The leering eyes of a predator gazes sternly at its dancing prey, straining to study its every action. Aragon is aware that something is off about this Arrancar he now faces, something strange and uncanny beyond his ability to decipher. Though it is a power he does not understand...he covets it for his lord. The dutiful soldier strives to force the creature into submission, in order to present this new addition to their ranks in humble offering to the God King.
He notices that the witty and joking Marcos, always with a remark has grown otherwise silent. No jokes to be had, no whimsical satire thrown his way. Although he has not known Marcos for long, only encountering the Arrancar recently he knows this act alone to be out of character for the Jester.
It's off putting, to say the least.
As he stares at Marcos his vision soon betrays him, the arrancar’s image doubles and wavers. His focus strained as he presses his attack, attempting to discern any perceivable pattern in Marcos’s actions. He gauges the speed, distance, timing — at least, as best he could. His opponent’s blade should be parrying his own based upon the trajectory of its attack
It does not
Instead of metal clashing with metal, the steel of Marcos’s blade repeatedly clashes with the upper layer of the Primera’s Hierro, scraping and sparking off its stern surface, nails from clawed fingers concurrently clashes along Aragon’s throat. So close to Marcos, Aragon remained otherwise unaware that his senses had been compromised. His senses of depth, causing him to see Marcos closer than what he truly was, his perception of time distorted, as time creeps to a crawl around them — causing the primera to perceive the arrancar’s movements slower than what they truly were. Aragon, so sensitive and otherwise perceptive of his surroundings, confident in his powers, in his ability perceives two separate attacks where there exits only one.
Still unacquainted with Marcos and what abilities he holds, he is unaware of the peculiar manner in which the Arrancar’s reiatsu behaves. Though Marcos chose to attack on one front, his reiatsu — as if holding a will all its own, desired to attack on a different front. The double born not from a display of speed and agility, nor is it an illusion conjured from his zanpakuto, but the manifestation of his “reiatsu’s” desire.
Aragon, lost to what is transpiring, as Marcos now appears both faster and closer than previously perceived, clenches his jaw as he endures the attacks. His arm, struck by Marcos’s blade repeatedly, though still guarded by his iron skin, there’s no guarantee the scales will hold much longer under the weight of the fierce and aggressive attacks. Arm swept aside as it is struck, releases the thrusted sword, jettisoning the blade in the dome turned floor. The zanpakuto, seemingly abandoned, strikes the dome with enough force to embed into its surface.
Aragon has had
ENOUGH
Both hands now free, one hand moves to grip the hand clawing erratically at his throat with blade like nails, while the other clings to the blade toting arm.
”Huh?!”
Marcos exclaims, tilting his head as he stares on in confusion. Crunching is heard as Aragon’s fingers dig into soft flesh, a testament of his physical might. With opponent now seemingly trapped in his grasp, he needs not worry about discerning the position of the Arrancar, nor does he need to worry about his speed — he’s. Right.
THERE. Ensnared in his vice like grip.
The Primera’s reiatsu roars, smoldering the immediate surroundings in its violent aura. It dances and writhes about tumultuously like flames of pink and black, encapsulating both Aragon and the captured Marcos as it sweeps across the upper dome. Dust, rocks and sand quickly transformed obsidian. The heat exerted from his still rising spiritual pressure distorts the air as it rises ever higher, disturbing the stillness of the night sky as dark clouds now creep through. And from these conjured clouds
Rain
It pitter patters against the upper dome, a subtle hissing singing in chorus with the rainfall.
SSSSSsssssssssss
Like boiled water, this discolored rain singes anything and everything unfortunate enough to be caught beneath its burning deluge. Though it feels like an eternity, only seconds pass before finally the storm begins to settle, and the smoldering heat starts to subside. Where Aragon once stood, now stands another….no, wait. It's still him, still the
Primera. Aragon now stands taller, face absent of glasses, horns protruding from his skull. A cape of royal purple is draped down along his back, decorated with a fur collar and ornate horns of gold jetting from its surface.
And what of Marcos’s fate? Fixed in the core of this malevolent flame, subjected to its hellish heat in full surely he fared no better than the rocks and dust now lying as nothing more than specks of broken blackened glass. Had he too been rendered to ash? Or perhaps melted into an unrecognizable pulp. Instead of a charred husk however, Marcos stands undaunted, still held within Aragon’s now clawed grasp, pieces of his attire torn and burnt while hair and flesh appear untouched.
Odd, but it is just another mystery for the Primera to unravel. Aragon does not wait to see how Marcos will respond when now faced with his release, he twists his body and moves to catapult the arrancar high into the air. He feels no resistance to his powerful throw, his fingers unfurling as he releases the captured limbs. Two specks appear in the air, a position that finds its place aligned with the Primera’s angled head. Blanketed by darkness from the endless night sky, twilight is born, conjured and spiraling between the golden horns of Aragon. Specks and orbs of pink and black churn and spiral before coalescing into a single compacted sphere, continuing to bubble and swell, larger..
Larger
LARGER
And then….all that power...is —
RELEASED. It barrels through the air, forcing the night to temporarily recede around it, the scope of the attack enough to ensure much of the area for any retreat is covered, its heat singing and igniting anything unfortunate enough to be around its outer surface. It races towards the objects of Aragon’s throw, the collision...inevitable. And collide it does.
It strikes with deafening explosive force, decimating and incinerating all ensnared within the confines of the volatile Gran Rey Cero. The upper dome begins to ripple and crack, chunks and shards collapsing on the sands and any unfortunate hollows below. Aragon, in his Resurrección arches his legs as he hunches over, muscles tighten as he builds up strength, prepared to launch himself towards his quarry at a moment's notice. He shouldn’t be able to avoid it, shouldn’t be able to survive it….but something inside the Primera tells him that this Marcos character can, and probably will. Paranoia that had already been growing, swells further and gnaws away at his mind. He thinks back on that moment where he saw double...what was this power?
He watches
What did Marcos do to him then? Was it some trick, an illusion perhaps conjured up by his zanpakuto?
He watches still
His instincts scream to him incessantly, and though unsettled by the inscrutable Marcos, he can’t help but feel a sense of excitement and anticipation. What will he do? How will he avoid it? How will he survive? What other tricks did he have to play, how many cards remained hidden up his sleeve? He watches, he waits hoping Marcos will show him more. And then a long whistle dances through his ear
”LOOK AT IT GO! WOWZA!!”
It is the voice of Marcos. The Arrancar, like Aragon is slightly hunched over, his left hand over his eyes as if to shield them as he stares off into the same direction as the Primera, his zanpakuto resting in his right hand that casually hangs at his side.
What was going on? Was Marcos
that fast, that he could move from being airborne, distance himself from the Gran Rey Cero, and reposition himself at Aragon’s back without a released Aragon being able to perceive a single thing?!
It certainly wasn’t a question of speed — Marcos had never truly ever moved. Aragon’s hands had been in contact with Marcos’s real body, he couldn’t have been fooled by an illusion, the feeling of the Arrancar’s hierro straining against his grip, of blood pumping through the limbs was proof enough of that. So...what then?
Does Aragon reflect back on their fight? Perhaps, a moment of reflection would certainly serve him well. He would be reminded of his opening gambit, where his kick aimed at Marcos’s skull, instead swept through empty air. He had not caused Marcos’s head to dislodge from its shoulders...it was done by Marcos, of his own free will. Delving further into the past, at the Arrancar’s introduction, when he so casually removed his head from his shoulders as if it were nothing more than a simple hat brings with it an epiphany.
If Marcos could do so with his head...could he not do the same with other parts of his body? What Aragon had thrown was not Marcos, but his captured arms. The cheshire grinning Arrancar, relinquished his hold on his blade, as well as his hold on his captured limbs, offering them freely to his new found friend, uncertain as to why Aragon so desperately wanted his arms, when his seemed to be working perfectly.
As the Gran Rey Cero obliterates the airborne arms, new limbs sprout in their place on Marcos’s body, an instantaneous act. He quietly retrieves his blade, so as not to disturb his buddy, so deeply focused on the scene of destruction — and joins him in watching the show. Was that why Aragon wanted his arms so badly? Was this some weird experiment, or perhaps an addition to the game they were playing? Marcos couldn’t tell.
Suddenly, a dramatic gasp escapes the purple haired jester.
”Did….DId you get TALLER?!”
He asks, eyes widened in genuine shock and surprise. Hues of pink sparkle with a glint of awe as he admires Aragon’s released form, tears threatening to swell and trickle from his eyes. He’d finally grown up. Proof that no matter how long one waited or lived, it was never too late for one to experience a growth spurt.
The cateyed jewel within his zanpakuto, shifts about quietly, leaving Marcos free to marvel at his friend, the tips of his nails along his left hand glittering a soft fluorescent pink.
