undergrounds | i been thinkin bout bustin you

yo Hillingdon Clan where u at

Home sweet dump.

It's a weird concept, the whole roof over his head thing. Don't get him wrong, it's not like he's never crashed on someone's couch or slept in an abandoned building. Grimmjow may have spent most of his life on the move, but he's not that much of an animal. It's the whole...reoccurence of it all that gets him. For as long as the shifter has lived, he's never known a singular place he always crawled back to. His parents never owned a house, slept wherever they could find shelter, and Grimmjow had been bouncing around the world so long, there was no desire to ever find 'home'.

So, finding consistent shelter at the Hillingdon House throws him off. He keeps telling himself it's just because it's safe, out of the way of prying eyes and only shared by people of like mind. Plus, the clan ain't so bad. So maybe...

He wanders the grounds, in and out of animal form, the want to always be moving still great even here. Even though he pretty much knows the lay of the land by heart, it never hurts to review.

ota - it's friday night somewhere

Some people make friends by bumping into them on the sidewalk or meeting on the train, by making bullshit smalltalk, pretending they care about this-that-and-so-and-so. Grimmjow makes friends by bar-hopping. Instead of finding common interests and hobbies to talk about, Grimmjow buys a round for everyone at the bar and challenges others to drinking contests. He doesn't have to give a shit about the weather or local-sports-team. By the time he's drank enough, he's everybody's friend.

Until he's not, which is fine, too. The shifter never turns down a chance to puff his chest out.

Tonight's one of those nights. He needs the chance to blow off some steam, break down some barriers, maybe get in a fight or two. Who knows where he'll be by the end of it. For now, he starts off in Pub-Whats-Its-Name on Street-Somewhere and buys a round for everyone seated at the bar.

come at me bro

[DO WHATCHU FEEL IN UR HEART]

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Trevor's high. Or in the after-throes of it. What really fascinates him about the meth scene in London is that it's completely different: the drug, anyway. Tastes different. Experiences different. He's been indulging whenever he can spare the time.

So when he notices a gigantic cat prowling around, he almost wonders if his shit was laced. That doesn't make any sense, at least not to a veteran of the stuff - but he hasn't seen a whole lot of wildlife around the city. Even with all the shapeshifters, he just hasn't been here long enough to start calling it when he sees a random animal weaving around the concrete jungle.

Trevor freezes at the jaguar. Just stares at it. Then he takes a slow step back, raising his hands. He doesn't actually have a gun on him - once again - and so he can't just shoot at the thing.

"Uh... nice kitty... trust me, I taste like a sewer. Noooo bueno."

Well, it's probably for the best Trevor doesn't have a gun on him. Not only would have it gone bad for both them, but it would have gone especially bad for him. Grimmjow wouldn't die to a bullet until he killed the fucking idiot who shot him first.

Anyway.

The urge to play the 'wild animal' part was pretty high. Chase the dumbass around, growl at him a little, but for once, Grimmjow does the peaceful thing. He sits his ass down, flicks his tail around in only the way an annoyed cat can. The guy is high, Grimmjow can smell it all the way from where he's sitting.

There ain't a whole lot that's able to scare Trevor Philips. But when faced with the awe-inspiring forces of Mother Nature come to tear him to shreds, yeah. He's a little scared.

Anyway. Holy shit. The jaguar listened to him. Or at least seemed like it wasn't just going to jump him and rip his head off as revenge for all those coyotes he's shot in the past or something. Then again, cats were supposed to hate dogs, so...

He at least knows it's a bad idea to turn and run because that will spark up the predator drive, so Trevor just sort of copies it. Slowly sits down. What the fuck is he doing. "Yeeahh..." he continues, trying to sound all placating. "Just a couple of killers respecting each other's boundaries. Nothing to see here."

If Grimmjow had known about the whole shooting coyotes things, he might've just laughed. He's got nothing against dogs or canines or whatever (except the smell), really. In fact, if he saw another panther or jaguar get slaughtered in front of him, the shifter doubted he'd be all that moved by the scene.

Survival of the fittest and all that shit.

He couldn't believe this guy didn't realize what he was. How many wild animals did he see running around in London? Especially one that probably belonged in a zoo. Then again, he was flying on some weird shit. Something really synthetic by the smell of him.

Not being able to jab back with any witty rejoinders was hard to suck up, but transforming right in front of someone usually led to freaking out. So he growled in response and leaned forward, as if actually paying attention.

London's a weird place full of people with weird accents. For all Trevor knows they might have these jaguars coming out of the fucking ocean like seals (except much cooler.) He blinks at how the jag leans in, almost as if it's listening to him... could it understand him?

Was he connecting with this creature on a spiritual level?

Being a logical, deep and thought-provoking scholar, Trevor asks it:

"Does your kind, like, get high off catnip." He's always wondered.

His head leans to the side at the off-hand comment. Of everything you could ask... If he could answer, he might say that there was one time. One time in some country in the East, he might've sampled the local party scene, got a little crazy. Grimmjow thinks he might have ate one of the guys he was with, because in the morning he couldn't find either of them and he was particularly full.

But he can't talk so he doesn't say any of that. Probably for the best. No one needs to know he might have a taste for the flesh of others.

Grimmjow paws at his face, almost as if saying the question is ridiculous.

Incredible. The jaguar is not tearing his throat out. No, it seems to be responding to him in its own majestic and unknowable way. Trevor stares at it with a sense of wonder. Must be what those little Narnia shits felt like when they met Aslan, huh?

"Okay, okay. Methamphetamine." Trevor proposes this next, like it's some amazing alternative.

If the shifter ever heard Trevor call him majestic, he might piss himself laughing. Even if it was true.

But seriously, ugh, meth. Maybe that's what the guy's on? As far as drugs go, it's one of the few he stays away from. There's just no glamor in it and he doesn't need any more energy than he already has. The one time he did coke was enough; he'd stick to downers, thanks.

But that didn't answer the question, which he supposed would be yes. He nods once, in only the way cats can do. So, it's more like he looks down and then back up, which is good enough.

This incredible, beautiful, powerful, majestic jaguar totally just answered his question with a nod. Trevor grins at it. The face he's making is terrifying. He stands, beckons the beast as he starts walking away.

"Hoooo boy, have I got a load of shit for you. Grade-A shit, buddy. This way, to the love shack."

No he's not implying he's going to fuck the cat but with that phrasing it's questionable. Actually, the idea of seeing a jag react to meth ranks up there with "flying a crop duster into a military aircraft and shooting everyone inside" on Trevor's personal list of greatest accomplishments.

i been thinkin bout bustin you

H

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