メ 03

Aug. 27th, 2010 08:25 pm
[identity profile] grimmjerk.livejournal.com
[a quick audio transmission, a few seconds at most:]

"--rrent magnitude of SN 1987A?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

***

[a few hours later there is another, a bit longer in duration:]

"What was the number you lost?"

"Fuck you!"

***

[half an hour later:]

"How will you win now that you are weak?"

"...shut up. Just shut up."

***

[and now, a transmission that doesn't end, mainly because he doesn't have the fingers necessary to turn off the CAT.

this is propped up against the front door of his house - only minus the jacket, because he never did get it back.

the plushie seems to have an expression of fury, clenching and unclenching its little mitten hands into fists]

メ 02

Aug. 8th, 2010 12:20 am
[identity profile] grimmjerk.livejournal.com
What...

What the hell is this?

What the hell is this?! Where's my mask--?!

[a long time ago, Grimmjow looked like this.

now he's hunched against one of the walls in his townhouse, his hand pressed to his face - a human face, why does he have a
human face?!- his eyes flicking around the room wildly. the bedroom is in worse shambles than it was previously, but it was probably his thrashing about that activated the C.A.T. that's been thrown to the floor and tucked in one corner.]

Who did this? Come out! Come out so I can kill you!

[there is a note...somewhere.

and his usual jacket is gone.

but he won't be noticing this any time soon]

メ 01

Aug. 1st, 2010 04:25 am
[identity profile] grimmjerk.livejournal.com
[a soft buzzing sound, a click--

and then a very clear picture of a shirtless man(?) holding a CAT, trying out a few of the buttons with slow taps of his thumb. the bedroom - clearly of townhouse origin - is in partial disarray, sheets half-off the bed and the nearby vidscreen primarily in shattered pieces on the floor.

a minute or so passes before he dumps the CAT on the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress himself a second later]


Tch. What's it even good for?

[he stews in silence, turning his glare from the wall to the floor to the ceiling in slow succession.

then he looks to his left, his right hand rising to where his left shoulder simply ends. his palm skims over the bandage-wrapped wound while he mutters to himself]
Somebody did good work.

But who the hell would know how?

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