cries when he's upset. We know this by now."

Grimmjow stops running when he is right behind them, breathing heavily from the effort of sprinting unbalanced. They turn around with confusion, and that's when he says, "I found you!"

He pulls back the hood that covers his hair, and the bright blue is like a spotlight that immediately gets them to realize it's him. Todd nearly jumps out of his skin, but when he sees exactly who it is, his eyes grow wide. Miyako looks as if she's seen a ghost.

"Grimmjow!" Immediately, her gaze falls on his arm that lies stoically against his side. "We saw the report about you, but I never imagined a man would actually shoot a child."

"You did good, defending yourself all those years," Todd says, and Grimmjow feels himself beaming from the high praise.

The others finally dash up behind him, but they leave him some distance for privacy.

For a moment, Grimmjow doesn't know what to say.

Miyako is holding baby Luppi in her hands, and to be fair, the kid isn't all that cute. He looks like a kid who would grow up to hate everyone and be hated by the universe.

"Neliel told us what you said to her at the juvenile hall. You really did want to come with us, huh?"

There are no words for him. He nods.

"You still can, you know," Todd replies, but his smile is tight when he says it. Perhaps he can see the indecision on Grimmjow's face.

He wonders for a moment. They don't look like the saviors of before. The wall between them is clear—them in their well-off, middle class posh-ass getup and sporting a tiny little child, and him in his ratty old clothes with a sweater covering the left arm that he knew for a fact would never work again. To him, the couples seem like ghosts, wandering memories of the past that Grimmjow has tried to forget. He has tried to move on. A lot.

What would everything be like if he choses them? If he leaves them behind. What would they do?

"Y-you'we not weaving us, awe ya?" D-Roy suddenly whimpers, slinking out from behind Ilfort with tears in his eyes as he clutches the shark plushie closer. At this rate, he'll rip the head off, he's squeezing the thing so damn tight. "Awe ya, Gwimmjow?"

Grimmjow glances back at him and Ilfort, who has put a slender hand on top of D-Roy's head and looks like he can't conjure up a smile for the life of him. "Been nice knowing you, brother."

Looking away, Edorad grunts. "Whatever, I'm not gonna miss him or anything."

He waits for Shawlong to speak, but the boy does nothing more than give off a tight-lipped smile.

He takes a step towards them.

Another.

One more.

He stops.

Then grins mischievously at the Jaegerjaques couple with a little farewell salute.

"Sorry," he says, a smile lighting up his face as he gestures to the four children and dog standing expectantly behind him. "They got to me first."

"Ah." Miyako seems understanding enough, as she laughs quietly to herself. "I see. Well, we can't force you to come with us—"

"I have a question, though."

"Yes?"

"Can I still keep the name?"

I hope you guys liked this! My plan is this. Next is Cuatro, then Primero, and then the rest of them are up to you guys! Let me know if you think you have a good idea for who I should write after Starrk. This won't be very often, but summer's coming so there will be updates. Until then, ciao!