Post by Marcelius on Dec 1, 2013 10:19:11 GMT -5
(OoC: This thread is for the training and mastery of Sonido Garra, Kuroi's "Bitchslap of Ultimate #Despaaaaair". It is a solo thread, exclusive for Marcelius Despres.)
Las Noches. Kingdom of the Hollows. Pinnacle of achievement, in terms of society, for all Hueco Mundo. If there were ever to be a place of learning for the Masked race, this monolith would be home to it. In a way that only their own kind could understand, the White Palace cultivated strength. Hollows came here to feed and to grow. The underbelly of the fortress was filled with souls, eagerly clawing and consuming any rival they could capture. In this way, powerful Hollows were grown. However, this was not the end of Las Noches' bounty. For above, in the higher reaches of the castle, loomed the largest accumulated population of Arrancar...in all of creation.
Powerful beings who lorded over the denizens of the Veiled Desert. Within this potent census, the some of the most capable fighters could be counted. Each of them brimming with talent, deadly in ways other's could only fantasize about. What made this retinue so formidable? Certainly their awe inspiring pressures was apart of it, but beneath that, there was so much more. Being the Artists of Combat that they were, bred from a lifelong struggle of life and death, the most powerful of Arrancar had developed techniques for killing...which often defied comprehension. Few were as renowned for their arsenal, than arguably the most power Arrancar of them all...the Segunda Espada.
Kuroi Naito, the Harbinger of Despair. A man whose title does more to belittle his accomplishments, than preach them. For even though the name is a menace which plagues the nightmares of warriors everywhere...it does not properly describe the good that the Espada has accomplished. Despite his youth or character, this exemplary Arrancar has crafted some of the most devastating techniques, to ever be utilized by his species. For as many lives as he has taken with his talents...that many more he has saved. Through his willingness to share only a few of his creative secrets, countless Arrancar have been armed with the tools they will need, to live a long and accomplished life.
One such weapon, is a horrifying ability known as Sonido Garra. An ability, when mastered, can provide the Executioner's Strike in any conflict. How fearsome the ability, to strike with movements several times faster than a soul's typical limits? In the heat of battle, this sudden and often unpredictable technique, can immediately change the flow of conflict. Such an intense, and instantaneous response...that few could ever hope to interject against it? Yes, Sonido Garra was a marvel of ingenuity...and undeniable masterpiece of murder. That is why, when first he heard of it, Marcelius was quite reluctant to approve.
Being a soul of simple needs, and peaceful disposition...it was not a desire of Marc's, to be capable of efficient killing. Preceding to solve problems without bloodshed or violence, the old soul was quite misplaced in his current home. Where his brethren dreamt of killing, mostly in the hopes of growing stronger or proving superiority...Marcelius only wished for other's to not endanger one another. It was a common request, one the universe heard pleaded from every corner of it's domain. However, a crusader for mercy...living in Las Noches. He was quite out of place, to say the least.
Among the legions of trained killers and bloodlusters, he found very little common ground.mIt was more risk than awkward, given the news travels fast through the gossip of Arrancar. Shortly after his arrival, he became the target of many of the more vicious members of the community. They were intrigued by the oddity of his personality...and were eager to test it's boundaries. When attacked, which was frequently, he was forced to suffer for his unwillingness to lash out at others. What spared his life a few times, was the name of the Segunda.
Being a useful member of the Espada's Fraccion, killing him was the same as challenging Kuroi’s authority. Well, or so some few souls could be lead to believe. Regardless, it kept the old codger from having to choose his own life over others. In the end, this was just one of many ways that the elderly Arrancar avoided confrontation. Marcelius’ actions, unfortunately, did not go unnoticed for every long. The eyes of the Espada are always watching...especially one as proactive as the Segunda. The time soon came, where the subordinate was called to explain himself. Explanations which would lead to the Segunda expecting results.
Orders were now give, and their message was well received. There was no room in Las Noches, Hueco Mundo, or any other realm of existence for the weakness Marcelius had been displaying. Ideologies were well and good...but if they served to bring one to an untimely end, then they were erroneous. For a Hollow to claw their way to the top of the food chain...to survive long enough and grow strong enough to break their mask...was an achievement not easily discarded. No excuse was acceptable, no principle to sacred. Hollows who have become what Marc was now...were expected to survive. Stagnation and foolishness were impermissible.
There was nothing wrong with the old soul refusing to attack unprovoked, but it was quite another matter to not strike down an enemy who clearly sought to kill. If his opponent was to show no mercy, then he was not to stay his hand in their defeat. When life is on the line, it was not acceptable for him to give his away for the sake of his rival. When spoken aloud, the expectations seemed quite simple. It should never have been an issue, understanding what it meant to fight...truly fight. Yet, Marcelius was still hesitant. Everything within him pushed against this survivalist philosophies. Without openly begging for his death, he seemed to value every aspect of war which might lead to it. Duty. Sacrifice. Loyalty. Restraint. Martyrdom...all of these qualities called to him from the deepest reaches of his being.
They called to him, from the void which occupied the center of his chest. Speaking with words than no other could hear. Preaching with convictions no other could feel. Within Marcelius heart, mind, and soul...a Chorus of epic proportions, wrestled with the logic of self preservation. The voices of so many thousands of thousands of defeated lives; each of them begging for Marcelius to show compassion...each hoping that his generosity would cripple him. It was hard to fight against the united opinions of so many, many individuals. Even when he weighed the importance of obeying his Espada and the rules of his community, the Choir fought against him. It was a battle of commitments; in which, only one authority could be recognized.
Sonido Garra, and the choice to study it or not, was a metaphor for his future. On one hand, there was the continuation of his life in Las Noches. A life which would inevitably call him to break his creeds on pity and violence. A time would come, where in order to safeguard his fellow citizens and protect the only chance for Hollow society, a life would need to come to an end...by his doing. There would not be another soul around, to do the deed for him. If such a time came, and the expectations fell onto his shoulders, would he be able to act? If not, he would die...and through his death, suffering would find it’s way into the lives of his kin. A sad truth, but not the only one. For another option did exist. There was the choice, for him to disregard this new talent...this killing technique.
In doing so he would have gone against the wishes of his superior; a decision with harsh repercussions. Whether the Espada chose to deliver the punishment was of no consequence. The real suffering was the knowledge that Marc, who had hoped to be a symbol for the advancement of Arrancar, had failed to keep his resolve. How could he dare expect other Arrancar to cooperate and coexist, if he was willing to dismiss rules which did not favor him? It would be a selfish act for him to do such a thing, and the thought of it alone, was enough to make him cringe. So what would it be? Would he give up on the future of Hollow prosperity to safeguard his morals? Or would he submit to the loyalty he swore and relinquish the portions of his identity which were flawed?
In the end, Marcelius disapproves of zealots most. Those who claim to follow their hearts and passions, in total disregard for the detriment they may cause the world around them. If his life could be used to increase the quality of existence for all Hollows...then he would listen to orders, and learn to better protect his own well being. With a deep and powerful chittering, his hand lashed out against the smoothened surface of a wall. Shattering the once flawless face of the structure, Marc observed the energy which rippled through both the air and the stone. His first strike had proved quite devastating.
Crushing the immediate area which his fist made contact, the sturdy rock continued to crumble like ruptured glass. As larger and larger portions of marble began to fall around him, he eased himself out of his aggressive stance. The palisade, which had stretched several dozens of feet in length and height, was now no more than a heap. What brought it down, was not merely an act of strength, but also of speed. Such a tremendous bulwark was too large to be toppled with a single punch...regardless of strength. Instead, a network of strikes -placed with precision and perfect spacing- had systematically weakened the entirety of the construction. As impressive as it was, the walls destruction was not the challenge.
No, the challenge was to avoid detection during the assault. Within one of the gargantuan training areas, several cameras were placed to observe Arrancar as they progress in strength. It was important for a record to be kept of promising talent among the population. Of all the devices which observed the work area, some where monitored by Arrancar and other’s by advanced computers…the latter a gift from the Shinigami King. If one could ascertain the clearance or permission, it was possible to perform specialized examinations with the automated devices. This was exactly what Marcelius had done. For through the lens of technological innovation, it was possible for even the fastest of beings to be analyzed. So to evaluate his progress with Sonido Garra, the cameras were set to raise an alarm if any movement was detected. To avoid the alarm, the geezer had to outrun their sensors. To do this...he estimated that his body would have to move at a rate 10 times greater than his typical limits. What a marvel modern technology was. So far in his practice...no alerts had been raised.
Sonido Garra, despite what Marcelius may feel about it, was something amazing. The work of a master, this particular Sonido required careful control over both the body and the spirit. In a manner very similar to typical Sonido, Garra is an infusion of reiatsu into the body. By enhancing a single limb, rather than the entirety of one’s being, an arrancar could launch a uniquely powerful attack. Having already mastered the Sonido, as most standard Arrancar had, Marcelius found little difficulty in grasping the method. By simply building reiatsu, much like the accumulation of energy for a Cero, the technique would be prepared. After gathering the necessary reiatsu, the user need only move their limb with intent. the first time he succeeded in enhancing his arm’s speed, the sensation was quite alarming. To feel a part of one’s body move at speed which are hard to even comprehend...it can startle the nerves, to say the very least.
Trying to watch, as his hand flung towards his target with intense power...gave him chills. All he could think of, was the individual which would await at the other end of his reach. If ever used in an actual fight, there would be very little restriction of strength. To use Garra, Marc would have to consent to clawing his enemy with the full effect of his physicality. In his particular case, that amount of force was pure destruction. Mastering this weapon, at least for Marc, would not come from achieving the maximum potential of speed. Instead, mastery over Sonido Garra, would come from the development of a gentle touch. If with an accelerated limb, Marc could harmlessly disable his victim...then he would consider his hard work a resounding success. It was a lofty ambition to create for himself, but one worth achieving. It is truly a shame, how many impossible feats he challenges himself to claim. Thus was the curse of a Hollow, always ambitious for something greater than what already existed.
Ah, but the pursuit itself...such a grand delight. To have something worth pushing for, was reason to keep getting out of bed each morning. Even with stiff bones and aching muscles, goals could drag his ancient self from the bedcovers. Speaking of aches and pains, he was starting to feel the burn. Having leveled a few walls now, his body was beginning to feel weary. Talented though he may be, old age saw fit to not care of such things. Disregarding the skill with which he performed his exercises, they were still just that...exercise. Fatigue was growing much more noticeable. His breathers were becoming shorter, desperate to bring in fresh air. Beads of sweat caused his forehead to glisten in the dim lights of the facility.
Knuckles were red and swollen, having endured the force of his blows several times over. No breaks or fractures...yet. The skin still had not split, given that Hierro held up well enough against unspiritual stone. Trying to open his fingers only made the pain shoot through his whole arm. There were brusises, even if they weren't yet visible. Feeling there cries of tendons and ligements, his smile faded while he endured. Having to stretch out the extrmemity...letting the pressure and tension fall out of it, at the cost of stinging aggravation. His soreness was not going to wait till the morning, it was taking him now. How awful it was. Worse still, was how little he had purchased with his hard work. Yes, the jubilation which would normally arise from such injuries and the piles of rubble they crafted...it was not there. After all, the whole purpose of his straining was to detract from the lethality of the technique.
Something blinded him, kept him from seeing the solution he desperately craved. For whatever reason, Marcelius was unable to alter Sonido Garra as he sought. Not because it could not be done, but because he could not do it. A feeling overcame him, each and every time his muscles exploded with tremendous speed and might. Feeling the wall suddenly erupt in a symphony of vibrations and fractures...it was exciting him. Each time he attempted the technique, he did what he could to reduce the sandstone to small and smaller pieces. Though the thought made his stomach queasy, a portion of him wanted the palisade to suddenly be turned to dust...he wanted to see that he could totally obliterate it. The real question which burdened him now, was not whether he could achieve this task or not...but why he was wanting to.
Soon the floor was brushed clear by attendants, Hollows who trade their services to be spared the horrible fates which might await them in the lower levels. With their larger bodies and weaker spirits, they proved excellent servants and janitors. They could work without need for rest, as they still possessed the terrible drive that the Hunger imbues all Hollow kind with. They work without complaint as well, given that their lives could be crushed from existence by the mere thought of a powerful Arrancar. Their existence was well observed by Marcelius...both here, and throughout all of Las Noches. He always felt pity for them, which should not be a shock. They trade their freedom to live only slightly better than slaves, but worst of all, they do so out of fear. Though it is their choice, one made as they have seen fit...the alternative to slavery is hardly fair.
For if not servitude and weakness, then they would have to risk their lives daily in the pits of the lower Palace floors. Down there, Hollows of all classes are rounded up together, and forced to navigate a behemoth labyrinth. The only company one could find in the maze, came in the form of cannibal brothers. It was eat or be eaten, where only power can guarantee survival. A fate that any sensible being would want to distance themselves from...as far as possible. So in the end...Marcelius always pities those who chose to become servants. For in them, their resided a consciousness that both understood it's limitations and his from them. More so than any other Hollow, these custodians knew true terror...and defeat. There was something about that, which drew Marc in. Now, as a few of them came to do their expected duties, he thought something strange. Something he had not before. They were...truly weak.
Hollows who would rather serve, are Hollows who willingly forgo any hope of evolution. They would toil, safe from the dangers which linger in the pits of Las Noches or the wastes of Hueco Mundo. They would use their lives to linger, never moving forward...simply surviving. A day would come when they grow so old they fall back into the sands as dust...but until then, they would toddle on at the mercy of their Arrancar lords. Maybe one of the Fractured Masks would kill them? Whether for amusement or as punishment, it did not matter. Yet they were accepting of such a thing. They willinging gave up on what life they had so that it might not end. Where was the point in such a thing? What benefit did it serve them or anyone? The more he pondered their roles in the scheme of Las Noches, the less pity he felt.
Watching them seemed to remind him of how the Segunda interpreted such creatures. The familiarity did not end there, however, as he another disturbing commonality began to raise. Was it possible, that this is how Marcelius looked towards other Arrancar? Not some old and kindly fool...but a soul that has become complacent with what meager life it has managed to scratch for itself? Was his unwillingness to grow or to conquer, the same as bowing into the ranks of forgotten servants? The idea raked at his mind, stirring perspectives he often did without. Truthfully...he had a great and wonderful dream, once. He wished for all of his race to push back against the existence that condemned them so freely. He wanted his people to rebel against the horid fate they lived, and to rise above mindless hunger and meaningless conflict.
All this time, he had trued to push an image of nonviolence on them, while preaching they were born from the strength of conflict. Hypocrisy was quite a bitter taste, once one becomes aware of it. He needed to change. To wash this wretched taste from his tongue, and start anew. There was room in the world for his philosophies on measured response and maturity...but there was not a place set for weakness or compliance. Was this the message his Espada hoped to send? Hah...how wise that young man is, far beyond his years. Able to see that the old man had grown clouded in his ideals and methods. Seems, once again, that Marc owed Naito a show of gratitude.
With a building of his reaitsu raising concern, the surrounding Hollows eased away from the elderly man. Soon, in a break of thunder, a mighty force erupted onto each of them. Their large, heavy bodies all lifted high into the air. Despite their outstanding weights, the effortlessly flew several meters from where they once stood. With several large crashing sounds, each fel back to the floor. In an instant, the crowd of Masks had been seperated to the far edges of them room. Happening so fast, it was as if they each had been struck by a singular wall of force. Obviously, Marcelius was to blame. Striking each of the targets with next to 0 indication of separation. To observers and cameras alike, it had all happened in tandem. This was the power of Sonido Garra, a claw which could lash faster than life could percieve.
Though unable to move, each Hollow covered by the indentions his multiple connections, none of these beasts lost their lives. Using care and precision, his attack need not endange their lives. Why now? Why now had he found the right combination of restraint and accuracy? What was different from now and before? Simple enough really...it was focus. Before, he had been too caught in his own doubts and considerations, that he could not properly control his own actions. Having allowed his knowledge and stubbornness to bring him to ruin, the old Arrancar was now awake to his plight. The best changes in life, often come from laboring in undesired ways. If the world, the one from Marc's dreams and Kuroi's plans, was to become reality...it would require action. Actions, which might not always be pleasing or easy. There might be many paths ahead of him, dozens of crossroads...but in the end, only one road can truly lead to the future of one's desires. Now...Marc knew he would have what it takes, to follow the path of necessity.
Las Noches. Kingdom of the Hollows. Pinnacle of achievement, in terms of society, for all Hueco Mundo. If there were ever to be a place of learning for the Masked race, this monolith would be home to it. In a way that only their own kind could understand, the White Palace cultivated strength. Hollows came here to feed and to grow. The underbelly of the fortress was filled with souls, eagerly clawing and consuming any rival they could capture. In this way, powerful Hollows were grown. However, this was not the end of Las Noches' bounty. For above, in the higher reaches of the castle, loomed the largest accumulated population of Arrancar...in all of creation.
Powerful beings who lorded over the denizens of the Veiled Desert. Within this potent census, the some of the most capable fighters could be counted. Each of them brimming with talent, deadly in ways other's could only fantasize about. What made this retinue so formidable? Certainly their awe inspiring pressures was apart of it, but beneath that, there was so much more. Being the Artists of Combat that they were, bred from a lifelong struggle of life and death, the most powerful of Arrancar had developed techniques for killing...which often defied comprehension. Few were as renowned for their arsenal, than arguably the most power Arrancar of them all...the Segunda Espada.
Kuroi Naito, the Harbinger of Despair. A man whose title does more to belittle his accomplishments, than preach them. For even though the name is a menace which plagues the nightmares of warriors everywhere...it does not properly describe the good that the Espada has accomplished. Despite his youth or character, this exemplary Arrancar has crafted some of the most devastating techniques, to ever be utilized by his species. For as many lives as he has taken with his talents...that many more he has saved. Through his willingness to share only a few of his creative secrets, countless Arrancar have been armed with the tools they will need, to live a long and accomplished life.
One such weapon, is a horrifying ability known as Sonido Garra. An ability, when mastered, can provide the Executioner's Strike in any conflict. How fearsome the ability, to strike with movements several times faster than a soul's typical limits? In the heat of battle, this sudden and often unpredictable technique, can immediately change the flow of conflict. Such an intense, and instantaneous response...that few could ever hope to interject against it? Yes, Sonido Garra was a marvel of ingenuity...and undeniable masterpiece of murder. That is why, when first he heard of it, Marcelius was quite reluctant to approve.
Being a soul of simple needs, and peaceful disposition...it was not a desire of Marc's, to be capable of efficient killing. Preceding to solve problems without bloodshed or violence, the old soul was quite misplaced in his current home. Where his brethren dreamt of killing, mostly in the hopes of growing stronger or proving superiority...Marcelius only wished for other's to not endanger one another. It was a common request, one the universe heard pleaded from every corner of it's domain. However, a crusader for mercy...living in Las Noches. He was quite out of place, to say the least.
Among the legions of trained killers and bloodlusters, he found very little common ground.mIt was more risk than awkward, given the news travels fast through the gossip of Arrancar. Shortly after his arrival, he became the target of many of the more vicious members of the community. They were intrigued by the oddity of his personality...and were eager to test it's boundaries. When attacked, which was frequently, he was forced to suffer for his unwillingness to lash out at others. What spared his life a few times, was the name of the Segunda.
Being a useful member of the Espada's Fraccion, killing him was the same as challenging Kuroi’s authority. Well, or so some few souls could be lead to believe. Regardless, it kept the old codger from having to choose his own life over others. In the end, this was just one of many ways that the elderly Arrancar avoided confrontation. Marcelius’ actions, unfortunately, did not go unnoticed for every long. The eyes of the Espada are always watching...especially one as proactive as the Segunda. The time soon came, where the subordinate was called to explain himself. Explanations which would lead to the Segunda expecting results.
Orders were now give, and their message was well received. There was no room in Las Noches, Hueco Mundo, or any other realm of existence for the weakness Marcelius had been displaying. Ideologies were well and good...but if they served to bring one to an untimely end, then they were erroneous. For a Hollow to claw their way to the top of the food chain...to survive long enough and grow strong enough to break their mask...was an achievement not easily discarded. No excuse was acceptable, no principle to sacred. Hollows who have become what Marc was now...were expected to survive. Stagnation and foolishness were impermissible.
There was nothing wrong with the old soul refusing to attack unprovoked, but it was quite another matter to not strike down an enemy who clearly sought to kill. If his opponent was to show no mercy, then he was not to stay his hand in their defeat. When life is on the line, it was not acceptable for him to give his away for the sake of his rival. When spoken aloud, the expectations seemed quite simple. It should never have been an issue, understanding what it meant to fight...truly fight. Yet, Marcelius was still hesitant. Everything within him pushed against this survivalist philosophies. Without openly begging for his death, he seemed to value every aspect of war which might lead to it. Duty. Sacrifice. Loyalty. Restraint. Martyrdom...all of these qualities called to him from the deepest reaches of his being.
They called to him, from the void which occupied the center of his chest. Speaking with words than no other could hear. Preaching with convictions no other could feel. Within Marcelius heart, mind, and soul...a Chorus of epic proportions, wrestled with the logic of self preservation. The voices of so many thousands of thousands of defeated lives; each of them begging for Marcelius to show compassion...each hoping that his generosity would cripple him. It was hard to fight against the united opinions of so many, many individuals. Even when he weighed the importance of obeying his Espada and the rules of his community, the Choir fought against him. It was a battle of commitments; in which, only one authority could be recognized.
Sonido Garra, and the choice to study it or not, was a metaphor for his future. On one hand, there was the continuation of his life in Las Noches. A life which would inevitably call him to break his creeds on pity and violence. A time would come, where in order to safeguard his fellow citizens and protect the only chance for Hollow society, a life would need to come to an end...by his doing. There would not be another soul around, to do the deed for him. If such a time came, and the expectations fell onto his shoulders, would he be able to act? If not, he would die...and through his death, suffering would find it’s way into the lives of his kin. A sad truth, but not the only one. For another option did exist. There was the choice, for him to disregard this new talent...this killing technique.
In doing so he would have gone against the wishes of his superior; a decision with harsh repercussions. Whether the Espada chose to deliver the punishment was of no consequence. The real suffering was the knowledge that Marc, who had hoped to be a symbol for the advancement of Arrancar, had failed to keep his resolve. How could he dare expect other Arrancar to cooperate and coexist, if he was willing to dismiss rules which did not favor him? It would be a selfish act for him to do such a thing, and the thought of it alone, was enough to make him cringe. So what would it be? Would he give up on the future of Hollow prosperity to safeguard his morals? Or would he submit to the loyalty he swore and relinquish the portions of his identity which were flawed?
In the end, Marcelius disapproves of zealots most. Those who claim to follow their hearts and passions, in total disregard for the detriment they may cause the world around them. If his life could be used to increase the quality of existence for all Hollows...then he would listen to orders, and learn to better protect his own well being. With a deep and powerful chittering, his hand lashed out against the smoothened surface of a wall. Shattering the once flawless face of the structure, Marc observed the energy which rippled through both the air and the stone. His first strike had proved quite devastating.
Crushing the immediate area which his fist made contact, the sturdy rock continued to crumble like ruptured glass. As larger and larger portions of marble began to fall around him, he eased himself out of his aggressive stance. The palisade, which had stretched several dozens of feet in length and height, was now no more than a heap. What brought it down, was not merely an act of strength, but also of speed. Such a tremendous bulwark was too large to be toppled with a single punch...regardless of strength. Instead, a network of strikes -placed with precision and perfect spacing- had systematically weakened the entirety of the construction. As impressive as it was, the walls destruction was not the challenge.
No, the challenge was to avoid detection during the assault. Within one of the gargantuan training areas, several cameras were placed to observe Arrancar as they progress in strength. It was important for a record to be kept of promising talent among the population. Of all the devices which observed the work area, some where monitored by Arrancar and other’s by advanced computers…the latter a gift from the Shinigami King. If one could ascertain the clearance or permission, it was possible to perform specialized examinations with the automated devices. This was exactly what Marcelius had done. For through the lens of technological innovation, it was possible for even the fastest of beings to be analyzed. So to evaluate his progress with Sonido Garra, the cameras were set to raise an alarm if any movement was detected. To avoid the alarm, the geezer had to outrun their sensors. To do this...he estimated that his body would have to move at a rate 10 times greater than his typical limits. What a marvel modern technology was. So far in his practice...no alerts had been raised.
Sonido Garra, despite what Marcelius may feel about it, was something amazing. The work of a master, this particular Sonido required careful control over both the body and the spirit. In a manner very similar to typical Sonido, Garra is an infusion of reiatsu into the body. By enhancing a single limb, rather than the entirety of one’s being, an arrancar could launch a uniquely powerful attack. Having already mastered the Sonido, as most standard Arrancar had, Marcelius found little difficulty in grasping the method. By simply building reiatsu, much like the accumulation of energy for a Cero, the technique would be prepared. After gathering the necessary reiatsu, the user need only move their limb with intent. the first time he succeeded in enhancing his arm’s speed, the sensation was quite alarming. To feel a part of one’s body move at speed which are hard to even comprehend...it can startle the nerves, to say the very least.
Trying to watch, as his hand flung towards his target with intense power...gave him chills. All he could think of, was the individual which would await at the other end of his reach. If ever used in an actual fight, there would be very little restriction of strength. To use Garra, Marc would have to consent to clawing his enemy with the full effect of his physicality. In his particular case, that amount of force was pure destruction. Mastering this weapon, at least for Marc, would not come from achieving the maximum potential of speed. Instead, mastery over Sonido Garra, would come from the development of a gentle touch. If with an accelerated limb, Marc could harmlessly disable his victim...then he would consider his hard work a resounding success. It was a lofty ambition to create for himself, but one worth achieving. It is truly a shame, how many impossible feats he challenges himself to claim. Thus was the curse of a Hollow, always ambitious for something greater than what already existed.
Ah, but the pursuit itself...such a grand delight. To have something worth pushing for, was reason to keep getting out of bed each morning. Even with stiff bones and aching muscles, goals could drag his ancient self from the bedcovers. Speaking of aches and pains, he was starting to feel the burn. Having leveled a few walls now, his body was beginning to feel weary. Talented though he may be, old age saw fit to not care of such things. Disregarding the skill with which he performed his exercises, they were still just that...exercise. Fatigue was growing much more noticeable. His breathers were becoming shorter, desperate to bring in fresh air. Beads of sweat caused his forehead to glisten in the dim lights of the facility.
Knuckles were red and swollen, having endured the force of his blows several times over. No breaks or fractures...yet. The skin still had not split, given that Hierro held up well enough against unspiritual stone. Trying to open his fingers only made the pain shoot through his whole arm. There were brusises, even if they weren't yet visible. Feeling there cries of tendons and ligements, his smile faded while he endured. Having to stretch out the extrmemity...letting the pressure and tension fall out of it, at the cost of stinging aggravation. His soreness was not going to wait till the morning, it was taking him now. How awful it was. Worse still, was how little he had purchased with his hard work. Yes, the jubilation which would normally arise from such injuries and the piles of rubble they crafted...it was not there. After all, the whole purpose of his straining was to detract from the lethality of the technique.
Something blinded him, kept him from seeing the solution he desperately craved. For whatever reason, Marcelius was unable to alter Sonido Garra as he sought. Not because it could not be done, but because he could not do it. A feeling overcame him, each and every time his muscles exploded with tremendous speed and might. Feeling the wall suddenly erupt in a symphony of vibrations and fractures...it was exciting him. Each time he attempted the technique, he did what he could to reduce the sandstone to small and smaller pieces. Though the thought made his stomach queasy, a portion of him wanted the palisade to suddenly be turned to dust...he wanted to see that he could totally obliterate it. The real question which burdened him now, was not whether he could achieve this task or not...but why he was wanting to.
Soon the floor was brushed clear by attendants, Hollows who trade their services to be spared the horrible fates which might await them in the lower levels. With their larger bodies and weaker spirits, they proved excellent servants and janitors. They could work without need for rest, as they still possessed the terrible drive that the Hunger imbues all Hollow kind with. They work without complaint as well, given that their lives could be crushed from existence by the mere thought of a powerful Arrancar. Their existence was well observed by Marcelius...both here, and throughout all of Las Noches. He always felt pity for them, which should not be a shock. They trade their freedom to live only slightly better than slaves, but worst of all, they do so out of fear. Though it is their choice, one made as they have seen fit...the alternative to slavery is hardly fair.
For if not servitude and weakness, then they would have to risk their lives daily in the pits of the lower Palace floors. Down there, Hollows of all classes are rounded up together, and forced to navigate a behemoth labyrinth. The only company one could find in the maze, came in the form of cannibal brothers. It was eat or be eaten, where only power can guarantee survival. A fate that any sensible being would want to distance themselves from...as far as possible. So in the end...Marcelius always pities those who chose to become servants. For in them, their resided a consciousness that both understood it's limitations and his from them. More so than any other Hollow, these custodians knew true terror...and defeat. There was something about that, which drew Marc in. Now, as a few of them came to do their expected duties, he thought something strange. Something he had not before. They were...truly weak.
Hollows who would rather serve, are Hollows who willingly forgo any hope of evolution. They would toil, safe from the dangers which linger in the pits of Las Noches or the wastes of Hueco Mundo. They would use their lives to linger, never moving forward...simply surviving. A day would come when they grow so old they fall back into the sands as dust...but until then, they would toddle on at the mercy of their Arrancar lords. Maybe one of the Fractured Masks would kill them? Whether for amusement or as punishment, it did not matter. Yet they were accepting of such a thing. They willinging gave up on what life they had so that it might not end. Where was the point in such a thing? What benefit did it serve them or anyone? The more he pondered their roles in the scheme of Las Noches, the less pity he felt.
Watching them seemed to remind him of how the Segunda interpreted such creatures. The familiarity did not end there, however, as he another disturbing commonality began to raise. Was it possible, that this is how Marcelius looked towards other Arrancar? Not some old and kindly fool...but a soul that has become complacent with what meager life it has managed to scratch for itself? Was his unwillingness to grow or to conquer, the same as bowing into the ranks of forgotten servants? The idea raked at his mind, stirring perspectives he often did without. Truthfully...he had a great and wonderful dream, once. He wished for all of his race to push back against the existence that condemned them so freely. He wanted his people to rebel against the horid fate they lived, and to rise above mindless hunger and meaningless conflict.
All this time, he had trued to push an image of nonviolence on them, while preaching they were born from the strength of conflict. Hypocrisy was quite a bitter taste, once one becomes aware of it. He needed to change. To wash this wretched taste from his tongue, and start anew. There was room in the world for his philosophies on measured response and maturity...but there was not a place set for weakness or compliance. Was this the message his Espada hoped to send? Hah...how wise that young man is, far beyond his years. Able to see that the old man had grown clouded in his ideals and methods. Seems, once again, that Marc owed Naito a show of gratitude.
With a building of his reaitsu raising concern, the surrounding Hollows eased away from the elderly man. Soon, in a break of thunder, a mighty force erupted onto each of them. Their large, heavy bodies all lifted high into the air. Despite their outstanding weights, the effortlessly flew several meters from where they once stood. With several large crashing sounds, each fel back to the floor. In an instant, the crowd of Masks had been seperated to the far edges of them room. Happening so fast, it was as if they each had been struck by a singular wall of force. Obviously, Marcelius was to blame. Striking each of the targets with next to 0 indication of separation. To observers and cameras alike, it had all happened in tandem. This was the power of Sonido Garra, a claw which could lash faster than life could percieve.
Though unable to move, each Hollow covered by the indentions his multiple connections, none of these beasts lost their lives. Using care and precision, his attack need not endange their lives. Why now? Why now had he found the right combination of restraint and accuracy? What was different from now and before? Simple enough really...it was focus. Before, he had been too caught in his own doubts and considerations, that he could not properly control his own actions. Having allowed his knowledge and stubbornness to bring him to ruin, the old Arrancar was now awake to his plight. The best changes in life, often come from laboring in undesired ways. If the world, the one from Marc's dreams and Kuroi's plans, was to become reality...it would require action. Actions, which might not always be pleasing or easy. There might be many paths ahead of him, dozens of crossroads...but in the end, only one road can truly lead to the future of one's desires. Now...Marc knew he would have what it takes, to follow the path of necessity.
