The copper scent of blood, just a hint of it, had led her to the Octava's rooms.

She had been looking for the elder Grantz brother, had been looking for him since she'd heard a whisper from the Sexta Espada about a foray into the human world, unauthorized. It had taken a while to extricate herself from Grimmjow's company, it left a bad taste in her mouth, but she did it, left him and went looking for the Quince. Why? Because she knew he would be going.

She knew he would be going just as she knew the feelings in her breast were a jealousy, jealous that he would go to the human world, maybe feed on souls as so few were allowed to foray these days, jealous that he would get to fight something other than the fights she engaged in, occasional spats with the other Privaron over territory, with Numeros over their disrespect, with Espada over their ranks. The 105th was not quite certain of what she was going to do when she found him, but she was going to do something.

He wasn't in his own quarters, Di Roy was, lounging about and rifling under the bed. He'd not been very helpful, something along the lines of "probably off blowing steam, what's it to ya, Thunderwitch, weren't ya busy giving Grimmjow a blo-" She'd slammed his head into the floor and stalked out.

He wasn't around her area of Tres Cifras, that had been a long shot, but he occasionally came to her and not the other way around, so she'd tried it anyway. "Lost something, Niña?" She'd run into Dordonii on her way back, glowered when he'd made his little dramatic entrance and blocked her path. "Getting into trouble again, ah, leaving Tres Cifras?" She brushed past him and huffed.

But then she'd stopped, paused and breathed.

Blood.

It was a scent she was accustomed to, could revel in, made her heady and violent. Her eyes, cark and violet, flit to the side, down the long corridor that led to the Octava's labs. Softly, small booted feet made their way down the hall, almost faltered a few times, but continued.

He was Espada, and that in itself was reason for her not to be around. But she was curious, her interest piqued, the overwhelming scent growing stronger and stronger the closer she got to the white doors. She could feel the muddled reiatsu behind the door, couldn't distinguish them thanks to the younger Grantz's construction preferences, waited until she was just against the wall to try and listen carefully, unable to hear anything but the muffled murmuers of someone talking, a bit back noise, and the pattering of feet.

Then two of the Octava's fracción slammed through the doors, grabbed her by the arms, and dragged her in.

"What's this? A little lost bird is far from home." Szayel Aporro's voice seemed bored, with a hint of annoyance laced through it. He sat on the edge of one of his examination tables, the perfect white of his uniform ruined with red spatters, and on the table lay the bloodied form of another Arrancar.

Golden strands of hair slipped through the Octava Espada's fingers and the near unconscious form fell flat on his back. It was Il Forte, the Numero's she had been looking for. His eyes, lidded, and gaze dazed, fell upon her. Cirucci could see the shame in them, the anger, the helplessness at his current position.

His chest rose and fell erratically, perfect straight lines weeping crimson decorating it, the tool used to create them laying innocently on a tray set to the side. The scalple reflected the bright overhead lights in scattered silvers and reds, spotted with fresh blood.

The fracciónes who had dragged her in still had hold of her, not allowing her to continue or retreat. Even if they had let her go, she felt that she wouldn't be able to move, suddenly stuck to this spot, as if held by some unknown force. A feeling, a sick feeling, sunk to the bottom of her stomach while anger rose in her chest, gripping her and making it hard to draw breath.

"What are you doing outside of Tres Cifras, Thunderwitch?" That sharp, commanding voice brought her attention back to the younger. One of his gloved hands coming up, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth with the tip of his thumb. So small and insignificant that she hadn't noticed it at first. "It's dangerous to wander too far on your own." His lips pulled up into a smirk, mocking her.

"I was looking for your dear elder brother." Cirucci returned his smirk with a sweet smile. "I had something I wished to speak with him about." Her words were laced with honey, something she was well practiced at.

"What would a whore like you want with Il Forte?" His tone matched hers, so falsely sweet it was sickening. "Garbage like you should stay where you belong and not soil others." He looked down at Il Forte, fingers of one hand ghosting across one of the various wounds he had inflicted on the blond Numeros. Il Forte's eyes closed at the contact, and she could not tell if it were from pain, disgust, or even pleasure.

Cirucci's stomach twisted into a tight knot.

"What I wished to speak to him about is a private matter, Octava Espada sama." She used his title intentionally, false respects and courtesy a useful tool against the arrogant usurpers who dared call themselves Arrancar when they could not even pull their own masks from their faces. A sheild against her power hungry betters. "But, a trifling thing, nonetheless."

"Well, goodness, if it's a mere trifle why would you risk coming to my labs?" His eyes watched her, predatory, over the rims of his glasses, daring her to say she hadn't come, daring her to think she didn't know the dangers of interacting with him, of even being i near /i him.

She didn't disappoint.

" i I /i didn't come here." She snapped, tearing her hands from the grip of the two servants he kept, watching them bobble on spindly legs and retreat slightly, cackling between themselves so fast she couldn't decipher the words, not that she cared to.

"No, no, Lumina and Verona dragged you all the way from Tres Cifras, didn't they?" It was disgusting, how he affected a paternal look, gestured the Arrancar closer to pat them on the head, smearing his brother's blood across the bone masks on the bases of their necks as they giggled and danced under his praise.

Caught in something of a lie, the Privaron couldn't respond, raised her chin defiantly and watched him, watched the uneven rise and fall of Il Forte's chest, the twitching in his muscles as he made to rise and didn't, the curving of Szayel Aporro's mouth as he grinned.

"Lies from a lying tongue, Thunderwitch." The Octava chastised, pursed his lips and picked up his bloodied scalpel, running a gloved hand over the tip as he spoke. "Have you ever considered cutting it out? I assume some will be upset, after all, that would drastically decrease your proficiency in oral sex, but their ire at that loss is something I find I can deal with."

"How about not?" It was hard to keep herself in check when, not only was it in her nature to be emotional, to be violent, but she also hated, i loathed /i the Espada without exception. "Now, I'll be leaving." It took an effort, but she tore her gaze from his, deep brown from burning violet, and spun on her heel as if to leave.

The scalpel hit her right between the shoulder blades.

She snarled in instinct, hand flying to her zanpakutou and turning to face where the attack had come from, eyes widening when she saw Il Forte's hand hanging limp over the autopsy table, a sneer on his face, his brother's hands occupied still playing with another scalpel.

It took her a second to remember to breathe again, to think again. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The pounding of her pulse beating her eardrums with what seemed minutes in between each. She tightened her grip on her zanpakuto, warmth spreading over and down her back, a sticky trail making it's way along her spine, caressing the edges of her hollow hole. "Il Forte?"

"Bitch." The word was delivered in a raspy, broken voice. She could see an anger to match her own burning in barely open eyes. It was difficult to breathe, like an iron band had been wrapped around her chest. "I'll cut out that filthy tongue myself." Il Forte moved to sit up once more, struggling to make his weakened body obey him, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder and a look from the Octava.

"You?! I'd like to see you try." She spat back at him, free hand coming up behind her to pull the small blade from her flesh, more blood gushing forth from the wound. She stared at the small object, clenched tightly in a delicate fist. "You're own brother..."

pressure bore down on her, Szayel Aporro's reiatsu a crushing weight, dropping her to her knees. "I didn't hear you, Privaron. What was that you said?" Suddenly her head was wrenched back by a fist in her hair, and she was staring into the eyes of the Octava, the flat of the scalpal pressed against her cheek, the one she help falling from her lax grip with a too loud sound against the stone floor.

Defiance rose in her, eyes narrowing into a challenging glare. "I said that he could never bring harm to me, not when he's so weak to his own brother." Her eyes slid back to the blond. "Why come to me when you can find comfort in your family, Quince? You're younger brother can take care of i all /i your needs." She screamed as her head was pulled back further to the very limit before bone would snap, the sharp tip of steel twisting into the soft flesh of her cheek at the same instant.

"Perhaps you should reflect on yourself, little bird. Maybe the services you offer aren't as appealing as you lead yourself to believe." He leaned down over her, face so close she could feel the warmth of his breath across her face. "Power is where the true alure lies, but what power lies with a Privaron, hmmm?" A fine line was carved from one tear mark to her jaw, and she was hauled to her feet. "The pathetic little whore can't even stay out of trouble, can't even keep herself in one piece, and she dares speak of others."

She slammed against the far wall with a sickening crunch, sliding down to the floor. Staggering to her feet, she glared at each of the brother's in turn. The younger had a smile, radiating killing intent, and the older had so much hatred directed at her she wondered if he was really the same she held in her arms so many times before.

It was disgusting, to think that she had become lax with him, to think that, after so long, she had begun to take for granted that he would not betray her. Strange, she did not usually become attached to her lovers. They were there for her pleasures, for her amusement, and in the cases that they were Espada, were stronger than her, they were there for her to curry favor.

"Privaron have power." She managed to grit out before the Octava's hand cuffed her throat, coating the pale skin and stark dress with light red stains. Her words dissolved to gasps as his grip tightened, his other hand reaching to her hip and disarming her, Golondrina clattering across the floor as her own hands scrambled at his wrists, nails digging in and scraping only served to bring a sneer to his mouth.

"And look how you use it." He calmed slightly, she could see his muscles in long limbs relaxing, even as his grip on her throat tightened. "Tramping around…" His other hand returned to her hip, pressed her hard against the wall in a warning as one of her legs began to rise to kick at his groin. "Trying to start fights in i my /i labs." A tsking noise in the back of her throat even as she started to choke, grip on his wrists weakening as she struggled, her thrashing growing weaker and weaker.

"Make me an offer." His anger reappeared, his moods capable of changing faster than she could follow, his voice a snarl as he loosened, enough to let her chest heave for breath and her mouth move soundlessly, "Make me an offer for why I shouldn't kill you." Cirucci had no doubts that he would and could kill her. But still she couldn't help one last smirk, weak and hesitant as it was, battered.

"How about I just go back to fucking your brother and go about my way?" She could hear Il Forte behind them, hidden by Szayel-Aporro's form from her, grunt in something like anger or warning, but she hardly cared. She'd said it to upset the Octava, not please him.

He laughed.

"Oh, I'm sure that, as much as Il Forte might enjoy that, it does nothing for i me /i ." His laughter was low, a chuckle in his throat, as he gestured with his other hand, grand dramatics. "Come now, Privaron, I can sense Grimmjow on you, what did you do for him?"

She almost flushed, thrashed again but stopped at the warning pressure on her neck, though she still refused to answer him, refused despite the dangers inherent in doing so. His gaze narrowed, lips pressing to a fine line, before he simply slammed her head back again, drawing her into a hard kiss, teeth knocking together and his thumb digging in to her windpipe to make her open her mouth to let his tongue slip into hers, probing, tasting, before she bit down hard, drawing blood that made the coppery scent become a copper taste blossoming in her throat.

"Well, well." Szayel Aporro laughed again, casually tossed her to the ground and wiped his blood from his lips, smirking. "Feisty little birds been sitting on her knees for the Sexta, eh?"

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, spitting his blood, his taste, from her mouth with disgust. "Something you'll never have the pleasure of knowing." She brought her heaving lungs back under control, evening the rise and fall of her chest. "Something as filthy as you can only crawl into the bed of his relations."

The back of the Octava's hand met her already injured cheek with enough force to break the bone lying beneath ruined flesh, sending her flat to the floor again, but she only picked herself back up, a colorful bruise already beginning to form around the tear mark. "I already have you on your knees." His booted foot connected with her chest, buried between her breast and forcing her back to the floor, crushing her there. "And now I have you on your back." He pressed harder, forcing the cartilage that connected her ribs to sternum to it's limits. "Shall I make you scream for me? To call out in a fiery passion like your lovers have never known?" He ground his heel further down, the pop of several ribs coming free proceeding a vibrant scream. "It's said that a birds song is most beautiful in the moments before it loses it's voice."

She couldn't breath, pain radiated through her body, and the pressure on her chest didn't let up, no it only grew worse as the rest of her ribs tore free under the Espada's booted foot. She clawed at that foot, pulled at the hakama, her feet kicking as she tried to get away. She was suffocating, oxygen cut off. The room was spinning, and her vision becoming hazy.

"No you don't." His voice cut through the fog clouding her mind, the pressure on her sternum disappeared, then she was sent tumbling several yards by a swift kick in the side. She coughed, sucking in air with shallow, pained gasps. It wasn't enough. "You still haven't given me your offer." She blinked up at him, standing over her. She no longer had the strength to rise.

She let her eyes slid past the Octava, meet a gaze of the same color, but one that had lost it's edge, resorted back to a weakened state, something of sympathy but more of understanding. Il Forte tried to rise again, instead paused and met the woman he had betrayed with an even stare as something passed between them, a reason for his own actions.

i I won't suffer alone. /i

"F...fuck...you..." The words were forced past painted lips, addressing both of the Grantz brothers, blood spilling forth with them, and a scream of pain caught in her throat as she was mercilessly kicked again. She coughed up yet more blood, so much blood, staining the front of her dress worse than the state of the back. One of her ribs had punctured a lung.

"I refuse." He laughed at her, watching her dieing on his laboratory floor, but she wouldn't die like this, not yet. "You're useless corpse doesn't appeal to me." Anger again, accompanied by yet another kick. "The thought of seeing you disgusts me." And again. "YOU DISGUST ME!"

If she could have screamed, she would have, but she couldn't even breathe, she was drowning in her own blood. Her vision swam in and out of focus, and white room bleached out until all she could see was the vague form standing above her, the Octava and blood. Her blood.

Szayel Aporro watched as Cirucci lost consciousness, dirtying his laboratory with her presence, and his floor with her tainted blood. His anger had abated, and all he felt for the woman was cold detachment. "Lumina, Verona." The two Arrancar bounced over, babbling their nonsense. "Take her somewhere else." He turned back to Il Forte, who's eyes followed him now, watched only him, and he smirked. "Oh, and make sure she doesn't die just yet."

The Octava sat back on the table's edge, and he reached out to the Numeros, hand stopping short as he stared at the blood stained glove covering it. With a snarl, he peeled of the offending garment, and the other as well, tossing them both into a waste bin.

"Where were we, brother?" Pale fingertips caressed blond locks, the feel of them against the now bare skin almost foreign to him. Il Forte's hand, the same that had betrayed Thunderwitch, grasped his own stopping the movement in a gentle grip.

Szayel Aporro smiled.