- Location
- Texas
Look, I updated like, a day ago. I'm not a machine.
Now You Feel Like Number None [Bleach Arrancar Quest]
- Thread starter Omicron
- Start date
- Users' Choice!
Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
Look, I updated like, a day ago. I'm not a machine.
- Location
- Brittany, France
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The last update was only a week ago! And Irrelevance was on Thursday!
It's like I have a herd of crack-addicted kittens, and the crack is produced with my own sweat and blood.
- Location
- Here & There
So what you're saying is hypothetically speaking if we put you in a sauna and bleed you we'd have a steady supply of sweat blood crack?
Last edited:
Sinsystems
Patron Librarian
Vampire Crack-addicted Kittens!
- Location
- america
im sorry but its true, we need your story about gay ghost ladys that can shoot lazers, we need it.
You love it, though.
- Location
- Brittany, France
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Mostly yes, but this has been a poor couple of weeks motivation- and energy-wise. The only reason I'm working on the update right now is because severe insomnia has left me up until 7am and I have given up on sleep for now.
ow
I'm really sorry to hear that.
- Location
- Here & There
Sorry to hear about that, hope you can get that much needed sleep soon.
I thought you already knew this?
LXXVIII. The Food of Love
- Location
- Brittany, France
- Pronouns
- He/Him
LXXVIII. The Food of Love
You look at the Arrancars.
Such sorry things. To think you were like that, once. It would be easy to recoil at this thought, to be disgusted at your past weakness, to see them reflection of a past you've discarded. But it is not like you. Instead you feel pain, and compassion.
You should have approached them differently. You got lost in your grand idea, and so you apologize. The Arrancars watch you warily, and you think. You don't want your behavior to come off as erratic, as there is nothing more threatening to a Numero than a powerful Arrancar acting erratically. You want to come across as consistent, predictable, so that they don't walk on eggshells around you afraid of some wild outburst. An idea comes to you.
You were trying to explain to them the nature of opera, but you trail off; it will take too long to explain this and they are eating their meal, and you don't want to interrupt them. Would they care to share it with you? The Numeros nod tentatively and split some of their food into a new plate, holding it for you. You take it and sniff it - bland stew, bits of mist half-melted in some undefinable gruel, unseasoned. You delicately put the plate on the ground, and smile.
How would they like to enjoy an Espada's hospitality? As you see fear in their eyes, you hasten to explain that the Espada will not be there. You are her Fraccion, however, and empowered to cater to any guests in her name. You assure them that they will find it much more filling, and satisfying, than whatever they are used to as unbound Numeros. And it comes with no strings attached - you would like to enlist their help with something, but explaining would take time, so offering them a meal and explaining the idea on the way is just good efficiency.
They all look to each other, then a frail-looking woman clears her throat and asks, hesitantly:
"We would just like to ask… You're not a Fraccion of the Noveno, right?"
You burst out laughing.
If you were, you doubt you'd have lasted long enough to invite them to lunch. A few smiles appear on the Numeros' faces. Fear of Aaroniero Arruruerie is something that all below the Espada can relate to, and making light of his rumored feasts is makes you seem that little bit closer to them.
"We'll come, my lady," the caterpillar Arrancar says with a bow, and the others nod in turn and stand up, putting their dishes away. Only one of them remains seated, and you give him an odd look. He looks different from the others; like…
Uh. It's an old model Calavera, one of Ruddborne's spawn. What is it doing here?
"We don't know, my lady," a male Numero with green-streaked black hair answers. "They've started roaming the corridors again lately, though they don't… do anything. And sometimes they just stand in one place for days on end. This one was here when we came to take lunch, and we gave it a plate. It ate the whole thing without a word and then just sat there. Hasn't said a word or moved an inch."
Odd.
Well, it's not your concern. You point the Numeros to the direction of the Red Chamber; you will join them to lead the way in just a moment, you just have something to do here first. The Numeros nod and file out of the room, and you stand in the middle, hands on your hips, looking at the odd Calavera.
Luppi drops down from the ceiling, landing without a sound.
"Food. Really," he says raising an eyebrow.
You wave your hand evasively. It's just a start. They'll be more amenable with their bellies full.
"You do know you can just ask them to work for you and they can't say no, right?"
You do, of course. But art is a thing of passion, of the soul. If they don't believe in it, if they only work because they are forced to at sword-point, they will perform horribly. You need them to buy into your idea.
And while you are mildly annoyed that Luppi bailed on you the moment you entered the room, you also have to consider the fact that this may be impossible in his vicinity. You eye him coolly. After a while he lets out a theatrical sigh, eyes rolling, and waves his sleeves.
"Fiiine. I'll give it a shot."
His reiatsu flares slightly - and then enters a strange state of turmoil, as if he were wracked by a chaos of emotion, shifting and squirming around him. Luppi strains visibly, his eyes narrowed, his forehead creasing, a bead of sweat dripping down his cheek. Then his pressure collapses inwards, and disappears again.
"Urgh, that's so uncomfortable," he says in a disgusted tone. "I feel naked as a babe. You feel any different?"
You frown, testing your spiritual awareness, but Luppi's aura was so subtle you'd only noticed it when he flared his reiatsu in front of you. With it suppressed, you wouldn't be able to tell if it's there or not. You'll just have to… Urgh… Trust him.
"Yeah, I don't like it either," he shrugs. "Anyway, let's go before your gang-pressed artists bump into the Sexta and get themselves killed or something."
They're not… You didn't press-gang them! Luppi just laughs and walks out of the room, and you hurry on his heels, fuming.
***
You watch as the Fraccions eat. It took you a bit of time making the right meal - Cirucci's pantry is well-provisioned, but not designed for feeding a dozen people at once, so you had to use a little bit of creativity. Now the Fraccions are sitting at the great dinner table, feasting on a mix of crispy vegetables, dices of spiced autotroph meat and salted ginger cakes, accompanied by a golden honey-wine. Finishing your explanation of what you want from them, you join your hands and rest your chin on your steepled fingers, observing their reactions.
"We'll… We'll do whatever you need, my lady," the green-streaked Arrancar says with a nod.
"Especially for food this good," a stocky, muscular woman says with a grin, wolfing down her spiced meat.
"We just…" the caterpillar begins and hesitates, "we're just not sure what this all means. Some of us know how to sing, of course, but this is such a big project, and… Performing before all the Espadas? That is… That is very dangerous, my lady, with all respect."
Other Arrancars nod, sharing her concerns. You click your tongue, thinking.
Then you point to the green-streaked Arrancar, and ask him the name of the woman sitting at his side. He blinks, looks at her, and says nothing. The woman rolls her eyes.
"I'm…" You cut her off. Then you ask her to name the Arrancar sitting in front of her.
"Uh… Marlena..?" she says hesitantly.
Marlena who?
"...just Marlena?"
Marlena winces visibly. That wasn't it. The Numeros look at you, confused.
You understand, of course, the fear of the Espada. You still share it, even now that you are a Fraccion. But… The most powerful force in Las Noches is support. Connections. The help of others. They are Numeros, and weak, not Fraccion material. They will always fear the Espada. But, if they worked together, they could stand together against the other threats of Las Noches, help each other survive. The music will show them the way; they do not have to be interested in art for its own sake. Instead they should see it as a way of learning trust and mutual reliance.
You cannot offer them the life and privileges of Fraccions, but you can show them an example, give them a taste. Let them stay here for a few days, until the performance, share with them the food of a Princess, and show them how to work together. They can consider it payment for services rendered. And if there are some among them who do not think this is worth it, they can walk out. You will bear no grudge against them. And if they don't trust your word on it, well, you don't know their names yet, so what do they have to fear?
The Numeros share looks full of conflicted emotions, and are quiet for a while. The caterpillar is the fist one to speak up, rearing slightly on her long body to make herself stand higher. She clears her throat and says:
"I will do as you will, my lady."
With her starting the wave, most of the other Numeros nod and mutter their assent in turn. Only two of them stay quiet. After a while, a lanky Arrancar with a hatchet-like face stands up from his seat.
"Sorry. Food's delicious, but… Nah, I don't believe in anything you just said. If I stayed I'd just end up mooching off you and then disappearing halfway through, and then the Fraccion lady would be angry at me. Better I just leave, eh."
Another Numero nods, saying nothing but seeming to agree with the sentiment. You nod with resignation, they bow, and they depart from the Red Chamber.
You look at those who remain. Ten Numeros in total, watching you with wariness but also anticipation.
You can work with this.
***
"Aaah-aah-ah, oooh-aah…"
You shake your head and click your tongue reproachfully. This is not good at all. You step close to Alberto, a muscular Numero with a mask fragment shaped like a teardrop, and forcefully put your hands on his shoulder and chest to correct his posture. His eyes widen in sudden fear but you step back immediately and he holds the posture well enough. You nod to yourself, then move to Marlena, a slim Arrancar with long blond hair, and tap her shoulder to stop her from hunching over, then motion for her to sing louder - the poor thing's voice is as slight as her frame, as if she did not dare sing to loud.
"This… This would be easier if you, hm, sang yourself, my lady. To give us an example," Phylius says - he is the one with the green-streaked hair, and you can see some potential in him, dampened by his uncertainty. You frown at him, and he blushes. You're not a singer. You play instruments. Which will be part of the next lesson, once you have separated the wheat from the chaff - you think that about four or five of these Numeros have the voice and presence to make good singers quickly enough. The rest will serve as your rather minimalistic orchestra.
"Could you at least show us the music again?" he tries. "It would help us find the right melody again."
You think about it for a moment, then go pick your zither again. The Numeros all fall silent and watch you with hungry eyes. It would almost be distracting, if you could be distracted from your art. You consider them, their weakness, their fragility, their loneliness even when standing all together, and you begin to play.
It starts out harsh on the ears, a disharmonious sound. Scattered accords that do not blend together, and the Numeros have enough of an ear to realize that something is wrong. You smile faintly and play on, and slowly these accords come together, weave into each other, build something that is greater than the sum of its part. It does not sound like many notes but only a single fluid movement of sound - and at times it splits apart again, but when it does the sounds are still graceful in their isolated harmony, and they come together once again afterwards, seamless and whole.
When you finish, you look up at them, your eyes stern and critical, and they understand. They do not lack for innate talent, their voices are not ugly; they are simply deaf to each other, trying to stand alone.
You motion to the caterpillar Arrancar to pick up the last stretch of your improvised piece, and she stutters in surprise, then clears her throat and begins to sing.
"Ah-ah-ah ah, ah-ah, ah…."
You rub your chin as you listen to her. An imperfect transformation she may be, but her voice is perfect. High-pitched, but never shrill, taking to melodies easily. She will be the centerpiece, you already know it; she will be the loom on which the others become tapestry. A unifying presence.
The problem you are running into is that you have never been taught how to teach others. You were a recipient of knowledge, never meant to pour it into other vessels. You could emulate Cirucci's teaching style, but it would involve rather more demonstration of force and threatening waving of Polilla. Which would be acceptable if these Numeros were working for true protection under your mistress's name, but you're going for something different here, something that will hopefully make them a better ensemble than mere mercenary goals.
You think about it for a moment, then smile to yourself. You wave to the Numeros to stop singing, then order them to form a circle around you. They comply, and you study their builds, remembering what you know of their vocal range, then quickly order them to form specific pairs, and describe a series of vocal exercise that they must each practice under the other's study, and the signs of mistakes the silent partner must watch for, and how to correct them. This takes you a good half-hour, but once they've gotten the hang of it, you watch for a while and are satisfied to see that they are getting it right. Every quarter hour, they will change partners. This should help serve as a team-building exercise.
It bothers you that Cirucci is not back yet. She's been gone for several hours now, and although you've been distracted, now that you take a step back and just watch the Numeros practice you are starting to feel worried. Could something have happened with Barragan..? No, it's no use thinking that way - you don't know why she was summoned, so you have no idea how long she should be gone anyway. You think back to a project you had, some kind of paired, bonded jewelry that would let you always feel if she's alright, but… Ah, would that be creepy? You have a hard time telling sometimes, with how intoxicating the sheer potential of La Marana can be. You reflexively clutch your neck, where a necklace of beautiful glass shards hides under your uniform. They would shine like diamonds in the sunlight, but you are not comfortable wearing them openly yet. They haven't done anything so far, despite the potency they hold from Cirucci's lightning and the love you infused in them…
You're getting maudlin. You shake your head, look at the Numeros once again, and decide that they are doing a good enough job on their own for now. With the sound of wordless, but melodic vocalizations behind you, you hop your way up to one of the higher platforms.
Ren's windowless room is as dimly-lit as it always is, a handful of sconces holding ochre-gold lamps that leave plenty of shadows across the curved gallery. You suspect the old historian finds comfort in the gloom, a holdover of his days as a weak Arrancar alone in Hueco Mundo, but what do you know of his mind? You make your way between shelves of trinkets and there they are, Fraccion and soon-to-be Fraccion together. Ren is sitting in an a chair pushed against the wall as far as he can from Luppi, who is lying sprawled on a desk, kicking his feet at the ceiling.
"...'s not gonna cut it," Luppi says casually, "it's too pat, too twee, not a Hollow story. It lacks the sting of truth, ya know? That bitterness that makes you think, 'yeah, maybe, just maybe that actually happened.'"
Ren huffs and puffs, his thin antiquarian's patience stretched just far enough that he seems like he might lash out at someone much more powerful than him.
"Not 'pat,' you… You twit! Every Hollow stories are tragedies and this, this one's no different. No happiness for the both of them, no, no, only more pain…"
"Oh puh-lease. She doesn't even eat him! She had the opportunity! Now relationship that end with people eating each other alive, that's real Hollow life. And death, heh."
You audibly clear your throat, and Ren jumps in his chair. Luppi gives you a lazy look, waving a sleeve in greeting. You eye him coolly. Has he made progress, or as he just chatted the afternoon away?
"Oh, we made plenty of progress. Ren and I were sharing possible stories for your opera! I'll put one of them in lyrics and everything, it'll be very nice, don't worry about a thing. Haven't made our final choice, but we've narrowed it down from a couple thousands to, oh, three or four."
You pointedly note that it is not his choice alone, and that you would very much like to be consulted on which story he intends to put to music. He sighs, then hops off the desk (to much relief from Ren, who scoots back over with his chair and proceeds to organize a number of notes Luppi was lying on) and starts pacing the room with his hands behind his head.
"Okay, so, opera is all about being emotional and stuff, right? Dramatic, overblown stories, preferably ones that end in a font of tears for everyone involved and the audience."
You wouldn't exactly put it that way, but that seems to be the idea of it, yes. Of course, knowing Luppi's own love for tragic stories - stated openly as you entered the room, even - the way he talks about it is just his usual surface layer of disdain for everything.
He loves this, and you're not fooled.
"All right, so, first off, there's of course the fall of the Ten Masked Kings," he says, counting on his fingers."A tale of the time before Barragan! An empire gone to dust! Hollows coming together to rule, until they fell apart! We raise the hopes of civilization, shine the bright lights of a true Hollow kingdom, roads and temples and palaces and people coming out of the desert - and then we squash it flat, shatter it, leave nothing but empty ruins sitting under the moon. We're reaching into a deep well of Hollow anxiety and failures, here, the dread that all of this-" he waves at the room around him, and past it at all of Las Noches, "will be for naught."
You boggle. Is he trying to offend Barragan? And Aizen while he's at it?
"Obviously not. Even I have self-preservation instincts, darling. No, we're talking about framing this as the failures of the past, before our messianic figure came along - the one with flesh or the one without, your pick, they have the grin in common anyway. They can both see themselves exalted in the downfall of past losers. It'll please the more melancholy sorts in Las Noches - the former Privarons, the Tercera... It's politics and personal drama and tragedies of failed relationships, though, so Grimmjow will be bored out of his mind. At least we don't have to care about the former Quinta, he'd have hated it too."
You wince at his off-handed remark regarding Nnoitra's death. And you're not sure how much you trust his skill at framing a story that is fundamentally about the doom hanging over all of Hueco Mundo's kingdoms into something that Barragan will enjoy. You wave him on, and he raises a second finger.
"We could have something about the Shinigami. Aizen's uprising is a bit too recent, but… How about the Coming of the King, hm? The one time in history when Barragan set foot in the living world, the death and horror that followed, the Shinigami's desperate stand against him. We could frame the story from their point of view, framing them as tragic, doomed figures, and the Hollows as embracing the joy of the feast. That's a story full of horrible deaths, ambivalent characters, blood and guts! Epic battles! A buildup to a grand climax! The fight to half the march of death itself! Heroes who are sympathetic, yet whom we all want to see lose because they are, after all, Shinigami! Grimmjow will eat it up, and it'll be a general crowd-pleaser for its grand spectacle. Hell, even Barragan will love it, sitting there and revelling in tales of the day when he ruled. Only ones I can think of not liking it might be Starrk, and the Quattro, who just physically cannot be pleased."
And will the Shinigami like it, you wonder sharply? Sure, they're not invited, but it's not like they won't hear of it - Gin might even crash the gala, for all you know. A story of how Hollows once had the upper hand against them might be taken the wrong way.
"Nah, we'll be fine," Luppi says with a sly grin. You glare at him, and he sighs. "Okay, so, that's actually kind of the point. The Shinigami in this story are sympathetic, don't get me wrong, and you're supposed to be sad to see them die - but sad at the death of worthy opponents. It never insults or dismisses them, but it is a subtle reminder that they are not, well… Us. And neither are Aizen and his goons. We stand apart; and perhaps, just perhaps, we should not be so eager to submit."
Is he completely insane. This is your mistress's grand gala! Her chance to impress all of Las Noches, to finally build ties! Can't he - can't he just come up with a story without offensive political subtext?
Luppi gives you a flat stare.
"I literally can't. That's what I do, sweetie. It's wired in my blood. And besides, you're looking at this all wrong. You want some kind of political subtext here. You want something that makes the audience feel like they didn't just watch a pretty, empty tale with some nice harmonics. You want them to feel like they've just been part of something. Something big. Something meaningful. Something that connects them through the shared secret of their understanding. Whether that is telling them that all kingdoms come to dust and so might Las Noches, or that the Shinigami are strangers with hidden designs and not kin to Hollows, or that…"
You impatiently tap the wall next to you, and Luppi leans against the desk again (Ren gives him a reproachful scowl and rearranges his papers). He folds his arms, smiling.
"Well, there's the Tragedy of the Radiant Eye."
No. Screw that. No one wants to hear about He Who Leers.
"Aw, c'mon, you're no fun. I can definitely point to a few people who would love to hear a story about the black sea, the Horizon Prince, and the thing with many names. All the occult weirdos and those too curious for their own good - Aaroniero, Zommari, the Tres Bestias, even Szayel. Hell, the core of sheer nihilism to it might even appeal to Ulquiorra. And it's not like the others will get upset and walk out of the room."
No. No, it's not. But… There's a difference between the cathartic sadness of a tragedy based on something very distant, whether in time or space - and the dread of singing about something that is, quite literally, under your feet right now.
"Yeah, but at least we're not offending anyone or accusing Aizen of ill intentions with that one. We're just reminding them that the world they live in is a fundamentally evil, empty, hungry desert that will swallow us all, and there is no escape, no respite, only the moments we share before the horrible agony of the end."
You stare at him.
"I'll put that one down as a maybe," he shrugs, smirking.
You sigh and rub your temples. He's already giving you a headache. Why do you even need him? You have some familiarity with all the stories he's talking about, you could… But no. You know stories; you're not a storyteller. You can speak from the heart, and do it well, but putting together a compelling narrative is something you only succeed at when it is something that comes from your own self, like the dream of La Marana you shared with him, or the memories you shared with Esmeralda.
You give him a frustrated look. Doesn't he have anything else?
"Well," he says, pushing himself off the desk and moving with easy grace among rows of trinkets, seeming almost to glide in the dim light, "there is one, but it's a lot smaller in scale. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, of course, it lets us focus on a more personal drama… I was thinking of the Doom that Came to the Hundred-Armed Duke."
Something inside you freezes utterly, and you must force your body to show no sign of the sudden onset of fear. Your eyes move slowly, tracking Luppi across the room as he whirls on himself, seeming to give you no particular attention.
"No? It's a good one, right? Nnoitra just died, and his death prompted Cirucci's promotion, which prompted this gala. It's a celebration of sorts, a memorial to our dear, departed mantis. One of his grand battles, where he single-handedly slew an entire army that stood ready to face him in the field. An epic tale of one of the greatest monsters to ever roam the sands of Hueco Mundo."
Luppi comes to a rest against a shelf, holding an old, worn, verdigrised dagger and flipping it between his knuckles. He flashes you a meaningless smile.
Does he know? Is this a joke at your expense? Does the betrayer want to put to the stage the tale of your greatest betrayal, undeniable evidence that you once left your own allies, your own fellow soldiers to die for the sake of someone you loved, and to tell this story just as it has been made clear to all of Las Noches that there is someone you love more than anything?
Can this just be coincidence? How could he possiblyknow?
If he's looking for anything to betray recognition in your features, he will find nothing. Outwardly you are calm, indifferent. After a moment Luppi shrugs, carelessly tossing the dagger behind him (it nonetheless lands perfectly flat on the shelf).
"Nah, it's not a good one. It's far too recent to have the mythical grandeur required for an opera. Barragan going to the living world is the most recent I would get, I think. I suppose you could swing Aizen's Rebellion as a 'current events' kind of thing, but that's because it's exotic and mythical to Arrancars, which is what matters. Forget the duke."
You nod, agreeing.
"You have no idea how much trash I had to sift through to help him get down to these four, just these," Ren mumbles at his desk. "And two of them ain't even from me! It's nonsense, all of it, of course - although probably still half true, I s'pose. Hooleer's name makes no sense, for one. Hollow history's a thankless task. Literally. Am I getting some goddamned thanks for helping? Nossir!"
You chuckle and thank Ren for his help, with real sincerity. You should bring him some sweets later, as a token of appeasement. When you turn to look at Luppi, he is lying on top of a shelf, his hands for once out of his sleeves, examining his nails.
"So, which one you want, boss-lady?"
A difficult choice.
[ ] The Fall of the House of Ten Masks.
-Pros: Appealing to lovers of history and those inclined towards melancholy and tragic stories. Relatable to those who have suffered great loss in the new order of Las Noches.
-Cons: Possibly displeasing to Barragan. Grimmjow will be bored.
[ ] The Coming of the King.
-Pros: On a surface level, an easy crowd-pleaser, especially among those who particularly hate Shinigami or love great battles. On a deeper level, a subtle reminder that your Lord is not one of your kind.
-Cons: Possibly displeasing to Aizen. Ulquiorra will not be fooled.
[ ] The Tragedy of the Radiant Eye.
-Pros: Fascinating to those with an inclination for the mysteries of the occult and the Hollow condition in general. A powerful message on seizing fleeting moments of life, for you are all doomed in the end.
-Cons: Absolutely depressing to literally everyone else, you included. Might spoil the mood of the gala.
There is a moratorium of two hours on this vote.
You look at the Arrancars.
Such sorry things. To think you were like that, once. It would be easy to recoil at this thought, to be disgusted at your past weakness, to see them reflection of a past you've discarded. But it is not like you. Instead you feel pain, and compassion.
You should have approached them differently. You got lost in your grand idea, and so you apologize. The Arrancars watch you warily, and you think. You don't want your behavior to come off as erratic, as there is nothing more threatening to a Numero than a powerful Arrancar acting erratically. You want to come across as consistent, predictable, so that they don't walk on eggshells around you afraid of some wild outburst. An idea comes to you.
You were trying to explain to them the nature of opera, but you trail off; it will take too long to explain this and they are eating their meal, and you don't want to interrupt them. Would they care to share it with you? The Numeros nod tentatively and split some of their food into a new plate, holding it for you. You take it and sniff it - bland stew, bits of mist half-melted in some undefinable gruel, unseasoned. You delicately put the plate on the ground, and smile.
How would they like to enjoy an Espada's hospitality? As you see fear in their eyes, you hasten to explain that the Espada will not be there. You are her Fraccion, however, and empowered to cater to any guests in her name. You assure them that they will find it much more filling, and satisfying, than whatever they are used to as unbound Numeros. And it comes with no strings attached - you would like to enlist their help with something, but explaining would take time, so offering them a meal and explaining the idea on the way is just good efficiency.
They all look to each other, then a frail-looking woman clears her throat and asks, hesitantly:
"We would just like to ask… You're not a Fraccion of the Noveno, right?"
You burst out laughing.
If you were, you doubt you'd have lasted long enough to invite them to lunch. A few smiles appear on the Numeros' faces. Fear of Aaroniero Arruruerie is something that all below the Espada can relate to, and making light of his rumored feasts is makes you seem that little bit closer to them.
"We'll come, my lady," the caterpillar Arrancar says with a bow, and the others nod in turn and stand up, putting their dishes away. Only one of them remains seated, and you give him an odd look. He looks different from the others; like…
Uh. It's an old model Calavera, one of Ruddborne's spawn. What is it doing here?
"We don't know, my lady," a male Numero with green-streaked black hair answers. "They've started roaming the corridors again lately, though they don't… do anything. And sometimes they just stand in one place for days on end. This one was here when we came to take lunch, and we gave it a plate. It ate the whole thing without a word and then just sat there. Hasn't said a word or moved an inch."
Odd.
Well, it's not your concern. You point the Numeros to the direction of the Red Chamber; you will join them to lead the way in just a moment, you just have something to do here first. The Numeros nod and file out of the room, and you stand in the middle, hands on your hips, looking at the odd Calavera.
Luppi drops down from the ceiling, landing without a sound.
"Food. Really," he says raising an eyebrow.
You wave your hand evasively. It's just a start. They'll be more amenable with their bellies full.
"You do know you can just ask them to work for you and they can't say no, right?"
You do, of course. But art is a thing of passion, of the soul. If they don't believe in it, if they only work because they are forced to at sword-point, they will perform horribly. You need them to buy into your idea.
And while you are mildly annoyed that Luppi bailed on you the moment you entered the room, you also have to consider the fact that this may be impossible in his vicinity. You eye him coolly. After a while he lets out a theatrical sigh, eyes rolling, and waves his sleeves.
"Fiiine. I'll give it a shot."
His reiatsu flares slightly - and then enters a strange state of turmoil, as if he were wracked by a chaos of emotion, shifting and squirming around him. Luppi strains visibly, his eyes narrowed, his forehead creasing, a bead of sweat dripping down his cheek. Then his pressure collapses inwards, and disappears again.
"Urgh, that's so uncomfortable," he says in a disgusted tone. "I feel naked as a babe. You feel any different?"
You frown, testing your spiritual awareness, but Luppi's aura was so subtle you'd only noticed it when he flared his reiatsu in front of you. With it suppressed, you wouldn't be able to tell if it's there or not. You'll just have to… Urgh… Trust him.
"Yeah, I don't like it either," he shrugs. "Anyway, let's go before your gang-pressed artists bump into the Sexta and get themselves killed or something."
They're not… You didn't press-gang them! Luppi just laughs and walks out of the room, and you hurry on his heels, fuming.
***
You watch as the Fraccions eat. It took you a bit of time making the right meal - Cirucci's pantry is well-provisioned, but not designed for feeding a dozen people at once, so you had to use a little bit of creativity. Now the Fraccions are sitting at the great dinner table, feasting on a mix of crispy vegetables, dices of spiced autotroph meat and salted ginger cakes, accompanied by a golden honey-wine. Finishing your explanation of what you want from them, you join your hands and rest your chin on your steepled fingers, observing their reactions.
"We'll… We'll do whatever you need, my lady," the green-streaked Arrancar says with a nod.
"Especially for food this good," a stocky, muscular woman says with a grin, wolfing down her spiced meat.
"We just…" the caterpillar begins and hesitates, "we're just not sure what this all means. Some of us know how to sing, of course, but this is such a big project, and… Performing before all the Espadas? That is… That is very dangerous, my lady, with all respect."
Other Arrancars nod, sharing her concerns. You click your tongue, thinking.
Then you point to the green-streaked Arrancar, and ask him the name of the woman sitting at his side. He blinks, looks at her, and says nothing. The woman rolls her eyes.
"I'm…" You cut her off. Then you ask her to name the Arrancar sitting in front of her.
"Uh… Marlena..?" she says hesitantly.
Marlena who?
"...just Marlena?"
Marlena winces visibly. That wasn't it. The Numeros look at you, confused.
You understand, of course, the fear of the Espada. You still share it, even now that you are a Fraccion. But… The most powerful force in Las Noches is support. Connections. The help of others. They are Numeros, and weak, not Fraccion material. They will always fear the Espada. But, if they worked together, they could stand together against the other threats of Las Noches, help each other survive. The music will show them the way; they do not have to be interested in art for its own sake. Instead they should see it as a way of learning trust and mutual reliance.
You cannot offer them the life and privileges of Fraccions, but you can show them an example, give them a taste. Let them stay here for a few days, until the performance, share with them the food of a Princess, and show them how to work together. They can consider it payment for services rendered. And if there are some among them who do not think this is worth it, they can walk out. You will bear no grudge against them. And if they don't trust your word on it, well, you don't know their names yet, so what do they have to fear?
The Numeros share looks full of conflicted emotions, and are quiet for a while. The caterpillar is the fist one to speak up, rearing slightly on her long body to make herself stand higher. She clears her throat and says:
"I will do as you will, my lady."
With her starting the wave, most of the other Numeros nod and mutter their assent in turn. Only two of them stay quiet. After a while, a lanky Arrancar with a hatchet-like face stands up from his seat.
"Sorry. Food's delicious, but… Nah, I don't believe in anything you just said. If I stayed I'd just end up mooching off you and then disappearing halfway through, and then the Fraccion lady would be angry at me. Better I just leave, eh."
Another Numero nods, saying nothing but seeming to agree with the sentiment. You nod with resignation, they bow, and they depart from the Red Chamber.
You look at those who remain. Ten Numeros in total, watching you with wariness but also anticipation.
You can work with this.
***
"Aaah-aah-ah, oooh-aah…"
You shake your head and click your tongue reproachfully. This is not good at all. You step close to Alberto, a muscular Numero with a mask fragment shaped like a teardrop, and forcefully put your hands on his shoulder and chest to correct his posture. His eyes widen in sudden fear but you step back immediately and he holds the posture well enough. You nod to yourself, then move to Marlena, a slim Arrancar with long blond hair, and tap her shoulder to stop her from hunching over, then motion for her to sing louder - the poor thing's voice is as slight as her frame, as if she did not dare sing to loud.
"This… This would be easier if you, hm, sang yourself, my lady. To give us an example," Phylius says - he is the one with the green-streaked hair, and you can see some potential in him, dampened by his uncertainty. You frown at him, and he blushes. You're not a singer. You play instruments. Which will be part of the next lesson, once you have separated the wheat from the chaff - you think that about four or five of these Numeros have the voice and presence to make good singers quickly enough. The rest will serve as your rather minimalistic orchestra.
"Could you at least show us the music again?" he tries. "It would help us find the right melody again."
You think about it for a moment, then go pick your zither again. The Numeros all fall silent and watch you with hungry eyes. It would almost be distracting, if you could be distracted from your art. You consider them, their weakness, their fragility, their loneliness even when standing all together, and you begin to play.
It starts out harsh on the ears, a disharmonious sound. Scattered accords that do not blend together, and the Numeros have enough of an ear to realize that something is wrong. You smile faintly and play on, and slowly these accords come together, weave into each other, build something that is greater than the sum of its part. It does not sound like many notes but only a single fluid movement of sound - and at times it splits apart again, but when it does the sounds are still graceful in their isolated harmony, and they come together once again afterwards, seamless and whole.
When you finish, you look up at them, your eyes stern and critical, and they understand. They do not lack for innate talent, their voices are not ugly; they are simply deaf to each other, trying to stand alone.
You motion to the caterpillar Arrancar to pick up the last stretch of your improvised piece, and she stutters in surprise, then clears her throat and begins to sing.
"Ah-ah-ah ah, ah-ah, ah…."
You rub your chin as you listen to her. An imperfect transformation she may be, but her voice is perfect. High-pitched, but never shrill, taking to melodies easily. She will be the centerpiece, you already know it; she will be the loom on which the others become tapestry. A unifying presence.
The problem you are running into is that you have never been taught how to teach others. You were a recipient of knowledge, never meant to pour it into other vessels. You could emulate Cirucci's teaching style, but it would involve rather more demonstration of force and threatening waving of Polilla. Which would be acceptable if these Numeros were working for true protection under your mistress's name, but you're going for something different here, something that will hopefully make them a better ensemble than mere mercenary goals.
You think about it for a moment, then smile to yourself. You wave to the Numeros to stop singing, then order them to form a circle around you. They comply, and you study their builds, remembering what you know of their vocal range, then quickly order them to form specific pairs, and describe a series of vocal exercise that they must each practice under the other's study, and the signs of mistakes the silent partner must watch for, and how to correct them. This takes you a good half-hour, but once they've gotten the hang of it, you watch for a while and are satisfied to see that they are getting it right. Every quarter hour, they will change partners. This should help serve as a team-building exercise.
It bothers you that Cirucci is not back yet. She's been gone for several hours now, and although you've been distracted, now that you take a step back and just watch the Numeros practice you are starting to feel worried. Could something have happened with Barragan..? No, it's no use thinking that way - you don't know why she was summoned, so you have no idea how long she should be gone anyway. You think back to a project you had, some kind of paired, bonded jewelry that would let you always feel if she's alright, but… Ah, would that be creepy? You have a hard time telling sometimes, with how intoxicating the sheer potential of La Marana can be. You reflexively clutch your neck, where a necklace of beautiful glass shards hides under your uniform. They would shine like diamonds in the sunlight, but you are not comfortable wearing them openly yet. They haven't done anything so far, despite the potency they hold from Cirucci's lightning and the love you infused in them…
You're getting maudlin. You shake your head, look at the Numeros once again, and decide that they are doing a good enough job on their own for now. With the sound of wordless, but melodic vocalizations behind you, you hop your way up to one of the higher platforms.
Ren's windowless room is as dimly-lit as it always is, a handful of sconces holding ochre-gold lamps that leave plenty of shadows across the curved gallery. You suspect the old historian finds comfort in the gloom, a holdover of his days as a weak Arrancar alone in Hueco Mundo, but what do you know of his mind? You make your way between shelves of trinkets and there they are, Fraccion and soon-to-be Fraccion together. Ren is sitting in an a chair pushed against the wall as far as he can from Luppi, who is lying sprawled on a desk, kicking his feet at the ceiling.
"...'s not gonna cut it," Luppi says casually, "it's too pat, too twee, not a Hollow story. It lacks the sting of truth, ya know? That bitterness that makes you think, 'yeah, maybe, just maybe that actually happened.'"
Ren huffs and puffs, his thin antiquarian's patience stretched just far enough that he seems like he might lash out at someone much more powerful than him.
"Not 'pat,' you… You twit! Every Hollow stories are tragedies and this, this one's no different. No happiness for the both of them, no, no, only more pain…"
"Oh puh-lease. She doesn't even eat him! She had the opportunity! Now relationship that end with people eating each other alive, that's real Hollow life. And death, heh."
You audibly clear your throat, and Ren jumps in his chair. Luppi gives you a lazy look, waving a sleeve in greeting. You eye him coolly. Has he made progress, or as he just chatted the afternoon away?
"Oh, we made plenty of progress. Ren and I were sharing possible stories for your opera! I'll put one of them in lyrics and everything, it'll be very nice, don't worry about a thing. Haven't made our final choice, but we've narrowed it down from a couple thousands to, oh, three or four."
You pointedly note that it is not his choice alone, and that you would very much like to be consulted on which story he intends to put to music. He sighs, then hops off the desk (to much relief from Ren, who scoots back over with his chair and proceeds to organize a number of notes Luppi was lying on) and starts pacing the room with his hands behind his head.
"Okay, so, opera is all about being emotional and stuff, right? Dramatic, overblown stories, preferably ones that end in a font of tears for everyone involved and the audience."
You wouldn't exactly put it that way, but that seems to be the idea of it, yes. Of course, knowing Luppi's own love for tragic stories - stated openly as you entered the room, even - the way he talks about it is just his usual surface layer of disdain for everything.
He loves this, and you're not fooled.
"All right, so, first off, there's of course the fall of the Ten Masked Kings," he says, counting on his fingers."A tale of the time before Barragan! An empire gone to dust! Hollows coming together to rule, until they fell apart! We raise the hopes of civilization, shine the bright lights of a true Hollow kingdom, roads and temples and palaces and people coming out of the desert - and then we squash it flat, shatter it, leave nothing but empty ruins sitting under the moon. We're reaching into a deep well of Hollow anxiety and failures, here, the dread that all of this-" he waves at the room around him, and past it at all of Las Noches, "will be for naught."
You boggle. Is he trying to offend Barragan? And Aizen while he's at it?
"Obviously not. Even I have self-preservation instincts, darling. No, we're talking about framing this as the failures of the past, before our messianic figure came along - the one with flesh or the one without, your pick, they have the grin in common anyway. They can both see themselves exalted in the downfall of past losers. It'll please the more melancholy sorts in Las Noches - the former Privarons, the Tercera... It's politics and personal drama and tragedies of failed relationships, though, so Grimmjow will be bored out of his mind. At least we don't have to care about the former Quinta, he'd have hated it too."
You wince at his off-handed remark regarding Nnoitra's death. And you're not sure how much you trust his skill at framing a story that is fundamentally about the doom hanging over all of Hueco Mundo's kingdoms into something that Barragan will enjoy. You wave him on, and he raises a second finger.
"We could have something about the Shinigami. Aizen's uprising is a bit too recent, but… How about the Coming of the King, hm? The one time in history when Barragan set foot in the living world, the death and horror that followed, the Shinigami's desperate stand against him. We could frame the story from their point of view, framing them as tragic, doomed figures, and the Hollows as embracing the joy of the feast. That's a story full of horrible deaths, ambivalent characters, blood and guts! Epic battles! A buildup to a grand climax! The fight to half the march of death itself! Heroes who are sympathetic, yet whom we all want to see lose because they are, after all, Shinigami! Grimmjow will eat it up, and it'll be a general crowd-pleaser for its grand spectacle. Hell, even Barragan will love it, sitting there and revelling in tales of the day when he ruled. Only ones I can think of not liking it might be Starrk, and the Quattro, who just physically cannot be pleased."
And will the Shinigami like it, you wonder sharply? Sure, they're not invited, but it's not like they won't hear of it - Gin might even crash the gala, for all you know. A story of how Hollows once had the upper hand against them might be taken the wrong way.
"Nah, we'll be fine," Luppi says with a sly grin. You glare at him, and he sighs. "Okay, so, that's actually kind of the point. The Shinigami in this story are sympathetic, don't get me wrong, and you're supposed to be sad to see them die - but sad at the death of worthy opponents. It never insults or dismisses them, but it is a subtle reminder that they are not, well… Us. And neither are Aizen and his goons. We stand apart; and perhaps, just perhaps, we should not be so eager to submit."
Is he completely insane. This is your mistress's grand gala! Her chance to impress all of Las Noches, to finally build ties! Can't he - can't he just come up with a story without offensive political subtext?
Luppi gives you a flat stare.
"I literally can't. That's what I do, sweetie. It's wired in my blood. And besides, you're looking at this all wrong. You want some kind of political subtext here. You want something that makes the audience feel like they didn't just watch a pretty, empty tale with some nice harmonics. You want them to feel like they've just been part of something. Something big. Something meaningful. Something that connects them through the shared secret of their understanding. Whether that is telling them that all kingdoms come to dust and so might Las Noches, or that the Shinigami are strangers with hidden designs and not kin to Hollows, or that…"
You impatiently tap the wall next to you, and Luppi leans against the desk again (Ren gives him a reproachful scowl and rearranges his papers). He folds his arms, smiling.
"Well, there's the Tragedy of the Radiant Eye."
No. Screw that. No one wants to hear about He Who Leers.
"Aw, c'mon, you're no fun. I can definitely point to a few people who would love to hear a story about the black sea, the Horizon Prince, and the thing with many names. All the occult weirdos and those too curious for their own good - Aaroniero, Zommari, the Tres Bestias, even Szayel. Hell, the core of sheer nihilism to it might even appeal to Ulquiorra. And it's not like the others will get upset and walk out of the room."
No. No, it's not. But… There's a difference between the cathartic sadness of a tragedy based on something very distant, whether in time or space - and the dread of singing about something that is, quite literally, under your feet right now.
"Yeah, but at least we're not offending anyone or accusing Aizen of ill intentions with that one. We're just reminding them that the world they live in is a fundamentally evil, empty, hungry desert that will swallow us all, and there is no escape, no respite, only the moments we share before the horrible agony of the end."
You stare at him.
"I'll put that one down as a maybe," he shrugs, smirking.
You sigh and rub your temples. He's already giving you a headache. Why do you even need him? You have some familiarity with all the stories he's talking about, you could… But no. You know stories; you're not a storyteller. You can speak from the heart, and do it well, but putting together a compelling narrative is something you only succeed at when it is something that comes from your own self, like the dream of La Marana you shared with him, or the memories you shared with Esmeralda.
You give him a frustrated look. Doesn't he have anything else?
"Well," he says, pushing himself off the desk and moving with easy grace among rows of trinkets, seeming almost to glide in the dim light, "there is one, but it's a lot smaller in scale. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, of course, it lets us focus on a more personal drama… I was thinking of the Doom that Came to the Hundred-Armed Duke."
Something inside you freezes utterly, and you must force your body to show no sign of the sudden onset of fear. Your eyes move slowly, tracking Luppi across the room as he whirls on himself, seeming to give you no particular attention.
"No? It's a good one, right? Nnoitra just died, and his death prompted Cirucci's promotion, which prompted this gala. It's a celebration of sorts, a memorial to our dear, departed mantis. One of his grand battles, where he single-handedly slew an entire army that stood ready to face him in the field. An epic tale of one of the greatest monsters to ever roam the sands of Hueco Mundo."
Luppi comes to a rest against a shelf, holding an old, worn, verdigrised dagger and flipping it between his knuckles. He flashes you a meaningless smile.
Does he know? Is this a joke at your expense? Does the betrayer want to put to the stage the tale of your greatest betrayal, undeniable evidence that you once left your own allies, your own fellow soldiers to die for the sake of someone you loved, and to tell this story just as it has been made clear to all of Las Noches that there is someone you love more than anything?
Can this just be coincidence? How could he possiblyknow?
If he's looking for anything to betray recognition in your features, he will find nothing. Outwardly you are calm, indifferent. After a moment Luppi shrugs, carelessly tossing the dagger behind him (it nonetheless lands perfectly flat on the shelf).
"Nah, it's not a good one. It's far too recent to have the mythical grandeur required for an opera. Barragan going to the living world is the most recent I would get, I think. I suppose you could swing Aizen's Rebellion as a 'current events' kind of thing, but that's because it's exotic and mythical to Arrancars, which is what matters. Forget the duke."
You nod, agreeing.
"You have no idea how much trash I had to sift through to help him get down to these four, just these," Ren mumbles at his desk. "And two of them ain't even from me! It's nonsense, all of it, of course - although probably still half true, I s'pose. Hooleer's name makes no sense, for one. Hollow history's a thankless task. Literally. Am I getting some goddamned thanks for helping? Nossir!"
You chuckle and thank Ren for his help, with real sincerity. You should bring him some sweets later, as a token of appeasement. When you turn to look at Luppi, he is lying on top of a shelf, his hands for once out of his sleeves, examining his nails.
"So, which one you want, boss-lady?"
A difficult choice.
[ ] The Fall of the House of Ten Masks.
-Pros: Appealing to lovers of history and those inclined towards melancholy and tragic stories. Relatable to those who have suffered great loss in the new order of Las Noches.
-Cons: Possibly displeasing to Barragan. Grimmjow will be bored.
[ ] The Coming of the King.
-Pros: On a surface level, an easy crowd-pleaser, especially among those who particularly hate Shinigami or love great battles. On a deeper level, a subtle reminder that your Lord is not one of your kind.
-Cons: Possibly displeasing to Aizen. Ulquiorra will not be fooled.
[ ] The Tragedy of the Radiant Eye.
-Pros: Fascinating to those with an inclination for the mysteries of the occult and the Hollow condition in general. A powerful message on seizing fleeting moments of life, for you are all doomed in the end.
-Cons: Absolutely depressing to literally everyone else, you included. Might spoil the mood of the gala.
There is a moratorium of two hours on this vote.
- Location
- The sixth circle of Hell (second on weekends)
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Okay, let's be honest, there's only really one logical vote here.
[ ] The Tale of the Mantis Who Snared the Su- oh wait, sorry, wrong au
[ ] The Tale of the Mantis Who Snared the Su- oh wait, sorry, wrong au
Hm. Probably the Coming of the King. Aizen doesn't care since he thinks we are all gonna die soon anyways and Ulquiorra won't do shit without Aizens command. Not to mention that Cirucci is already aligned with Barragans faction anyways.
We can't do the first since Grimmjow is gonna wreck the party if he gets bored and the third is too depressing.
We can't do the first since Grimmjow is gonna wreck the party if he gets bored and the third is too depressing.
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chocolote12
A Penguin Flailing Against The Keyboard Of Life.
I want the eldritch tragedy, really. It might not be upbeat, but let's be honest here, it sounds the coolest, and I want to know how it goes.
- Location
- somewhere over there.
- Pronouns
- They/It
Agreed. We don't need everyone to be happy for this to work, just for them not to cause an incident. Beyond that, if they dwell on the morals of that one, they may end up being drawn closer to each other, and building relationships. And that's what Nemo wants in the end. I think going with the safest opera with a mediocre payoff is enough.
Okay, let's be honest, there's only really one logical vote here.
[ ] The Tale of the Mantis Who Snared the Su- oh wait, sorry, wrong au
Once our burgeoning theatre troupe is more comfortable performing and has a stronger reputation some experimentation with alternate setting in which the power structure is different actually sounds like something that would be very appealing to them. If they do try to experiment with the genre than starting with Nemo and Cirucci seems like it would be the prudent choice as they would be unlikely to respond violently if offended and would hopefully find it romantic.
I also think that an alternate take on history in which their two primary patrons switch positions seems like the type of thing this new troupe might create as a tribute once they are more secure in their roles. Performers creating art with the specific purpose of glorifying and amusing patrons is common pattern of behavior.
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pucflek
Verified simpleton
- Location
- Czech Republic
[X] The Fall of the House of Ten Masks.
-Pros: Appealing to lovers of history and those inclined towards melancholy and tragic stories. Relatable to those who have suffered great loss in the new order of Las Noches.
-Cons: Possibly displeasing to Barragan. Grimmjow will be bored.
Because that is the one option that does not offend Starrk.
-Pros: Appealing to lovers of history and those inclined towards melancholy and tragic stories. Relatable to those who have suffered great loss in the new order of Las Noches.
-Cons: Possibly displeasing to Barragan. Grimmjow will be bored.
Because that is the one option that does not offend Starrk.
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TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
and 'lo did the tiny quiet moth simultaneously bring both creative media and selling the fuck out to las noches
i believe in you Nemo
find your inner Michael bay
- Location
- Brittany, France
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Insofar as opera can be pop culture trash, this is the pop trash opera.
Actually I'm pretty sure I've heard people talk about Wagner in that light before.
- Location
- somewhere over there.
- Pronouns
- They/It
...What? None of them should offend Starrk.
- Location
- The Surface Of A Hostile Planet
I'm thinking of Coming of the King. Going for a nice crowd pleaser with some anti-Aizen undertones sounds right up our alley.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Tousen: I was right about Arrancar after all. You all deserve death.